All language subtitles for En.therapie.S01E27.1080p.BluRay.DD+5.1.x264-SbR_track4_[eng]

IN THERAPY

ADEL – TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2015, 10 A.M.

I didn’t know if you’d be back.

I didn’t know either.

I came back for a specific reason.

Three reasons, to be exact.

First, I owe you an apology.

I didn’t want everything to stay
the way it ended last time.

I was just trying
to get a rise out of you.

To make you angry.

Yes, I understood that.

You don’t have to apologize,
and maybe I owe you an apology.

I didn’t react properly.

You can say anything you like here.
I must handle it.

You may express your anger.

You had well prepared
that legitimate attack

against me and my loved ones.

Like for an operation, I imagine.

With care and great intelligence.

You wanted to obtain something from me.

I was angry.

We’ve discussed the reasons,
I don’t want to go over them again.

I wanted to make you blow your top.

Why did you need to make me do that?
Did you feel under attack?

I don’t know.

I wanted to get you out of your chair.

Sometimes I feel
you’re floating above all of this.

I wanted you to feel my pain.

A bit mental, right?

I don’t know what came over me.

After last week’s session
something happened.

Memories came back to me.

Well...

it’s like they’d always been there,
but I’d never looked in the right direction.

That’s weird, isn’t it?

I’d always known,
but I’d made another story up.

What you’re describing
is exactly the phenomenon of repression.

You invented a story to avoid reliving,
in your thoughts, a traumatic event.

You spotted it.

I did go to Algeria.

And not just once.

I spent every summer till I was seven
in my gran’s village.

I’m a proper raghead!

My grandmother’s face is clear
in my head. Creased, smiling eyes...

lots of make-up.

Her name was Henna.

I remember how different everything was
as we left the airport.

The sounds, the language,
the smells, the heat.

The journey from Algiers
seemed endless.

Like it does to any kid.

The plastic seats with little bumps
that stuck to my thighs.

The smell of hot plastic.

At the village I remember the sound
of the wheels on the dry earth.

I think I could recognize the place
blindfold, just by the sound.

Yes, memories are usually transmitted
via the senses.

All I remember of my gran’s house
is the ground floor.

There were earthenware tiles
in the kitchen.

Louvred shutters to keep out the sun.

Loads of people would be waiting for us:
cousins, uncles, aunts...

Everyone was talking at the same time,
ululating, my dad was laughing!

We spent all summer there.
Well, all of August.

My dad could take a month off work.

And as I was little, I stayed mostly
with the women and other little kids.

My dad would be with his brothers.

Telling each other all sorts of stuff.

It was really joyful.

They’re happy memories.

I’ve brought you something.

COUPLE AND SON
ONLY SURVIVORS OF MASSACRE

That’s my dad in the middle.

I look like him, right?

They’re his cousins.

They were all killed.

Except for my dad, the survivor.

One of my cousins
was getting married that day.

My dad’s eldest brother’s daughter.

Everyone was there, the whole village.

Everyone was in their best clothes.

I was outside with the other kids,

in the courtyard of the house.

That’s where my memory begins,
at that exact moment.

I’m sitting there, in the sunshine,

and my dad appears,
with a strange, twisted expression.

He scares me.

I flinch away.

It all begins with that image
of my dad’s twisted face.

He grabs my arm, pulls me along,

picks me up, it hurts...

And he takes me into the laundry room
behind the kitchen.

Going in, I trip over someone.

It’s my mom.

In the moment before my dad
closes the door, I see my mom’s eyes.

She’s afraid.

Then nothing.

My dad had closed the door.

I heard it all.

Panicked screaming first.

Then screams of terror.

Pure terror.

The crack of the gunshots.

The groans of the dying.

We...

heard the killers urging each other on.

Someone begging,
followed each time by a shot.

Then nothing.

We waited for a long time after,
without moving or daring to breathe.

I was only young
but I still understood.

If we moved, they’d kill us.

After an eternity
my dad opened the door, and the smell...

the smell of the blood...

like a wave...

I knew right away what it was.

