Reverse migration: Why I am moving from France to Algeria

In every immigrant family, there is a person who is overly critical of everything related to their country of origin.

During a family discussion, you may mention a fruit that grows in your home and they will reveal that its price has more than tripled in the last year.

News will come in about a niece or nephew who graduated high school and they will lament that it was all for nothing because the quality of education is chaotic.

Growing up, my father was that family member and so my trips to Algeria – I was living in Canada at the time – were tinged with bitter remarks and strong paranoia.

I assumed his pessimism came from guilt over abandoning everything he knew, and his criticism seemed to be a way of rationalizing his departure, mostly to himself.

As a result, I couldn’t really form my own judgment about life in Algeria until I started going there on my own as a young adult.

At that time, I fell madly in love with African football and came to the conclusion that the only way to properly pursue a career in football journalism was to “go back” to Algeria.

Much has been written about “reverse immigration” and how the children of first-generation immigrants “return” to their countries of origin to rediscover lost wisdoms, connect with their extended families, and repair crises of ‘identify.

They often tell heartwarming stories, but older generations are more cynical and make inappropriate remarks such as, “Wait until they have to file paperwork with a government agency.” »

I still vividly remember a dinner in our family living room in Canada one evening as I insisted that it was time for me to move to Algiers.

“I give it two years,” my older brother said with a smile on his face.

“Two years? More like two months,” my father retorted.

Betting on how long I could stay in Algeria became a game that even extended family would participate in over the following months.

I ended up lasting six years.

The first years in Algiers were extremely exciting.

There was an influx of journalists, young professionals, and entrepreneurs from the diaspora who arrived around the same time as me in the mid-2010s.

The country’s economy had been booming for five years and the possibilities seemed endless.

English schools were springing up all over the capital like wild mushrooms.

Algeria was fresh off an inspiring run at the 2014 FIFA World Cup, and the scintillating performances of its international footballers like Yacine Brahimi and Riyad Mahrez helped shine the spotlight on our football.

For a journalist who taught English as a second language on the side, it was an ideal solution.

But anyone lucky enough to become a full-fledged adult knows that one day we will all become like our parents.

And although I don’t think I regularly deplore Algeria’s problems, I ended up finding a few excuses to leave a year and a half ago.

For me, it was a combination of stifling travel restrictions due to the Covid-19 pandemic (Algeria’s borders were closed for almost two years) and a rollback of civil liberties that made the practice of journalism much more difficult.

I also came to a point in my life where I wanted to “experience something different” and this led me to move to Marseille, in the south of France.

With its stunning architecture, buttery pastries and sunny weather, there’s obviously no shortage of pleasures of the world, but I quickly realized it wasn’t for me.

I think the main reason I feel out of place is that I don’t report on African football on the ground.

Nothing in the world can replace the feeling of knowing that you have found your true calling and realizing that you are contributing, even in a small way, to your chosen field.

But in addition to the joy that journalism and storytelling give me, other, more trivial things set me back.

It involves calling a taxi (still affordable as a means of daily transport in Algeria), making a new friend during your journey and biting into the small sardines caught off the coast.

I realized that on life’s journey, if you find happiness in the mundanities of everyday life, that’s usually a good place to stop and pitch your tent.

And so now I’m preparing to “reverse immigrate” for the second time, and it’s been a time of reflection.

I compared the excitement and sentimentality of my first move in 2016 to how I feel today.

I’m not as excited as I was then, there’s a lot less to discover and the novelty has completely worn off.

I am already tired of the relentless bureaucracy, the precarious justice system and the difficulties in finding specialized health care when needed.

Yet the list of cons fades when I realize I’m going home to do what I love most in the place I love most.

And it’s a feeling I hope everyone feels at least once in their life.