In the shadow of the Eiffel Tower's distant glow, amid the intellectual buzz of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, 73-year-old Ali Akbar remains a living relic of a bygone era, the last newspaper hawker peddling dailies with a theatrical flair that has captivated Parisians for over five decades. Each afternoon, from 3 PM to 10 PM, the slim, bespectacled figure in his blue work jacket and Gavroche cap weaves through Left Bank cafes, bellowing inventive headlines that blend satire with street poetry: "France is getting better!" or "(Eric) Zemmour has converted to Islam!"—a cheeky nod to the 2022 far-right presidential contender.
What began as a survival tactic in the 1970s has evolved into a cultural phenomenon, drawing amused glances from locals and queries from tourists: "Where's Ali today?" as noted by longtime acquaintance Amina Qissi, a 20-year restaurant veteran who calls him a "neighborhood legend." Now, in a poetic twist, French President Emmanuel Macron—who once bought papers from Akbar as a Sciences Po student—has vowed to knight him with the prestigious Ordre National du Mérite in September 2025, honoring his "dedicated service to France" and contributions to the city's vibrant cultural tapestry.
Akbar's journey to this accolade is a tapestry of grit and reinvention, far removed from the poverty-stricken villages of Pakistan where he was born in the early 1950s. Arriving in France at age 20 in 1973, fleeing economic hardship to support his family back home, he first toiled as a sailor on rough seas and then as a dishwasher in Rouen's gritty kitchens. Fate intervened in Paris when he serendipitously encountered Georges Bernier, the irreverent humorist known as Professeur Choron, who handed him bundles of satirical rags like Hara-Kiri and the nascent Charlie Hebdo—icons of French irreverence that would shape his hawking style.
Life's tempests followed: bouts of homelessness, brutal attacks on the streets, and the soul-crushing weight of extreme poverty that once left him questioning his resolve. Yet, Akbar endured, channeling his pains into persistence. "I've worked hard; that's my courage," he reflected humbly, dismissing the honor as "antiseptic on my wounds" in a heartfelt chat with his youngest son, Shahab. Today, on a modest 1,000-euro monthly pension, he sells primarily copies of Le Monde, averaging just 30 per day—a stark drop from the 150-200 of his heyday—yet vows, "As long as I've got the energy, I'll keep going. I'll work until I die," with his trademark wry grin.
The evolution of Akbar's craft mirrors Paris's own metamorphosis from post-war bohemia to digital dazzle. In the 1970s, when the city teemed with about 40 itinerant hawkers stationed at metro entrances, Akbar opted for mobility, staking his claim in the affordable, student-saturated Latin Quarter and rue Saint-Guillaume opposite the elite Sciences Po. There, amid cheap eats and fervent debates, he honed his French through banter with future luminaries like ex-Prime Minister Édouard Philippe and assorted ministers-to-be, turning transactions into linguistic lessons.
By the 1980s, sensing the tide of declining print sales, he pioneered "sensational" headlines—not for deceit, but delight: "I want people to live happily. I do it to create a good mood, that's all." This alchemy of humor and hustle not only sustained him but elevated him to folk-hero status, his voice a sonic bookmark in the quartier's memory. Patrons like 36-year-old Amel Ghali hail him as "inspiring," a rare analog soul in an era of scrolling feeds, lamenting that "our children won't experience the pleasure of reading a newspaper with a coffee."
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As the digital deluge erodes his trade—"Everything is such a mess," he sighs, struggling for fresh quips—Akbar's legacy endures through family and fame. Father to five, including the proud Shahab, who meticulously archives global profiles from BBC to Reuters chronicling his dad's exploits, Akbar embodies immigrant tenacity that transcends borders. His impending knighthood, announced in August 2025, isn't mere ceremony; it's validation of a life where humor mended hardships, and headlines healed divides.
In Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where even the walls whisper his name, Ali Akbar isn't just selling papers—he's vending joy, one invented scoop at a time, ensuring that in Paris's heart, the human story always makes the front page.
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