Something very special happens every evening in Algiers. As the light begins to fade, Alger la blanche changes colour. Twilight turns the white facades of the city's buildings an intense, dusty blue and their ornate wrought iron balconies a deep indigo. As the pace of the frenetic city slows, the feeling is at once reflective and calm, nostalgic even. Walking through Place Audin one evening, as the hues began imperceptibly to transform, I saw two blue-clad policemen flag down a passing car, ostensibly to check the driver's papers, but possibly just to ogle at the rarity: a beautiful sea green 1967 Peugeot 404 in immaculate condition, complete with whitewall tyres and shining chrome details. While they exchanged pleasantries with the middle-aged driver, complimenting him on his classic, I began to notice that heads were turning. Women passed by with the same knowing smile that accompanied the commonly used phrase ‘kī kānet ddunya dunya’ [when everything was as it should be], and a group of teenagers nudged each other and pointed, saying, ‘chēbba, chrīkī!’ [cool, man]. A van pulled over in front of the car, and two bearded Islamists got out to shake the driver's hand, all smiles and declarations of ‘mā chā’ Llāh’. A small group of old men sitting on a bench overlooking the square began to nod and reminisce, one declaring, ‘Eh oui, c’était l’époque ou on pensait qu'on allait s'en sortir’ [That was back when we thought we were going to make it]. Something about relationships to the past, present and future was clearly being triggered by the appearance of this relic, producing different but related reactions among diverse groups of people. If only for a fleeting moment and within a diminutive space, a deeply divided, wounded and fragmented society seemed to be in agreement on something, perhaps even briefly at peace with itself in the soothing light of approaching dusk.

This scene underscores some of the central issues emerging from social memories of the recent past in Algeria.