Article:

THAT TIME WHEN: THE FRENCH SUICIDE

By Jayne Seagrave

 

It had not started off as being memorable; a day that would be stamped in the mind with every detail crystallised, never to be forgotten. No. It dawned as a totally normal day, the sort of a day, albeit in another country, experienced hundreds of times before during my 62 years travelling the world. But it evolved into a day which continues to haunt me and will do for the rest of my life.

In June 2023 I was in the South of France for three weeks, attending a French Language School. During one of the weekends when I was not expected to be in the classroom, I decided to leave the touristy crowds of Montpellier, where the school was located, and visit Toulon, a large city on the coast. Unlike many other southern French cities such as Marseille, Nice and Monte Carlo, Toulon is a city devoid of tourists, having suffered extensive bombing during the Second World War it had lost many of its historical buildings. I am attracted to such places; with a travel writers desire to witness the real French culture away from the crowds, I enthusiastically committed to a weekend sojourn.

Research illustrated there to be an area of Toulon which had survived the bombings, a former “red-light” district characterised by dilapidated apartment buildings with shuttered windows, decaying walls of plaster, large wooden access doors leading to tight staircases, all casting shadows on pot-holed narrow streets with uneven surfaces. These tightly packed, working-class environments of run-down accommodation dated back to the turn of the century. This historical area, in addition to a couple of museums with Second World War artifacts, offered unique attractions and cemented my decision to visit Toulon.

On the Sunday morning of my weekend away I had eaten a buffet breakfast in the Ibis Hotel, consisting of croissants, fruit, yogurt and strong black coffee, and sat over my food meticulously planning the day. Debating which route to take, I decided to initially explore the old historical area first, before it got busy, then head to the harbour and finally to the Maritime Museum which did not open until 11.00am, before taking the train back to Montpellier and my Language School. I had a specified agenda; everything was ordered, planned, well researched, there was no room for surprises as time was at a premium. It was hot, but I rationalised walking in the residential area would be heavily shadowed, and the morning significantly cooler.

Leaving the hotel I headed towards my initial destination, speaking French to myself in my head, savouring my own company, and congratulating myself for making the decision to visit this diverse city devoid of crowds. Walking slowly along the quiet ancient lanes, my mind was distracted and in full “tourist mode”, daydreaming and satisfied to be in a city which in every aspect was different to my home of Vancouver.

Suddenly I was catapulted away from my daydreams at the sound of a thud and a women’s scream. Immediately in front of me on the ground was a disarranged, young, skinny, male body, no footwear, red T shirt and faded, torn, blue jeans, copious quantities of blood pooling from his head over the sidewalk. A man riding a motorbike quickly stopped, his bike still running he let it fall to the ground as he ran to the body, pulled off his helmet, and stood and stared. A women exited an apartment building, and screamed; “He has six children”, but my French is not perfect, so maybe I did not hear her correctly, as he looked too young to have children. Another older woman wearing too may clothes for the heat, arrived with roll of kitchen paper tearing at it I presumed to mop up the blood, an action which seemed totally irrational and bazaar, but like the rest of us, she just stared at the lifeless body, continuing to tear at the paper, not knowing what else to do.

The victim had jumped from the old residential apartment building I was about to walk past. The narrow street meant that despite attempts to move away, my distance from the body was minimal, and I could not help myself but look and reflect on how quickly the pool of blood had arrived and that it was a dark brown colour, not red as would be expected. I was also conscious of the unconventional positioning of his legs and the silence of the other witnesses. A group of about seven of us collected and stayed a short distance away, looking on but not able to move, speaking in whispers. Some men organised to redirect the intermittent traffic. I stayed until the paramedics arrived, then walked away. 

I knew immediately Toulon had changed. For me it would not to be remembered for the informative, Second World War Museum nor the spectacular views of the harbour from the cable car ride, nor the unique lavender flavoured ice cream. If I had taken the additional piece of fruit for breakfast, or stopped longer to admire the street art, or taken a slightly different route, I would not have heard the thud, I would not have heard the women scream, I would not have seen a dead body, I would not have witnessed a suicide.

I spent the next few days reliving the experience, had disturbed sleep for a few nights, reflected upon what could have gone wrong in this individuals life for him to choose this action and why specifically he had chosen to make the decision early on that warm, sunny June morning. Now, when I am watching television and there is the image of a head injury with copious quantities of blood, I am immediately transported back to that Sunday last year in Toulon, and to a quiet, run-down community, with dilapidated apartment buildings, and to a young man whose life was so challenging he decided to kill himself. Likewise, when I am listening to the radio and the issue of suicide is introduced, and someone inevitably mentions it is the leading cause of death for young men, I return to Toulon.

In 1982 the band Abba released a song entitled: The Day Before You Came. The lyrics reflect on a life before the arrival of a significant person and chronical the ordinary, mundane day of an individual before an influential person arrives to forever disrupt their equilibrium. These lyrics can also be applied to this event. I did not know the young man whose suicide I witnessed, but he and his actions I will never forget, and are stamped on my memory forever. Life was different before that Sunday morning in Toulon.

 

 

Jayne Seagrave is a BC Best selling Author. The ninth edition of her book Camping British Columbia, the Rockies and the Yukon was published by Heritage House in April 2023. Over 60,000 of her camping books have been sold. She also writes fiction, non-fiction, freelance articles and occasionally teaches writing and publishing.