BY ELISA MIGNOT, SCIENCES PO, SPECIAL TO THE MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

"We were living in a truck when the Americans attacked," said the man in a low and shaky voice. "We hid behind the driver's seat."

He was perched on a chair in the refugee service of Amnesty International in Paris, recounting his odyssey with his wife and three children from Iraq to France.

His name is Yeshar, he is an Iraqi Kurd from Baghdad and he said he faces sure death if he has to go home.

"We went all the way to Istanbul," he continued. "We stayed there for five months. Then, we took a boat, next a train and a boat again. We arrived at a big harbor. There were some Arabs, they told me to take another train to go to Paris. It was at this moment, I realized I was in France."

Waves, roads and rails brought him to another confusing landscape, this one made up of offices, wretched papers and endless interviews. Now he winds his way through the halls of French justice, pleading his case for political asylum to judges and bureaucrats who sift through thousands of stories like his every year.

The asylum system in France, as in other western countries, is not like other courts.

BY ALEXANDRA STEIGRAD, MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

[this story was originally published by Reuters on April 29, 2007, and ran in dozens of news outlets around the world, including Washingtonpost.com, Boston.com and NYTimes.com]

to the companion lead story "Muslim women in France 'regain' virginity in clinics"

A 19-year-old Moroccan student in Paris, who asked to be called Amel, plans to have her hymen resewn before returning home this summer to marry a man who, according to local custom, expects her to be a virgin.

This is her story, as told on the condition her identity not be revealed.

"I dated a boy when I was 15 and I didn't even realize what had happened," she said, referring to her first and only sexual experience. "I was very young. After we had sex, he became very possessive. I couldn't stay with him any more.

"I met someone at the beginning of this year. He's the son of my parents' friends. We get along very well, but because he's a family friend, I can't tell him about my past. That's why I decided to get this surgery.

"I decided to get it done here because in Morocco, it's not official. It's just done in an office, not in a clinic. It's done around noon or 2 p.m., or at night, or when the secretary isn't there, and you don't know who is going to do it."

"It's known about just by word of mouth. In general, it's done in Casablanca and all the doctors do it."

"My friend's cousin has done it. She said (in Casablanca) they just use a string," Amel said -- instead of surgical sutures -- to close the hymen.

"It's very expensive to get it done here, but it's better.

"Only two of my friends know that I'm getting this done, but my other friends from Marrakesh will all end up doing this too, I am certain ...

"Sometimes I joke around with them and say: 'One day when we all meet someone, we're going be in trouble, what are we going to do?' They say: 'It's no mystery. You don't tell anyone and you have the operation.' It's simple ... and it's a bit strange, I know."

In Morocco, she said, a girl can be stopped and questioned for kissing or even holding hands with a boy in public.

"Can you imagine if you aren't a virgin?

"If I told my parents that I wasn't a virgin, they would call me a liar, and as a result, everything I have ever done would be a lie (to them)."

"I have to do this before I go home. If my mother ever found out about this, she would have a mental breakdown. I don't want to have this surgery, but I don't have any choice."

April 2007

BY ALEXANDRA STEIGRAD, MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

[this story was originally published by Reuters on April 29, 2007, and ran in dozens of news outlets around the world, including Washingtonpost.com, Boston.com and NYTimes.com]

to the companion story "'I have to do this.' Moroccan to have hymen resewn"

Sitting in a cafe near the Champs Elysees, the 26-year-old French-born woman of Algerian descent looks like any other Parisian. But two months ago, she did something none of her friends have done.

She had her hymen re-sewn, technically making her a virgin again.

"I'm glad I had it done," said the woman, who spoke on condition of anonymity. "I wanted to reconstruct part of my life, to reconstruct myself so that I could feel better about myself."

This 30-minute outpatient procedure, called "hymenoplasty" and costing between 1,500 and 3,000 euros ($2,000-$4,000), is increasingly popular among young women of North African descent in France.

BY ALVARO VILLALOBOS LOPEZ, SCIENCES PO, SPECIAL TO THE MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

Sitting at a table, he drinks his coffee while talking to two women. His white shirt is spotless. His hair, in place. His words roll slowly. He looks determined. António de Macedo Andrade, Portuguese immigrant, is the owner of the restaurant Paris Madeira, in Paris' 9th district.

Like Andrade, Alberto Alves, Antonia Gonçalves, and José da Silva arrived in Paris between 1968 and 1970. They had to work hard to create their own companies in and around Paris. Affluent and prosperous, they represent a vital minority in France's Portuguese community.

In 1962, 50.000 Portuguese immigrants lived in France. Six years later, there were 300,000. By 1975, 800,000 Portuguese had settled. Since then, the figure stabilized and the community composed of Portuguese and Franco-Portuguese, is now approaching a million individuals. Within Paris, the Portuguese population of 47,000 is the largest foreign community, before the Algerians, Moroccans or Tunisians, according to the latest official census in 1999.

