On Jan. 7, 2015, twelve people were killed in Paris when Islamic extremists responded violently to a depiction of Muhammad by French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo. The attack was profoundly jarring for the French people, and there was an outpouring of international support. I remember watching the news, sympathetic for the victims of this terrifying crime and confounded that exercising our right to freedoms of expression could prove life-threatening. And I remember my mother, who like most mothers is genetically predisposed to watching threats on the news and creating a worst-case-scenario for her family, eyed my packed bags at the foot of the stairs and shook her head slowly.
On Jan. 10, I moved to Paris. The plane touched down on the runway at Roissy early Sunday morning, and it all felt incredibly surreal. I had never been to Paris before, but my first impression did not feel tainted by tragedy, it felt enriched by French fraternité. Les manifestations that had been happening across the city in response to the Hebdo attacks culminated that Sunday in a demonstration of one and a half million people. Our program orientation had a heavy security focus, and also a discussion of the recent events so that we could process the information and feel in solidarity with and protected by our French neighbors. Tourist attractions and neighborhoods like le Marais (the oldest and historically Jewish quarter in Paris) were brimming with armed French officers. I had never seen stationed policemen carry guns so big. Friends of mine mentioned feeling overwhelmed by the added security measures, but I felt safe, and I also felt a sort of pride in seeing this group of people recover, take extra precaution to care for and protect each other and move on with their lives.
Being in Paris in the early weeks after Charlie Hebdo was also a unique push and pull for me; my professors wanted to talk about the attacks, and they voiced the French expectation of solidarity from all Americans since France stood with the United States on 9/11. Onze janvier, the day of the manifestations, came up many times in discussions at school as an adaptation of onze septembre, and amongst a room of American abroad students, this always felt slightly tense. I am a New Yorker. I remember the astounding boom, our school evacuation, the smoke and debris in the air and the incredible tragedy. Thus, though the Hebdo attack was horrendous and devastating, I found it difficult to corroborate the comparison during this recurring dialogue in the immediate aftermath.
Nevertheless, I fell for Paris quickly. It was not awe-inspiring and romantic in the ways I anticipated — it simply felt like home. The city is beautiful, and its people were a perfect conglomerate of fast-paced and carefree. I loved the atmosphere, I loved their love for coffee, cheese, and wine. I loved how Paris had a constant pulse.
When I first saw the Eiffel Tower sparkle for the first five minutes of an hour, I was sitting at Trocadero with some friends, a bottle of Merlot, and a round of brie. We were among hundreds of other ogling individuals. I had that inexplicable feeling of pride, the kind you get when you’re overwhelmed by the camaraderie you’re feeling for friends and strangers alike. It’s a sort of pride that strikes you when you realize you’re part of something larger than yourself, and when you realize that all the people you pass have lives and experiences you’ll never know specifically, but that when humanity is challenged, you all have an immediate and unconditional connection. Though I have no doubt this sense of community exists in Paris without the catalyst of tragedy as well, the magic I felt that night exemplified the power of human resilience. •
