FRANCE: Unaccompanied minors: in Marseille, a place to rebuild themselves

A dozen teenagers attend to their business in the courtyard of this former logistics centre, located a few hundred metres from Marseille’s Velodrome stadium. It’s 10am, and some of them are helping to prepare the meals that will be served that day; others are still drinking tea or hot chocolate. Some of them have travelled from across the city to join their friends and spend the day at GR1 - a day centre for unaccompanied minors.

The facility, which is celebrating its first year, was set up by a number of partner associations: Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), Yes We Camp, Just, Secours Catholique - which owns the facility - and Ligue de l'enseignement. “GR1 welcomes up to 80 young people a day, who have access to French lessons, recreational activities, legal support and healthcare, including psychological care, provided by MSF,” says Pierre Baglin, project coordinator for MSF. “For these teenagers, each day spent at GR1 is one less day spent on the street, and one more chance to rebuild their lives.”

Minority refusal

Bakary* arrived from Côte d'Ivoire a few months ago. He is 17 years old and comes to GR1 whenever he can, particularly to take dance classes. These sessions are an opportunity for him to concentrate and exert himself, with the support of a volunteer teacher. The young man is clear about what he is looking for in these classes. “It's not just the dance that counts, but the person who comes to teach it,” Bakary explains. “If he's happy with what you do, you start to gain confidence. He gives us confidence and joy.” Bakary's face becomes more serious when he talks about his country of origin. His mother died when he was very young, and his father abandoned him when he was six.

Many of the teenagers at GR1 experienced difficult family situations before setting off on their journey; some were orphans, some lived on the streets, some were victims of violence. “These children may have suffered physically or psychologically, both in their countries of origin and during their journey,” explains Léa Janvier, MSF psychologist. “Our teams have observed recurring symptoms in unaccompanied minors: insomnia, nightmares, headaches, as well as post-traumatic stress and anxiety disorders, depression and even suicidal thoughts.”

Talking about their origins or their backgrounds is not an easy task for these young people. They have taken different routes, some through Libya, sold by smugglers to human traffickers, or through Tunisia, managing to board a boat bound for European shores. Most arrived via Italy, while others entered Europe via Spain, Morocco and Algeria. Each journey involved its share of risk, violence and suffering - up to and including their arrival in France.

“Many have experienced traumatic events, in Libyan detention centres for example, where torture is commonplace, or crossing the Mediterranean Sea,” says Léa Janvier. “Some have lost, sometimes violently, one or more of the people they were travelling with, be it a friend or a family member. They’ve had a near-death experience and have to live with that.”

Bakary can't really explain his departure from Côte d'Ivoire. He followed some friends who were going on an adventure. For a teenager, turning back and crossing the desert again can be more complicated than moving forward. “We set sail from Tunisia. Shortly after we set off, the driver told us we’d run out of fuel,” recalls the young man. “The boat was starting to sink. The strongest people went into the water to try and swim forward. We were not making any headway. At the end of the fourth day, I thought it was all over for me, because there was no boat in sight,” Bakary continues. “Everyone was crying. Then some fishermen came to rescue us.”

These teenagers have many things in common, including being refused minority status by the department. This refusal comes after an assessment considered biased and even incriminating by the associations that support unaccompanied minors, including MSF. For many, the assessment itself and its outcome are yet another act of violence. “I felt like I had an enemy in front of me, someone who was there to intimidate me,” explains Alpha, 17, from Guinea. “She could ask me three questions on the same subject but in different ways, so that I would slip up. Even though, in the first place, having crossed the Mediterranean, I wasn’t thinking straight. She wanted to know my parents’ way of life so she could judge me. How many wives does your father have? What does he do, what’s his livelihood? What kind of work does he do? That all had nothing to do with me. Me, I’m a teenager who crossed the Mediterranean; my parents have nothing to do with what I’m dealing with here right now.”

This institutional violence is all the harder to take for these young people because they were convinced that they would finally be safe in France, after months of travelling and wandering. “After being refused minority status, they are even more shaken than they were before. They thought that once they arrived, everything would be fine, that they would be able to get papers, go to school and have a place. Instead, they find themselves confronted with a system that casts doubt on their age and their story, and this is totally incomprehensible to them. There's a brutal confrontation with reality that shatters their expectations and their dreams.”

On the streets

Like many unaccompanied minors, Alpha arrived in Marseille by train at the city’s Gare Saint-Charles.

“I got on a train without knowing that I needed a ticket,” recalls the young man. “A man in a cap and tie asked me to get off at the next stop, threatening to call the police. The next stop was Gare Saint-Charles. I stayed there for five days because I didn’t know where else to go. I slept at the station. I approached the associations that distributed meals to the homeless and explained my situation. That’s how I stayed in Marseille.”

Saint-Charles is a place of arrival, transit and squats. It is home to a mixed population of travellers and workers, as well as drug traffickers who try to sell their wares. “The number one place for loitering and trouble in Marseille is the Gare Saint-Charles,” says Pierre Baglin. “For many people, Saint-Charles is simply a place to live, with tents and informal camps that last for varying lengths of time before being dismantled by the police and then re-formed. It’s a place to socialise, but it’s also a place that exposes these people to the criminal networks, dangers and violence of the street.”