BY MADELEINE LEROYER, SCIENCES PO, SPECIAL TO THE MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

[A version of this story won third prize in the 2007 Daniel Pearl Award, a competition sponsored by The Wall Street Journal, in collaboration with the Ecole de Journalisme de Sciences Po in Paris, and was published in the Wall Street Journal Online]

Read the English version
Read the French version
Read the interview of Jean-Francois Dubost in English or in French). Lawyer, specialized in international law, Jean-Francois Dubost is the head of the "Refugee Department" at Amnesty International France.

A balloon explodes. Raissa jumps, her hands pressed hard on her pregnant belly. Another balloon explodes. Her eyes feverishly look for her sons. It's Dec. 26, 2006, in Brest, France. The association, Brest Education Without Borders, that coordinates the different collectives that provide relief to the undocumented migrants living in the city, has organized a Christmas party in the association's house. Children play. Raissa tries to forget the memories, the explosions, the bombs.

BY FANNIE OLIVIER, SCIENCES PO, SPECIAL TO THE MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

[A version of this story won second prize in the 2007 Daniel Pearl Award, a competition sponsored by The Wall Street Journal, in collaboration with the Ecole de Journalisme de Sciences Po in Paris, and was published in the Wall Street Journal Online]

Read the English version
Read the French version



Virginie and Ronnie's apartment is perched at the top of a long and narrow spiral staircase. Located in a popular Paris neighborhood near the Gare du Nord train station, it is mansard-roofed and tiny. A painting is soiled and the walls are moldy. A visitor is struck by the three posters the tenants have pinned to the walls. Like a bowl of fresh air in this contained space, they depict the open space of Quebec. Written in French, a slogan in the center of the posters reads: "Make your life in Quebec." For the young French couple, it is their new mantra to escape the banality of their Parisian life.

Virginie is a 24-year-old business school graduate who could only find a job in Paris as a waitress. Ronnie has an undergraduate degree in English but dreams of becoming an illustrator. They want to abandon a country they think has no future. Or rather that has no future for them, professionally.

Next September, they will take off for Montreal, the economic capital of Quebec, to try their luck, as so many of their French compatriots did before them, in French-speaking America. Their ticket is one-way. They hope to resettle in the Canadian province of their dreams though neither has ever been to Quebec before.

Each year, 3000 to 4000 French decide to emigrate permanently to Quebec, according to the figures of the Quebec Immigration Ministry. Moreover, 7000 others arrive with temporary work visas, and 5000 more as exchange students. But the dream of Quebec sometimes turns into a nightmare since hundreds of them come back to France every year.

BY AURELIE TOULEMONDE, SCIENCES PO, SPECIAL TO THE MEDILL NEWS SERVICE
Two versions of this articles are availlable
English
French

"B612!"

Twelve high pitched voices holler in unison as fingers shoot to the ceiling. Sitting in the back row, Yassine, a 12-year-old boy, in hallmark baggy pants and hooded jumper has leapt to his feet. His body now stretches across his desk, his arm reaching towards Madame Peltier, the teacher standing at the front of the classroom. His extra effort does the trick. He is rewarded by a disapproving glare but gets the right to answer.

"The Little Prince came from planet B612," he stammers in French. The words sound like rocks in his mouth but he smiles, clearly pleased with himself. And he should be. Only four months ago, Yassine barely spoke any French. Today, he is reading Antoine de Saint-Exupery's famous novel.

Madame Peltier's students may already look like typical French school students, but none of them are. They all come from overseas and have been in France for no more than a matter of months, some of them only weeks.

During the past school year, 40,000 non-French speakers, like Yassine, have joined the ranks of France's schools. Newly arrived migrant children may represent only 0.4% of the student body, a number which has remained steady for the past half-decade, but the challenge for the French education system is significant. The issue of whether the move goes well is obviously critical to the wellbeing of these children but also to that of the country. School is nothing less than the frontline of integration and the riots which rocked the country in November 2005 were proof of how essential it is that immigrant populations find their place.

Whether searching for jobs, looking to reunite families or fleeing war-torn countries, people are crossing borders, and they're taking their children with them. Morocco, Algeria, Cuba, Portugal, Romania, Poland, South Korea, Bulgaria, Slovakia, the United States and Bolivia: 11 nationalities out of 12 students. Mme. Peltier's 'classe d'accueil' in this middle school in Paris' 15th arrondissement mirrors what most developed countries are experiencing today.

BY EMILY WITHROW, MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

[an earlier version of the story was published by the Associated Press on Jan. 27, 2007, and ran in dozens of news outlets around the world, including USA Today, Washington Post, Washington Times]

Chemotherapy beat back her ovarian cancer, but took Sophie Valot's fertility with it. Her doctor said she had just one option to start a family of her own: Find an egg donor, have children and get a hysterectomy -- in five years or less, or risk relapse.

But French fertility clinics were in crisis, unable to meet the demand for donated eggs. Strict egg donation laws have caused a severe shortage of donors, and backlogs at clinics reach five years. So Valot took her search abroad.

After two trips to Spain in 2002 and 2003, Valot has two young boys and the family she always desired. She is among thousands of women and couples willing to travel and pay for eggs. A thriving global fertility industry welcomes them with open arms, promising babies.

Belgian, Spanish and Greek clinics court women on the Internet, flashing images of pregnant bellies, nursing mothers, and frolicking families. They boast large donor pools and competitive rates.

