Sarah Giesler
Seven months ago today, France and the world watched in horror as extremists terrorized Paris. And today, two days after hearing of the attacks in Orlando, I have thought a lot about what I’ve learned in the 213 days since I learned of the Bataclan.
Throughout our trip, we have focused on the experiences of immigrants and Muslims in France, identifying with those perspectives and feeling outraged at the anti-immigrant rhetoric in France (and its mirror image in the United States).
Much of that rhetoric stems from the terror attacks here. And while we still condemn that reaction, the last 24 hours have been a sobering reminder of what happens when people feel ostracized from society.
This morning, we traveled to the Bataclan, one of the sites of the attacks in November 2015. The building was covered in scaffolding and plastic sheets, and the café in front of it was locked up, partially hidden by a tall fence; traffic barricades were set up around the area. Sounds of construction came from inside - the whir of saws and hollow drops of hammers drifted our way. Aside from the construction and coverings, it looked like a typical Parisian café and street - cute, but unremarkable.
Yet the dark windows and empty chairs seemed to scream silently of the horrors of seven months ago.
And today, as we stared into this still-open wound in Paris, those same horrors screamed at us from across the Atlantic.
We heard about the attack in Orlando last night during dinner. We had little information until we returned to the apartment, where the specifics of the attack and the accounts of the survivors - and the victims - rolled in from the US. It’s tough to be in a different country when something like this happens. As we walked around the city today, we saw electronic signs from the mayor of Paris expressing solidarity with Orlando, and I feel like a traitor, being in France rather than at home. The irony of our trip and our concerns about terrorism throughout the planning process does not escape me; as my mom texted me last night, “We worried about you in Paris, but it doesn't matter where anymore…”
Like the hearts of many, mine hurts. Just as it did after the November attacks seven months ago at the very street - the very normal, if under construction, building - that I stood across from this morning. Just as it did when I flew into Newark last week and saw One World Trade Center, remembering for a few minutes the pain of that day and the ensuing months (and years). Just as it did when Mary Claire, two others and I visited the Oklahoma City National Memorial in March, driving home from Texas. In recent months, I have seen various stages of terrorism: immediate aftermath of tragedy on the news, seven months later as construction begins, 15 years later as we defy extremism, 21 years later as we quietly reflect on the lives lost, the lessons learned.
And in the last eight days, we have thought and talked and learned a lot about what happens before all of those stages: the struggles that can sometimes lead to hatred and even extremism. This is what makes me not give into that powerful rhetoric against immigrants, against Muslims, against any given minority community that threatens the powerful status quo. When we criticize people, when we see people as “other” and give them fewer rights, when we demonize people, when we dehumanize people, we destroy the connections that make us humans together.
So in spite of the horrors in Orlando, in Paris, in New York, in Oklahoma City and in countless other places, I refuse to give into the knee-jerk hatred that could be the oh-so-easy choice. I choose to see our similarities instead of differences, to make connections rather than to back away. If I’ve learned one thing from this trip, it is the undeniable importance of our common humanity. This work of humanizing other worldviews has never seemed more important.
#JeSuisParis #LoveWins
Throughout our trip, we have focused on the experiences of immigrants and Muslims in France, identifying with those perspectives and feeling outraged at the anti-immigrant rhetoric in France (and its mirror image in the United States).
Much of that rhetoric stems from the terror attacks here. And while we still condemn that reaction, the last 24 hours have been a sobering reminder of what happens when people feel ostracized from society.
This morning, we traveled to the Bataclan, one of the sites of the attacks in November 2015. The building was covered in scaffolding and plastic sheets, and the café in front of it was locked up, partially hidden by a tall fence; traffic barricades were set up around the area. Sounds of construction came from inside - the whir of saws and hollow drops of hammers drifted our way. Aside from the construction and coverings, it looked like a typical Parisian café and street - cute, but unremarkable.
Yet the dark windows and empty chairs seemed to scream silently of the horrors of seven months ago.
And today, as we stared into this still-open wound in Paris, those same horrors screamed at us from across the Atlantic.
We heard about the attack in Orlando last night during dinner. We had little information until we returned to the apartment, where the specifics of the attack and the accounts of the survivors - and the victims - rolled in from the US. It’s tough to be in a different country when something like this happens. As we walked around the city today, we saw electronic signs from the mayor of Paris expressing solidarity with Orlando, and I feel like a traitor, being in France rather than at home. The irony of our trip and our concerns about terrorism throughout the planning process does not escape me; as my mom texted me last night, “We worried about you in Paris, but it doesn't matter where anymore…”
Like the hearts of many, mine hurts. Just as it did after the November attacks seven months ago at the very street - the very normal, if under construction, building - that I stood across from this morning. Just as it did when I flew into Newark last week and saw One World Trade Center, remembering for a few minutes the pain of that day and the ensuing months (and years). Just as it did when Mary Claire, two others and I visited the Oklahoma City National Memorial in March, driving home from Texas. In recent months, I have seen various stages of terrorism: immediate aftermath of tragedy on the news, seven months later as construction begins, 15 years later as we defy extremism, 21 years later as we quietly reflect on the lives lost, the lessons learned.
And in the last eight days, we have thought and talked and learned a lot about what happens before all of those stages: the struggles that can sometimes lead to hatred and even extremism. This is what makes me not give into that powerful rhetoric against immigrants, against Muslims, against any given minority community that threatens the powerful status quo. When we criticize people, when we see people as “other” and give them fewer rights, when we demonize people, when we dehumanize people, we destroy the connections that make us humans together.
So in spite of the horrors in Orlando, in Paris, in New York, in Oklahoma City and in countless other places, I refuse to give into the knee-jerk hatred that could be the oh-so-easy choice. I choose to see our similarities instead of differences, to make connections rather than to back away. If I’ve learned one thing from this trip, it is the undeniable importance of our common humanity. This work of humanizing other worldviews has never seemed more important.
#JeSuisParis #LoveWins