Demba, 17, also arrived in Marseille from Guinea-Bissau, and was quickly referred to Addap13, the organisation that manages assessments of minors for the department of the Bouches-du-Rhône. He was able to stay in a hotel in the days leading up to his official appointment, before the final decision was made. “I did the assessment and then got the result: refused. I was told I had no proof. Then I was given a piece of paper explaining that I could appeal if I wanted to. I was told to leave the hotel. I asked where I could sleep; I was told I could just sleep outside.”

Faced with this organised abandonment, the local association network is trying to make up for the shortcomings of the French state. After finding himself once again on the streets, Demba was able to benefit from meals provided by volunteers and a lawyer helped him lodge an appeal with the courts. “Some people find it traumatic to spend a few nights on the streets,” says Léa Janvier. “I've had young people tell me about the cold, about having to scavenge for food, about not knowing who they could trust.”

The only solution offered to them by the authorities to avoid sleeping outdoors is emergency accommodation with the 115 hotline, a national service providing information for the homeless. They then find themselves sharing spaces with adults they don’t know, who may be suffering from serious problems or addictions. Bakary spontaneously recalls his sleepless nights in a hotel room allocated by the 115 services, with residents screaming all night and others relieving themselves in communal areas that have become unsanitary.

“I have to call 115 every 15 days to get my accommodation renewed,” explains Souleymane, 17, from Côte d'Ivoire. “If I don’t get my accommodation renewed, I have to leave the hotel and go back out on the street. This situation is weighing on me. On the night of the 14th day, I usually can't sleep, because I don’t know what they're going to tell me the next day.”

Shuffled from hotel to hotel, with no guarantee of being able to stay, sometimes suddenly put back on the street, unaccompanied minors who have filed an appeal and who have been living in Marseille for several months suffer from this situation. “Some have already been housed in six different places in the space of a few months,” says Léa Janvier. “They never know how long they’ll be able to stay. They’re still living life like they’re on the streets, even though some of them have a roof over their heads.”

Wandering and justice

After receiving a negative response from the Bouches-du-Rhône department, which manages child welfare, these teenagers have only one way of asserting their rights: to take their case to the children’s court judge. Subjected to lengthy administrative and legal procedures that can take more than a year, they wait anxiously. Every day that passes brings them closer to coming of age at 18. “The more time passes, the more you think,” worries Bakary. “And at some point, you think too much. And when you think too much, it drives you crazy. You can lose your mind.” Throughout the appeal period, and despite their vulnerability due to their age, unaccompanied minors have no protection from the French authorities. Yet there is a principle of presumption of minority, defended by the UN Committee on the Rights of the Child, which France does not respect.

Faced with a system over which they had no control, a number of young people in Marseille took action, and occupied the church of Saint-Ferréol located at Marseille’s famous Old Port, in July 2024. It was then that the Binkadi collective was born, which brings together around 50 unaccompanied minors, and of which Souleymane is one of the members. “What we want with Binkadi is for the State and the department to take their responsibilities and not put young people out on the street,” says Souleymane. “We are children. We’re human beings. It’s not human to sleep in the cold.”

The occupation took place in a tourist area of Marseille at the height of the 2024 Paris Olympic Games. The teenagers were quickly referred to hotels. “We realised that there was no problem with accommodation places,” says Souleymane, who until then had been sleeping in a squat or on the street with several friends. “It hurt me to know that; that it’s not a problem of resources.”

The streets also expose unaccompanied minors to the dangers of crime. “Marseille is marked by the presence of drug trafficking, prostitution and organised crime networks,” says Pierre Baglin. “More and more young people are being tempted to join these networks in order to earn a living. They are in a weak and vulnerable position, and the people who run these networks are well aware of this.”

Faced with the roaming and violence of the streets, GR1 offers a safe place where teenagers can finally give free rein to their youthful fantasies: playing cards or games consoles, taking dance classes like Bakary and, of course, learning. French as a foreign language classes are very well attended, with a full class every session. Souleymane takes part to help his classmates.

The kitchen also plays a central role, enabling young people to take part in activities in small groups and gradually open up to others. “At GR1, they are all treated in the same way, with no sense of superiority or domination. No-one is left out,” says Nadia Khallouki, food coordinator at GR1 for the Yes We Camp association. “Above all, they have a say in everything that goes on in this place: we hold house meetings once a month, to see what’s going well, what’s not, what activities or projects they’d like to be able to do. It’s a place where they feel active.”

While waiting to find out whether the courts will rule in their favour, and before returning to their precarious accommodation, these young people are seated in the middle of the courtyard, enjoying a hot meal together. Faces open and they become talkative, speaking about anything and everything. “I feel like part of a family here,” says Souleymane. “We’re made to feel welcome, as if we were living with our fathers and mothers. It also makes you forget how lonely you are. The GR1 makes you forget that.

* First names have been changed to protect people’s identity.