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Published: December 9th 2015
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It's been just over three weeks since the Paris attacks. In that time, I have have been reflecting on how best to discuss this tragic event. And, since what's most important isn't what happens in life, it's how we react, that is how I will convey my experience. I will tell you about the reactions of the people of Paris to the deadliest attack since World War II.
On the morning of November 14th, 2015, I made my way home after an endless nightmare. I had been stranded at a friend's apartment in the 20th arrondissement. The République metro station, where I had to change lines, was closed. So I continued south a couple more stops, then got out and walked. I was afraid to be outside. Somehow the open air seemed menacing. But I just had to see it. The city. To make sure it was all still there. And sure enough, the city still stood. I walked down Rue de Rivoli and looked up at the Tour St. Jacques. Yes, the great edifices of Paris had survived the night from hell. It was so quiet though. The streets were practically deserted. There were still some emergency
vehicles out. The few faces I did see looked unnaturally blank. Paris was in shock.
Later that day, I went to the Bataclan. Or rather, to the barrier several blocks away. The area was still closed. On the barrier an altar had formed. Flowers, notes, candles. A small crowd had gathered to pay their respects. I added my own note to the offering: "Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité. Paris, je t'aime." Other messages of solidarity, of love, and of mourning accompanied beautiful bouquets. And we stood there and paid our respects. Many cried. Friends held each other. An occasional cameraman documented the tribute.
The worst part was the commute on Monday morning. The names of most of the victims had been released on Sunday. As I sat on the unnaturally silent metro, I observed the faces around me. In their eyes I saw a deep, soul-wrenching sadness. And there was fear, too. We were all painfully aware that public transportation is an easy target. And that the terrorists who had orchestrated the attacks were still at large. For the second time in a year, this city of liberté, égalité, and fraternité had been deeply wounded. The
ship had been tossed.
That Sunday, and several times thereafter, I went to Place de la République with flowers. The monument there had been an altar to the victims for Charlie Hebdo, and overnight it had transformed into an altar for the victims of the November 13th attacks. The feeling there was twofold. Around the monument, people took turns approaching and laying down their offerings. The mood was somber. Quiet. Many people were crying. Around the monument, many different cultural groups had placed beautiful, large bouquets in support of the victims. Messages of love and support, calls for action, and condemnations of terror decorated the monument. In the days that followed, the shrine would transform as more and more people came to pay their respects. Later that week, friends and family of the victims placed photos of their loved ones, along with a short message saying good-bye.
Elsewhere in the plaza, the people of Paris expressed their solidarity, love, and joy for life. A large circle had formed around a few people giving Free Hugs. A few steps farther, a large group was singing. I caught snatches of the French national anthem and several
Beatles songs. It didn't matter what they were singing, as long as it was joyous. All around the plaza over the next few weeks, people would come to sit down with their friends. They played music. They talked about the importance of unity. They offered a few minutes of their time with the people they cared about in view of this symbol of the Republic. One night, a man offered me a glass of wine after he gave me a free hug. And we toasted humanity.
Slowly, the people of Paris took to the streets and picked up their lives. In the days following the attacks, when public demonstrations were forbidden and we were advised to stay inside, there were lines down the street to donate blood. There were gatherings at each of the shooting sites around the clock. And each night, more and more people could be seen out at cafés, defying terrorists to keep us inside. Within two weeks, the city was back. We went out on the weekends again. We lived our lives as before. The people of Paris have shed their fear and emerged with a firm resolve. Because Paris is fluctuat nec
mergitur: tossed but not sunk.
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