Jean-Baptiste Alaize

Jean-Baptiste Alaize (born 10 May 1991) is a French athlete with an amputated tibia, who specialises in sprint and long jump. He represented France at the Paralympic Games in 2012 and 2016. Quotes Try getting around Paris in a wheelchair. Impossible! We all have some kind of handicap. Mine is my leg. But for me it’s not a handicap, because I do what I want in my life. If I want to play football, I play football; skating, I go skating; snowboarding… and when I want to jump far, I jump far. A handicap is something that stops you from doing what you want… but not me. I’m not handicapped. Everything is OK for me, because I feel good in my head. We are all superheroes because we have all experienced tragedy, we have all lived through something that should not have allowed us to succeed, and that is our strength. We are trying to save the world. They don’t take me seriously in France, and I don’t know why. After all, I’m French and I have done some good things for France in athletics, but nobody seems interested. Nobody has called me to congratulate me over the Netflix film – not even French journalists want to write about it. I can only think it’s jealousy. France portrays itself as a country of liberty, equality and fraternity, but everyone is put in a box: there’s a box for whites, for blacks, for Arabs, for Jews. Where’s the equality in that? It’s 2020 and there’s still a lot of racism in France, but nobody talks about it. Nobody expected this. If they had, maybe we would have been better prepared, but everything was good between us Tutsis and Hutus. These were people that came to the house to eat every day, even the day before, and who knew my parents well. When we saw they wanted to kill us we were in shock. The men arrived in the afternoon. They were making a lot of noise and I remember they had machetes and spears and other arms. We realised they weren’t happy about something, but we were playing and didn’t pay much attention, even when they said they were going to kill everyone that evening. Three hours later, at 8pm, they came back. We heard lots of shouting and screaming and saw houses on fire and people everywhere. Suddenly they were doing what they said they’d do, killing everyone. Maman had me in her arms and she was running but we didn’t make it very far; barely 30 metres. Five or six men surrounded us. They stabbed Maman in the stomach. Then, before my eyes, they cut off her head. They deliberately wanted me to see this, but I was little, I didn’t understand, I was crying and screaming. It was horrible. I was very close to my mother, as the baby of the family I was with her all the time. I threw myself on her body, not understanding what had happened, and the men turned on me. They cut me with the machete on my arm behind my head, my back and my leg; they kicked me too. Then they left, thinking I was dead. I threw myself at my mother, but when I saw she had no head I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to hide. I wanted help. There was so much blood. At that moment, I saw this tunnel and the light coming nearer and it was so beautiful, and I felt strangely content. Then I woke up and was in hospital and they had amputated my leg. For many years I saw it as an abandonment, because I didn’t understand why. Every day I thought I would see my real father, but no. Now, at 29, I think I understand: he couldn’t say he was sending me away for a better life, so he preferred to lie. He arrived with a pair of trainers and it was such a strong moment. From three to six years old I didn’t see anyone in my family. My real father had abandoned me and I’d lost all sense of love. I didn’t think it was possible to find a person who would love me. My father said: ‘You will go to France and we’ll get you a new leg.’ I didn’t even know where France was, and I didn’t understand, as I didn’t speak French. Every evening there was shooting outside near the orphanage, and we were both afraid. He took a great risk for me. He was ready to do anything for me, but at first I was afraid of him, because I had never seen a white person before. We have fairytales like you, except in yours the blacks are the cannibals and in ours the white people eat the black children. He was not just a foreigner, he was an extraterrestrial. I could never have imagined someone like him, so full of love, so full of opportunities, would come to look for me, but he did. I was not a normal child. I was traumatised from the war, I had had no mother’s love, I didn’t always behave well. But my parents gave me everything I had lost: love and self-confidence. I was still having nightmares. Each time I closed my eyes, I had a flashback and saw the killing of my real mother and the attack on me. For years I would try to sleep, but it was impossible, I couldn’t get over it. My mother, who was a nurse, gave up her job to help me. She would stay up all the night at my bedside. In the village there were just two of us, my brother and me, who were black. It was difficult… when something bad happened, locals would say: ‘Oh, it’s those little blacks from the Alaize family.’ In secondary school I was called a negro, bamboula [a primitive drum], or worse, a dirty cripple or a monkey. For a long time I hid my handicap, because I don’t want to add to my problems. But I had to adapt, and I did so by showing people I was normal. I couldn’t do anything about my colour, but I could be good at sport. I was in our class relay team and they asked me to be the last runner. It was such a responsibility. We were last, but I ran like an arrow, caught up everyone, and we won. Nobody knew I had a prosthetic, and I had beaten people who were normal. I was so happy. He said: ‘Look, he has a handicap, he has only one leg and voila! He still won you the race. You should respect him; he is black and handicapped, don’t judge him or push him to one side. I’d wanted him to be discreet, but actually it was a strong message and as if a barrier had been opened. Suddenly my classmates knew I was different, but despite that difference I could run fast, I was good at heart and I could be like everyone else. I was around 13 or 14 and still having nightmares, but after the first training session I felt so good. When I tried to sleep that night I felt a sense of peace. I had never slept so quickly since the crime. I had found the one thing that would change everything. My prosthetic specialist brought out a blade costing €15,000. I said: ‘Can I just try it? It’s not like I’m going to have a career as a world champion or anything like that, but I’d like to just try it on like a pair of shoes. I loved it. It was the first time I had seen so many handicapped athletes competing against each other. I loved the fact we were all in the same races, and I came home with three silver medals. What I am missing is an Olympic medal. Tokyo was my dream, probably my last chance because of my age. I had everything planned… it’s almost my dream that’s been crushed. Tomorrow is a new day. That’s my philosophy. I just want to try to be the best I can as a person and in sport. I’ll seize any opportunity. My brother [Julien] is a Hutu and he also suffered in a different way. These were tough guys, people who had killed their wives or children. I know it’s difficult to change people for the better, but I tried, and they said I was an inspiration. I hate to say it, but after what happened to me, I could have detested the world, I could have been bad or violent, killed people, been a big gangster, but the love and guidance my family gave me allowed me to choose the path of freedom. I run to escape the people who wanted to kill me. All my life I have the impression I am a target, but it doesn’t stop me. I never give up. When I fall, I get up; if I fall again, I get up again, and that is my strength, That’s the message I wish for everyone to know; that if you really want something you can get it. Me, I run for my life. I run to survive. That is my destiny. My story is sad, but it has a happy ending. Jean-Baptiste Alaize: 'I run to survive. That is my destiny', August 16 2020 For a long time, I had these nightmares. I relived the scene where those men executed my mother; the moment when, before my very eyes, they cut off her head. Athletics cured me of that. My leg injury was too severe; I had to have it amputated. My father placed me there, supposedly while I waited for a prosthesis. He was supposed to come back for me, but I later realized he had abandoned me. They had been trying to adopt me for years; when they learned I was a seven-year-old boy missing a leg, they didn’t hesitate, they took me in as I was. My new dad came to the orphanage, despite the dangers of war, with gifts, toy cars, and a pair of Converse sneakers… and above all, lots of love. He also brought me crutches, real ones, not the wooden ones I had back then. Our parents didn't choose our origins: he's Rwandan and Hutu, I'm Tutsi—it's quite a strange twist of fate!" A few months after his arrival, Jean-Baptiste was fitted with a prosthesis. On one leg, I was alive, I did everything like everyone else: cycling, playing football. The day my parents gave me a second leg, I ran everywhere. That feeling of freedom was the greatest gift they could have given me. They were organizing Olympic-style events, I participated in the relay, and when I took the baton, we were in third place and we won. That's the day most of my classmates discovered I had a prosthesis. My brother and I were the only Africans there, and we weren't exactly welcome. I was Black, and I didn't want to have to show that I was disabled on top of everything else. These podium finishes are a form of revenge. I went through some horrible things, but life gave me a second chance. I always said I would return to Burundi when I was someone, so I wouldn't arrive empty-handed. I went there in 2013, after the London Paralympic Games. I reunited with my sisters and visited my childhood village. I wanted to know the truth, to be certain that all those scenes I remembered were real. Last summer, I organized the Great Lakes Friendship Games there with Peace and Sport, bringing together young people from Burundi, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and Rwanda. The idea was to show these children that, even though we are Hutu and Tutsi, we can live together. Time has passed, and now I no longer harbor hatred. In France, we are lucky enough to be able to play sports; we are even going to host the Olympic and Paralympic Games. Thanks to sports, I have met some wonderful people. Going to the Élysée Palace and being received by President François Hollande was something special. My life is in France now. My sisters in Burundi know that I do athletics but don't know what it represents. With what I experienced as a child, I could have easily turned to violence and delinquency. Thanks to sports, I've taken the right path. Jean-Baptiste Alaize: "My new parents accepted me as I was.", December 26 2017 External links Category:1991 births Category:Track and field athletes Category:Living people Category:Sportspeople from France Category:Disabled people