Like at the Bataclan.

Like at the Bataclan.

My dad grabbed me,

put his hand over my eyes,
and we went out.

I was walking in front of him,
and it was hurting, with...

his hand pressing on my eyes.

At times he’d pick me up.

Now I think
it was to lift me over bodies.

I heard my mom crying.

And he carried me.

I could feel his breath,
I could feel his heart beating fast.

There was no noise.

The silence of death.

I remember that my trousers were wet.
I’d pissed myself.

And I kept doing that
for another seven years.

After,
I don’t really know...

We drove for a long time in the dark,
bumping around, I couldn’t sleep.

I think my dad left the headlights off,
in case they were still around.

Then we came back to France,

and never set foot
in that country again.

I grew up in the family vault
that we brought back with us.

Have you managed
to talk about it with him?

Sort of.

It wasn’t a bundle of laughs.

He accused me of stirring up shit,
but he answered a few questions.

In fact, he still doesn’t know
what happened.

I found that article online.

It talks about an attack by the GIA,
which is plausible.

My dad knew quite a few guys
in guerrilla groups.

The whole village helped them
with a bit of money and food.

But my dad had persuaded his family
to stop doing that.

So he thinks
it may have been revenge for that.

People were jealous of his family.

They’d done well for themselves.

So maybe it was the GIA.

Or maybe it was the military,
to discredit the local GIA leader.

We’ll probably never know.

And what does it matter?

But my dad lost all his family
and thinks it’s his fault.

Not all his family.
He saved his wife and his son.

Yeah, that’s the problem.

From what I understood.

If we hadn’t been there,

he could have died with his family
as he should have.

That’s what he said?

He didn’t need to.

Because of us he had to survive.

You see,
I don’t only owe him once for my life.

Who could ever be worthy
of such a sacrifice?

Yes, quite.

It’s funny, though, because...

when I look at my kids
I don’t think about what they owe me.

I think about what I owe them.

I popped back home last week
as I had a few days off.

Did I tell you my wife is messy?

I like things to be in their place.

I’ve never understood how that
amazing woman can’t keep her stuff tidy.

She never finishes anything.

She always leaves chaos in her wake.

We’ve had some major arguments
about that.

Now that you no longer live there,
how do you see her untidiness?

Her untidiness is life.

I didn’t understand that before.

It’ll be good for the kids
to grow up in that.

I was afraid that they’d lack structure.

I thought
I had to instill order into them.

Now I think that maybe their socks
don’t match, but they’re loved.

But I did sort out her paperwork.

We ate dinner as a family.
She suggested that.

And, after putting the kids to bed,
we had a drink together,

she had a smoke by the window...

I didn’t say anything, even though
it annoys me that she can’t quit.

We avoided problematic subjects.

All subjects, basically,
apart from the kids.

But it was good.

She asked me to be there
at Christmas. I said okay.

You seem keen
to sort things out in your life.

What’s going on?

- Do you know what I dreamed about?
- Tell me.

I was out with the guys from my group.
We were in an up bar.

An up bar?

A hostess bar.

With girls dancing,
and rooms that you can take them up to.

I didn’t know
the expression.

I was told I needed a ticket
to go upstairs.

And the tickets
were like little Lego coffins.

You couldn’t go upstairs
if you didn’t have one.

My friend Vince was like, “Go on up, Adel!
It’s all happening up there!”

I managed to get a little coffin,
the last one,

and I went upstairs.

And there was this naked woman,
but I could only see her body.

Her face was in the shadow
the whole time.

I knew why I was there.

The mission was clear,
I had to screw her.

But I couldn’t get it up.

The little coffins

had bothered me.

Not seeing her face
made me uneasy too.

So I went back downstairs
where Vince was waiting.

He said,
“Well, was it good?”

I said, “Yeah, it was really good.
But who was she?”

And then, all of a sudden,
Vince was in full intervention gear,

his helmet in his hand,

and looking at me suspiciously,

like he didn’t recognize me.

Then he moved away,

and said, “It was you.”

How does that make you feel?

