The winter night still envelops the city and the dual carriageway of Boulevard Gèze, an artery linking the A7 to the A55, the two motorways serving the north of Marseille. Past the stalls arranged on the sidewalk of the wild flea market, a few major brands of suppliers of construction materials for the building follow one another. It is not yet 7 o’clock this morning, and a dozen people, motionless, are waiting on either side of the gate from which come and go the vans and craftsmen’s utilities.
“We need to work,” soberly explains Amine, a 27-year-old Malian bundled up in his construction parka. His paint-smeared safety shoes speak for themselves. “I’ve been doing this for almost ten years, every morning,” he breathes. “That” is waiting for a boss who has come to get materials for his construction site to ask for his labor for the day. Undocumented, like everyone here, Amine doesn’t really have any other choice. “You have to eat well,” he sums up. “Basically, I do a lot of facade renovations. Now I know how to do a bit of everything, build walls, large works…”, he explains. If all goes well for him, he will be able to apply for French naturalization in a few months, as the law provides for once more than ten years have passed in the territory.
In front of him, a father and his teenage son wait in silence. They are also hovering in the hope of a ticket that would at least fill the fridge for a while. He sells for fifty euros a day. Seventy euros with his son. “There is no work at the moment, it’s complicated,” sighs his neighbor. An employee of the sign asks one of them a little more advanced to leave the courtyard separating the parking lot, the access to the store where the consumables are and the loading area for supplies to structural works, concrete irons , sand, cinder blocks, beams… The clock is ticking, and at almost 8 a.m. none of them have yet climbed into a truck, although they are now significantly more numerous and are beginning to spread out as well. other side of the boulevard.
“The boss threw me in the hospital and left me like this”
Dino, a Kurd in his forties, is on the other side of the fence. He never had to “jobber”. He learned the trade from the age of 17 with his father and uncle before opening his own business ten years ago. “I’m not hiding from you, at first I happened to take it. For undocumented migrants, it’s a path, like catering,” he explains, loading concrete irons into his truck. “Now I have an employee. There are [des patrons] who only do that because the prices are not the same: 50-60 euros, here, it’s good. But it’s hard to find a good worker,” he comments. Not everyone here has the same desire to express themselves. “Black workers? Not aware, ”grumbles a craftsman who loads placo on the roof bars of his Berlingo.
Necessarily, this labor market wilder than ever involves risks. Especially for employees. Sid Ali, a 32-year-old Algerian recounts having experienced it. That was a few years ago already. On a construction site, for which he was hired on the sly for the week, he seriously opens his arm with a grinder. “The boss threw me in the hospital and left me like this. He never paid me, ”he says, revealing the large scar that runs all over his forearm. “I found myself with nothing, I slept on the street. Hamdoulilah, today is fine. He has been hired on a regular basis for two years, he explains, before going off to fix up accommodation in La Plaine with his boss. Shortly after 9 a.m., Amine climbs into a van which has stopped alongside him. For today, he has work.
A poverty market that has developed over the past ten years. Listening to the people he met that morning, he also ran near Aubagne, south of Marseille and would no longer be confined to construction workers alone. According to the police headquarters, drug trafficking networks occasionally come there to recruit small workers, one-day jobs.
