HiStory

by Barbara Halbig

My pilgrimage on the Camino began in May 2003, took time for seven weeks and resulted in 1081 kilometres. I started in Aragon on the Sompor-Pass which traverses the Pyrenees in the high of 1640 m.
I felt pleasure to go on a long way for a long time, because I wished to be free and independent, free from family, duties and everyday life.
I was used to walking for jogging in the wood near Erlenstegen three times the week. So I was in a good condition and was sure to arrive some time at Santiago de Compostela.
My backpack weighted about 13 kilos. However, after one week I sent back all unnecessary things in a small but expensive parcel. My shoulders should be thankful to me. Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the French story

Les débuts de la télévision belge /1

By two elders who were part of the first technical crew of the Radio Télévision Belge: Maurice Broekaert & Jules Collier

The beginnings of television by the Institut National de Radiodiffusion (INR - NIR), in Belgium at least, can’t be considered a first in Europe, because television already officially existed in 819 lines in France, in 625 lines in the Netherlands, in 405 lines in the UK since 1936, and in Germany already in March 1935. With their modest daily 2-hour broadcasts, TV stations looked more like a little amateur club than the telecommunications network that it later became.
The first television crew in Belgium held the sacred fire, that is undeniable.
What could be more exiting, in fact, than being confronted with reality and knowing that, at the same instant as we put this reality into images in the studio, people – privileged ones, of course – would instantly see these images in their home.

Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the French story

Dans les bois…

by Jean-Pierre, born in 1941

I was born in 1941, in a small village called Ax-les-Thermes near Toulouse. Our family, of Jewish origin, was hidden there.
In order to be able to feed me, my mother, a trained seamstress, made dresses and skirts for the village inhabitants, and we were paid in food, to feed the baby and my parents. Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the French story
Syndicalisme : ce qui m’a poussé à m’engager comme syndicaliste
by Jean-Paul

When I was employed at Philips, I didn’t work in human resources management. I worked in human park management. As a social worker, I soon began to ask myself some questions.

I’ve also worked in the personnel department of a military factory that produces military fire control radars for NATO aircraft, among other things.

I had to write down the names of workers travelling to Yugoslavia and I knew when I received the holiday form that they’d get sacked in September. I put aside those people who had travelled to Yugoslavia and a man working for the government (a person from secret service, “defence-security”) came to inspect the cards.
Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the French story

Renaissance d’un village

By Gaston Fayard, 87 years

I would like to talk to you a little about my village. One can hear many people complain in little towns because of train stations being shut down, and I fully understand that. But in my own village we’ve been feeling abandoned by the rest of the world for a long time now. The last shop closed at the end of the 1990s. Mind you, I’m as responsible for that as anyone else: I left to make a living in Lyon and came back here for my retirement. Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the French story
Un village englouti
by Pierre Castaings, 83 years
I would like to tell our youngsters (and also the less young) that this topic of sustainable development, which is so trendy today, really must be taken seriously. In my family, my father, my uncles, myself and my children, all of us in short, love the Pyrenees on both sides. As you can imagine, I am less active at hiking than before (but I still take short hikes from time to time, because my grand-children wouldn’t leave me alone if I didn’t).
I saw how those big dams were built to the north of Aragon, sometimes flooding villages, entire valleys. Last spring, for my birthday, we took a “family descent” to Jaca and we used the opportunity to go to see one of those big constructs. Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the French story

Virginie avait 18 ans

by Marie-Thérèse Lassabatere.

In 1938, she was 18. Pierre was 18, too. That Friday, on market day, Pierre went to Oloron by bike as his parents used to do, but the bicycle quickly caused him some problems that forced him to go see a bicycle repairman. The latter examined the situation with great seriousness and pronounced: “you’ll have it in three hours, not earlier than that”.

What to do? Pierre accepted his fate and was about to leave when she came in … with her bike … a bike that had broken down, of course. The same investigation was conducted, the same verdict pronounced: “not earlier than in three hours”. Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the Spanish story from Miguel Herrera

From Miguel Herrera, I think it is very interesting to be able to work in this European social network. I think it can be useful to share and comment different past and present events. More… Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the Spanish story RECUERDOS Y FUTURO DE UNA PENSIONISTA written by Ana Romero

Hi everyone,

My name is Ana and I am 68 years old already. My health is not as it was. I just wanted to write a bit of my story: I was born in a little farm, 12 Km away from Granada in the middle of the Spanish post war period: 1941. I remember that we had neither electricity nor water… we had to go to the river several times every day (we were lucky, it was very close) to cook and wash. Life was hard but we could consider ourselves lucky people: we were not hungry. Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the story TENGO UN RECUERDO written by Josep Carbassa

i remember well when I was a kid and lived in a street known as “del sol” (sun), as there was no other street by us and we received all the sun, the surroundings were the countryside, you could even see the beach and the planes taking off. By night you could see the fishermen with their lights… you can now see nothing of these; it is all covered with cement and noise.More… Read the rest of this entry »

This is a translation of the story INMIGRACION EN CATALUÑA EN LOS AÑOS 50-60 written by Teresa

Immigration in Catalonia in the 50s- 60s…

Hi: Mi name is Teresa. I just wanted to share a remembrance from when I was a child now that there are so many problems with the people that arrive illegally from other countries with no documents.

During the 50s- 60s in Catalonia, there were plenty of job opportunities as Barcelona was an industrial city in opposite to many regions in Spain where there were no jobs at all. When the couples had kids, they had to leave their hometowns to work elsewhere so as to feed their families and have better options in life.

More…In order to stay in Barcelona, they needed to have a house to live or a job; otherwise they could neither stay nor bring over their families.

At the train station the Guardia Civil (police) asked all the passengers arriving in Barcelona for documents saying they had a house or a job and if they did not have them, they took them to a pavilion in Montjuich for a week and if none from their family came to get them with the requested documents, they would have to go back where they came from.

It is a sad remembrance, next time I will tell you a happier one.