Awkward.

I rarely remember my dreams.

Well, except since I’ve been seeing you.

That look from Vince
as he moved away, like I was...

A traitor?

It really hurt.

The next day, having a coffee,
I looked for a trace of it in his eyes.

It was a loaded dream.

It was weird.

That woman upstairs who was me.

I don’t get that.

Whose face you couldn’t see.

According to Vince it was my face.

You scripted the dream.

Vince is acting out
the words you wrote for him.

I made my friend say
I’m a naked woman?

You said that Vince
was dressed in intervention gear.

Yeah, he was up for an operation
in an up bar.

Interesting.

I knew you’d like that.

And then?

Vince looked at me
like I was an imposter.

You were no longer his brother-in-arms,
you were a stranger.

The enemy had my face.
I was the operation’s objective.

Something was going on,
but I was the target.

There were the small coffins too.

Like coffins for children.

Maybe they signified
the mourning of your childhood.

You need that key, a coffin,
to start your operation.

- But up there what do you find?
- Myself.

I’m the enemy.

In your fantasy, in your anguish.

But joining the forces of law and order,
as you did,

is undeniable proof
of your assimilation.

I know you’re French
and grew up in a “fucking French bakery”.

But you also have Algerian roots.

That has troubled you several times
since we began this work.

Being in the police, defending a nation
from a threat that comes from inside.

In your dream

the enemy has your face.

In the fight against terrorism
which is your job,

your fear might be that the enemy
does have your face,

that the violence you’re fighting
comes from your roots,

in an intimate sense.

From your childhood, which you forgot,
which you’re trying to mourn.

I’m the traitor.

In Vince’s eyes I’m not an imposter,
I’m the traitor.

Let’s say that in your nightmare
you’re being called a traitor.

An impotent traitor too.

Yes.

No, no, I didn’t come here today
to talk about my sexuality.

Then what did you come to talk about?

This is my third thing.

It’s funny, when I think about it,

that in the dream
Vince is in his gear but I’m not.

He looks at me
like I’m letting him down.

And he’s right.

What do you mean?

I’ve taken some leave.

You’ve resigned?

No, six months’ leave without pay.

It’s possible as a civil servant,
although it might be a problem after.

But they should take me back.

If not, too bad, I’ll do something else.

You have to make sacrifices
when you have a goal.

What goal?

I’ve told you many times
but you won’t listen. I want to serve.

What we’re doing here is like emptying
the ocean with a teaspoon.

France is so obsessed
with individual freedoms

that it’s forgotten to protect itself.

We’ve talked about this.

You don’t like it, neither does my wife.

Your vision is more...

romantic, I think.

But it’s the truth.

If we can’t fight them from the inside,
let’s do it on the outside.

I’m afraid I don’t understand.

Yes, you do.

You understand very well.

- Where are they?
- You mean the terrorists?

Some of the terrorists
responsible for the November attacks

were French and Belgian.
European, in any case.

Yeah, but where do they train?

Who arms them? Who supports them?

Syria.

There are people fighting them there
and dying, so that we can live in peace

and sit here overthinking things.

I can’t bear it any more.

I’m going there to fight.

How?

A buddy of Vince’s was in special forces.

He took part in lots of operations,
mostly official, of the French army.

You know we’re there supporting
the Kurds, who are fighting ISIS?

We provide them with
training and logistical support.

There are also foreign fighters
in the Kurds’ ranks.

Plenty of French ones.

That’s what I’m going to do.

Like the International Brigades
during the Spanish Civil War.

You’re educated, you know about them.

Lots of artists and intellectuals

joined the International Brigades
to fight Franco.

Times have changed.

You don’t get many intellectuals
doing that today.

They can’t see where the evil is.
Our era has no values,

no backbone.

But I can see clearly.

I don’t want others dying for me.

Mr. Chibane,
you’ll be running a huge risk.

It’s an onerous decision.

I can see you’ve thought about it.

Yes, it’s something
that we’ve talked about.

But I’m wondering...

Do you remember what we said
about you taking action?