Online forums buzz with women discussing the reputations of foreign clinics and offering advice and support. Associations have sprung up across France that, for a small annual fee, help women connect with clinics abroad and provide discounts to certain centers.

American women use seasoned French organizations to hook them up with clinics in Greece or Spain. Even with air fares and hotels, the costs can be just 10% of treatments in the United States.

BY KATHERINE BOYLE & SARA GOODMAN, MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

This game is being played entirely in a foreign language, one that isn't familiar to most Americans. They're speaking Euskara, a language with no known ties to any other language around the world.

The cowboys are Basque-Americans and they are part of a thriving community in the western United States. They come from the Basque Country: seven provinces in the Pyrenees of western Europe that make up the northwest corner of Spain and the southwest section of France. In Buffalo, most Basques are of French descent, and their relatives immigrated here in the early 1900s, seeking political freedom and economic advantage. At a time where many immigrant groups are wrestling with questions of nationality and identity, the Basque culture is flourishing.

BY ARIEL ALEXOVICH, MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

[to the companion story, Coca-Cola, red wine or mint tea? A Moroccan woman decides where to live]

"Sale Arabe!" shrieked the furious middle-aged French woman to the heavy apartment door in front of her. The expression - commonplace in France nowadays - means, literally, "dirty Arab." "You turn down the music! You should stay in your country! Here in France we don't listen to our music that loud ..." She went on and on.

Fed up by the loud pop tunes blaring from the Bordeaux flat where Moroccan-born college student Meryem Laachi lived, the woman went next door and started shouting racial slurs without even knocking. If she had bothered to confront the offender face to face, the woman would have been surprised to see that Meryem wasn't home. Inside the apartment were two of Meryem's friends, two porcelain-skinned Caucasian French girls.

"Susanne was crying," Meryem says of her friend's reaction to the insults. As she sits in her new apartment in Rennes, a medium-sized city in the northwestern French province of Brittany, Meryem seems to let the incident roll off her back. "I just think my neighbor in Bordeaux was unhappy. She was living alone, she was 40 - I was thinking she had psychological problems."

That was about two years ago. Meryem, 22, has since finished her coursework in Bordeaux and is working on a finance degree at a specialized college in Rennes. She is tall, well-dressed and in fact, not dirty at all. What she doesn't have on her side, at least not according to French society, is shoulder-length coarse, dark hair and a long face shape that comes to a point at her chin. In other words, she looks Arabic, which in France automatically earns her a label as "the other." Compared with other instances of discrimination she's faced, however, being called "dirty Arab" isn't so bad. Especially compared with the hardships faced by French-born youths of Arabic descent, Meryem's situation is downright tolerable.

BY ARIEL ALEXOVICH, MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

[to the companion story, Liberty? Equality? Fraternity?: A Moroccan's place in the French order]

Meryem Laachi's phone bills are astronomical.

In an average week, the twenty-two-year-old fields calls from her parents and sister in Morocco, and from her brother in Minneapolis, all on the cell phone she bought near her university in France.

Like her older siblings, Meryem left Casablanca to go to college in France, not so unusual since French is the business language of Morocco, a former French protectorate. Next year, however, she'll graduate. Meryem will decide whether to follow the footsteps of her older brother, Nabil, who moved to the United States, or her older sister, Safaa, who moved back to Casablanca, or forge her own path, possibly staying in France.

In an average conversation with Meryem, she jumps around from topic to topic, explaining why it would be great to pursue all three countries. An internship in America, a banking job in France, she wants to do it all. But still, part of her heart leans towards going home, although her head tells her that a better life can be found in a wealthier Western country.

Some children who grow up in poor countries dream their whole lives about leaving. That's not how Meryem feels about Morocco. Even though she witnessed her brother's and sister's moves to French universities, up until the month before Meryem herself was to start college, she thought she would follow her own path and stay in Casablanca, studying finance at the elite Institut Superieur de Commerce et d'Administration des Entreprises (INCAE), Morocco's best business university.

BY NATASHA ROTSTEIN, MEDILL NEWS SERVICE

[to the related stories, A Chechen copes through Sambo fighting and Chechnya's war legacy]

When Khassan Baiev realizes the Boston traffic will keep him from arriving on time at his daughter Satsita's day care center, he quickly grabs his cell phone.

"I am stuck in traffic," he tells Magomed Amir Imakaev and asks if Imakaev can pick up his daughter.

Such is a typical moment for these two Chechen families, who moved to Boston to get away from the war in Chechnya.

The first Chechen War began in December 1994 and ended Aug. 31, 1996. The second war began in September 1999 and is still ongoing. It is estimated that roughly 250,000 Chechen civilians died between 1994 and 2003.

According to reports issued by the Human Rights Watch, Chechnya has become a dangerous place for civilians.

"We have also found compelling evidence of at least three sets of massacres, in which Russian forces summarily executed at least 122 unarmed civilians, many of them women and the elderly. Russian forces have looted Chechen homes with abandon, raped women, and arrested hundreds of civilians - men, women and children--on suspicion of aiding rebel fighters," one report says.