Monsieur Lazhar Page #5

I'll call tomorrow, Mom.

Ok, bye.

My mother in Chibougamau.

I'm an immigrant too.

I left home for Africa.

I saw Dakar, Bamako,

Ouagadougou, before Montreal!

You share that with your kids?

Yes.

You must share

with your kids too.

Share what?

Your story, where you're from.

No.

- What about your culture?

- It's not in the curriculum.

But exile is another

kind of journey.

No, Claire.

For most immigrants,

it's a trip without papers

uprooted to a country

whose culture is foreign.

Yes.

I don't know why,

the violet is dying.

Too close to the window, maybe.

You have to talk to it.

- About what?

- Anything.

About you.

Tell it about yourself, Bachir.

It will shrivel with boredom!

Too bad you think that.

Come on, kids.

As I was strolling... Strolling...

L-l-i-n-g.

- Tense?

- Imperfect.

...along in the sunshine. S-h...

l-n-e.

Who knows what a nymph is?

Boris.

A nymph is like an insect

that's ready to become

a butterfly, like a chrysalis.

Very good.

Any other vocabulary?

Defenestrate.

Is that Balzac?

No, a newspaper article.

Are we correcting the news?

Defenestrate means

to throw from a window.

Put away the paper.

My granddad defenestrated himself.

A long time ago in Chile,

the army imprisoned him.

He was tortured.

He killed himself after

being released, or escaping...

Did you discuss it with anyone?

My mom.

When Martine killed herself, we...

It's not the same at all!

I never said it was.

With Granddad, we know why.

Torture.

With Martine, we don't know why.

Anyone else talk about it at home?

Why discuss suicide?

You're no psychologist.

Spoken like your parents.

Anyone who wants to speak,

feel free.

Want to say something?

Everyone thinks we're traumatized.

But it's the adults who are.

Anyone else?

Simon wants to talk.

Are you nuts?

Why'd you raise your hand?

I didn't. If you have

something to say, say it.

I already said what I had to say

in my composition.

Go ahead, spit it out!

- Simon.

- Say it's my fault!

You said it, not me.

Be more respectful.

- Goddamn coward!

- Alice!

I'll tell you what she thinks.

That it's my fault.

It's my fault because

I told on Mrs Lachance.

I didn't want her acting

like my mom.

Simon, you liked Martine

just like the rest of us.

She gave you privileges

and helped you with homework.

She gave me the camera,

but I never asked.

I never asked for a kiss!

Liar!

She hugged you after you cried.

Happy now?

Saying that I was crying.

You never cry.

You're perfect, a real guy.

It's true, she didn't kiss me.

But she hugged me,

and I didn't like it.

It's not my fault.

It's not my fault,

what happened, right?

It's not my fault?

It's not your fault.

Martine hadn't been well.

She knew I brought

the milk on Thursdays.

She knew I'd see her like that.

Don't try to find a meaning

to Martine's death.

There isn't one.

A classroom is a home for...

It's a place

of friendship,

of work,

and courtesy.

Yes, courtesy.

A place full of life.

Where you devote your life.

A place where you give of your life.

Not infect a whole school

with your despair.

The Algiers police report

submitted by counsel

rules out that the fire

was an accident

and confirms it was

a criminal attack on your family.

Thus, if I may...

I declare

that the asylum-seeker

is a refugee as defined

by the convention.

It has been shown

he rightly fears

persecution for a reason

covered by the convention.

I also declare that he is

in need of protection

and that repatriating him

to Algeria would expose him

to threats on his life

or the threat of cruel and unusual

treatment or punishment.

There is good reason to fear

that sending him back would expose him

to the risk of torture.

I fixed your chair.

Thanks.

Bachir!

Meet my mom.

Hello! Delighted to meet you!

Me too.

I've heard so much about you.

The rules strictly forbid me

to say this,

but Alice may well be my favorite!

- My kiss!

- Bye.

Have a good day.

I wanted to thank you.

It's been rough with everything,

and because I was away a lot.

She showed great maturity.

You gave her so much support.

You were...

solid.

So thank you.

Thank you very much.

- Goodbye.

- Thank you so much!

You had to dredge up Martine?

What? The kids brought it up.

Bachir, don't play games.

You keep reopening her grave.

You sent Alice's text

to Simon's parents, despite...

He needs his parents,

who're totally absent.

Bachir, stop!

You're not a permanent resident.

You know?

You're a refugee.

You hushed it up?

When I found out,

I decided to let it go.

The class was doing well.

And now?

Now the cat's out of the bag.

Marie-Frd's parents grilled me.

They'd investigated.

Simon's parents called.

I can't ignore it all.

The Board is on my back.

What did you do in Algeria?

I ran a restaurant.

Sh*t!

I don't know which of us

looks dumber.

I won't abandon them.

The year's over.

Audrey's with your class.

I found a replacement.

You can do something.

I did too much already.

At least they're letting me

finish the year.

You?

I'm so sorry.

Get your briefcase at recess.

We'll send the rest.

I don't want a scene

in front of the kids. Understand?

Let me teach the class today.

I'll say I have to leave.

I can't not say goodbye.

Martine left without saying goodbye.

Boris?

You get a bonus point

for consulting a dictionary.

Yes!

Victor, it's very good

you looked it up.

And now, if you like,

you'll correct my fable.

Yes!

I'll read it.

When you see a mistake, you stop me.

- Ready?

- Yes.

The Tree and the Chrysalis

by Bachir Lazhar

After an unjust death,

there's nothing to say.

Nothing at all.

As will become plain below.

From the branch of an olive tree,

there hung a tiny chrysalis

the color of emerald.

Tomorrow it would be a butterfly,

freed from it's cocoon.

Its. L-t-s.

The tree was happy

to see his chrysalis grown,

but secretly, he wanted to keep her

a few mor years.

More, m-o-r-e.

"So long as she remembers me."

He'd shielded her from gusts,

saved her from ants.

But tomorrow she would leave

to affront alone predators

and poor whether.

Weather, w-e-a.

That night,

a fire ravaged the forest,

and the chrysalis

never became a butterfly.

At dawn, the ashes cold,

the tree still stood,

but his heart was charred,

scarred by the flames,

scarred at grief.

Scarred by grief.

Ever since then,

when a bird alights on the tree,

the tree tells it about

the chrysalis that never woke up.

He pictures her, wings spread,

flitting across

a clear blue sky,

drunk on nectar and freedom,

the discreet witness

to our love stories.

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