The impulsive decisions which have
pushed you, since the Bataclan,

to a sort of flight.

It’s not that.

It’s one thing after another.

Splitting up from your wife,
leaving your home,

getting into a difficult situation
with your superiors,

and, now, leaving.

I want to do something.

What’s important
isn’t who I am or what I feel.

It’s what I do.

Have you discussed it with your wife?

I told my son.

Well, I said I was going on a mission
and I’d be back for his birthday.

In six months.

I told him not to say anything,
I want to tell Audrey myself.

But not just yet.

It’s Christmas in a couple of days,
I don’t want to ruin that.

But I’ll take her out for dinner,
Friday or Saturday,

and I’ll tell her.

What are you expecting?

She suspects something, but I bet
she thinks I have an affair to confess.

I don’t know how she’ll take it.

Probably not well.

It’s why I went around
to sort things out a bit.

I didn’t want to leave all that mess.

I wrote some letters too.

To my children and to her.

Just in case.

All the work we’ve done here
has been incredibly rich and productive.

You must keep it up, Mr. Chibane.

We’re in the middle of a process.

You’re bearing the weight
of a double guilt.

You said so yourself.

You feel guilt
about ruining your father’s life

by surviving that massacre.

He feels guilt
about his relatives’ deaths,

and you’ve taken that guilt
onto yourself.

It’s a double burden.

Don’t you think
that is pushing you towards an atonement?

Yeah.

My dad couldn’t do anything.

But I can.

You don’t have to do this.

- To sacrifice yourself.
- It’s not a sacrifice.

I’m giving meaning to my life.

It’s an impulsive act,

decided in a moment
of great emotional distress.

On the contrary, the decision
has been maturing for a long time.

It’s as if my whole life
has been pointing towards it.

Exactly! You’re being driven
by the family traumas you’ve inherited,

with which you’ve been struggling
with great lucidity.

You must keep resisting
and build an alternative. It does exist!

If I’m driven by anything, it’s our era.

You know that all survivors of disasters
suffer survivor guilt.

It’s very hard to live when others die.

They have a strong death drive.

Many survivors of the death camps
committed suicide years after the war.

Primo Levi, for example,

killed himself
40 years after surviving Auschwitz.

It’s with that guilt,
that pain of the survivor,

that your father’s been living
for over 20 years.

It eats away at him from the inside
and sucked the joy out of your childhood.

You undertook this therapy,
you started this work.

- That has nothing to do with me.
- It has everything to do with you!

Before you make it official,
can’t we continue our work here?

I think you’ll discover that you share
more with your father than you think.

In particular, this impulse to go
to Syria to pay an impossible debt.

There’s no more time.

My plane is on the 27th,
in the morning.

In five days.
I’m not wasting any time on my dad.

Mr. Chibane,
these ghosts which haunt you,

which are making your love life
and professional life difficult,

which brought you here,

won’t evaporate
when you take off for Syria.

I’m not trying to run away.

On the contrary.

I’m going to face reality.

Our civilization is collapsing,
and I won’t let it without a fight,

whatever the cost.

You know I’m right.

Deep down you know that.

That isn’t what I think.

I think you’re applying
a scorched-earth policy.

I don’t think you’re ready, Mr. Chibane.

You’ve taken on a mission
which isn’t your own.

Who assigned you to it?

The world.

Life.

Who cares about my neuroses?

I’m going to fight those bastards
who want to destroy us.

Make no mistake,
they do want to destroy us.

While I and people like me
are over there,

you can keep helping people in your way.

That’s my purpose.

Letting you live.

I think you’re making a mistake.

I can always pick this up again
when I get back.

I owe you for the last session too.

And maybe I should pay
for the sessions I’ll be missing.

That’s not necessary.

And I’ll keep your time slot
for next week.

Whatever happens
in the next days or weeks,

you can call me, at any time.

Thank you, Doctor.

For everything you’ve done for me.
I know it hasn’t been easy.

I wish you a Merry Christmas,
and I hope things work out for you.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Merry Christmas to you too.