Editors Note: John Sargent is a junior studying abroad in Paris, France during the Fall 2015 semester.
The clock on my phone read 4:34 A.M. as I laid down on the stiff wooden floor and balled up bath towels that served as my night’s bedding. Outside, the sirens continued to blare, and my mind was forced to consider the unimaginable as I faded into the fidgeting half-sleep that always seems to come after deep fear or deep confusion. The evening had begun as simply as any other; we were headed over to another friend’s apartment in the 7th arrondissement for drinks before lighting out on the metro for a night of exploring and laughter. Like I said, simple.
So, when the news came that someone had been shot right by our destination, we thought nothing of it. Tragic? Yes. Alarming? Not really. Paris was a city just like New York or Chicago, a place susceptible to random, albeit upsetting, acts of violence, so we decided to carry on with our night. The music was turned back up and the wine was passed around, and before we knew it, the seemingly unnecessary news was lost in the warmth of the company. However, as we motioned towards the door and put our coats on to catch the metro, more news came. But this time, the details were clearer.
“Dozens dead in mass shooting,” my friend read aloud as we stood in the hallway of her building, our mouths twisted into awkward smiles of disbelief. What followed, and what ended up dominating the next ten hours in the apartment as we decided to stay in, was a mixture of confusion, fear, speculation and anxiety. All we had to cling to were our phones for information. As news of the attacks spread, we were soon inundated with texts and calls from friends and family members asking if we were okay. Beyond this, our contact with the attacks were minimal. We were safe, warm, with good friends and completely protected in the apartment, sheltered, from the on going bloodshed and loss.
Still, despite our extreme luck to be in a safe space, away from the areas of conflict, we could not help but get sucked into the drama that was unfolding on the screens in front of us. We were left helpless in the hands of the media, our only source on the rapidly updated news that spoke of a higher and higher death toll. Needless the say, any form of comfort that was experienced before watching the news was quickly washed away.
Our experience was pretty much the standard for most students I knew in Paris on the night of the attacks. Things progressing easily, some minor fear in the beginning, but nothing no news was substantial enough to change their minds about the night; that is, until the violence continued. At this point, a world of fear gripped the onlookers through their screens, the only reliable flow of information coming from headlines and Tweets.
“I just didn’t believe what I was hearing,” said my roommate, Justin, a student at the New School in New York City and a member of my abroad program. “I just remember feeling as if I was suddenly alone.” Justin was lucky enough to have been traveling outside of France that night, but he says that his fear was almost stronger than if he were there to experience it. “The second anything like that happens and you aren’t around, you immediately imagine all of your friends or people you know who are potentially in a situation where they could get hurt. It’s the not knowing that is the worst. I can honestly say that, in my position, I was extremely lucky. I was physically distanced from the attacks themselves, but that didn’t mean I felt safe.”
The sensation that Justin describes was felt across the board for those not in Paris that night. They say it was so difficult not having direct access to the city itself. In my situation, I was ironically very lucky. I was with all of my friends in a protected area nearly 20 minutes away from where the violence was occurring, so I had the privilege to just wait it out with peace of mind knowing those I cared about were safe.
Yet, this being said, the true strangeness and gravity of the tragedy for those in Paris would come later, when in the light of day we could see the effect these actions had on a city of nearly three million.
After waking up on the floor of a friend’s apartment around 10 a.m., my friends and I decided as a collective that it was finally safe to go back to my apartment. The night had been long and uncomfortable, but we were just glad that it was over. We expected things to carry on as usual and the city to quickly rebound. We were wrong
What struck me first was the silence. Paris on a Saturday afternoon, even in the morning, and especially in the area we were in, should be anything but quiet. We should have been met with the whine of mopeds and the chattering from corner cafes. Instead, the streets were deserted, and a wispy fog had descended across the river. The only light coming through the film of clouds above us was the mottled glow of a distant sun. Even the metro, usually packed and annoyingly busy on such a morning, was devoid of people.
It was at this moment and during the following days that the true weight of what had happened really began to sink in. At first, after watching the news, I felt sad and a bit frightened; yet, in the end, what truly touched me and my friends was the general air: Paris was in mourning.
Museums were closed, along with various shops and boutiques.
The armed personnel that flooded the streets per order of President François Hollande made it feel as if Paris were under occupation. There was even a momentary curfew put in place the night of the attacks, one of the first since 1944. What all of this produced was a sense of distress, a feeling of deep anxiety that permeated the usually jovial glow of such a fantastic city. People walked tall with their heads high, but there still lingered within their eyes a distant unease. For just a moment, despite the international and domestic support, Paris was defeated. It was a sensation that hung languid in the air.
It is strange for me to think about how much can be stirred up and thrown into chaos in such a small amount of time. I often think of wars or mass tragedy as something in capital letters, pieces of profound history that are swaddled in the pages of textbooks and newspapers. But I forget that sometimes the most horrifying events can be set off by small scale acts of hatred. Even though I wasn’t a victim and I didn’t know anyone harmed in the attacks, I still felt assaulted, defeated, along with the Parisian citizens.
I was excited to show off my new home to my two friends visiting from Barcelona and Prague. Paris had evolved for me in those first few months to something beyond a city on a postcard or the backdrop of a movie. It had flowered into something bolder, more tangible, a place that I could touch and experience and get lost in. It was as if I was adopted by the cobblestone streets and heavy marble facades. I felt at ease and welcomed.
So, now, when I read headlines about how what happened on the night of Nov. 13 has sparked worldwide trauma and produced volatile political conditions across Europe and the Middle East, I am saddened. I remember that even beyond the international implications that such terrorism had, at its core, it was just senseless violence against innocent people. These people who ventured out into Paris to get a drink, catch up with friends or attend a music event featuring their favorite band. To those victims and their families, the global unrest must feel insignificant in the wake of such loss.
In the end, I think what needs to be remembered beyond the faceless headlines and body counts of any global tragedy, whether it be Paris or Beirut, is that within those numbers and statistics exist names and families. We must do our best to focus on those who weren’t lucky enough to say, “I wasn’t there.” •
