Living in Paris with Today's Terrorism

There was a shooting today in Paris. Twelve people died, among them prominent journalists and cartoonists. Two were police officers. It was a planned massacre, targeting a satirical magazine that publishes irreverent images, offending those with extremist beliefs. You can read more accurate information about the event and the magazine Charlie Hebdo here. I can really only share my take.

I learned about the shooting just after lunch, when a colleague told me to check the news. I saw the headline “Terror in Paris” on cnn’s homepage and felt confused since I just returned from a normal, uneventful meal on one of the city’s busiest streets, and nothing like “terror” crossed my mind.

What the hell? Why hadn’t there been screaming and shouting? Why were people out shopping, eating, laughing? Did they not know what had happened either? The lack of concern upset me. I clearly remember 9/11 (I was wearing pigtails and those terrible overalls that weren’t even cool then) and our teachers wheeled in televisions and we all watched in silence, not really sure what was happening. I was young, but even though I was hundreds of miles away it still felt very close and I just wanted to be next to my mom (she happened to teach in the same building… so that was convenient). I understand today’s events are not quite the same scale. And yet, it was an attack on freedom of speech and that is something very close at heart. How come here in Paris, where I work in the city center just minutes away from major sites, I had to go online to find out that the country’s biggest terrorist attack in decades had just occurred only 3 kilometers away?

"Je Suis Charlie"

There was no announcement at work, no discussion about what was going on, and how and if this could possibly affect us.  My first thought was “told you so” about the incompetent French police force in their berets for letting the gunmen get away. Then back to, why hadn’t we stopped working? Sure, none of us were directly affected and if we let every disaster in the world lead to a moment of silence, a word would never be spoken.

But a publication was attacked today for expressing (some could say in a distasteful way) a perspective. An idea. A cartoon. A story. A joke. I have worked on editorial staffs and never written anything worth getting shot over (except maybe for being so awfully boring), and so I cannot say I’ve felt the risks as those at the magazine (who had previously received threats). But the thought of fearing for your life for an idea, for working or interning to realize that idea, even cleaning the floors of the rooms where those ideas are being created… this is so fundamentally against what I, an outspoken blabbermouth, a writer, and an American, believe in.

Further updates in the story revealed that the gunmen parked their car and hijacked another just five blocks away from where I live. To be honest it made me nervous and I thought about where I’d hide in my apartment if they came in or if I’d run or try some kind of Kung Fu and then I felt stupid and embarrassed for thinking about trying martial arts against a man with a military gun when I can’t even do a pushup. Then I thought I’d go home and do some pushups.

Instead, I went to Place de République, where they were holding a rally to commemorate those killed and to stand up for “liberté d’expression.” There were hundreds, maybe thousands gathered around (and climbing on) the Statue de la République, holding candles and signs reading “Je suis Charlie,” or I am Charlie (for the name of the magazine). I would be lying to say I was moved by the experience. If felt a bit underwhelming, that the teens screaming “we need you Charlie!” were just there for attention and most of them were white and the whole thing felt stilted. It could have been the people laughing and drinking beer next to me, or maybe my paranoia that someone would start shooting, but I just wanted to get away as quickly as possible.

 I walked home with my friend who shared his experiences in London riots and I realized I’ve never actively been, or wanted to be involved in, any serious protests. I watched “The Interview” last week and couldn’t help but wonder if the North Korean government would ever find out and target me (I didn’t enjoy it, I swear!). My mother taught me the gift of paranoia. I’m sure I would have marched for Ferguson if I were in the US, but Chicago gets cold in December and I might have called it quits after hours of nothing spectacular. I don’t know. Maybe it’s weak to be uninvolved, to be scared. Even if I’m too pathetic to do a pushup, I should at least defend these beliefs with a more powerful tool, words. But then again words and pictures can get you killed too.  

Not sure how to round this one up, as it’s late and I’m jetlagged and I’m taking public transportation tomorrow morning to possibly the most populated metro stop in the city. I’m not too concerned, but surprised people around me aren’t more. Maybe it’s something to do with growing up in a country with guns and school shooting drills and hate crimes and inequality constantly on the radar. Maybe that’s why I choose to write about my mom’s pumpkin bread, or stepping in dog shit instead.  I don’t know. I know that what happened today was wrong and disturbing and tragic but there’s many sides to every story, and this is just mine. But I’d like to know more.