"The U.S. is huge." This is one of the first things I tried to explain to my students back in the beginning of October when I started teaching here, but I'm not sure I fully understood it until now.
When a massive act of violence or tragedy strikes in the United States, it's more often than not physically very far removed from where you live. You can empathize with victims, with their families, with the people in their hometown; you can post in solidarity on social media; but you can still get up and go about your everyday life without too much disturbance. Even non-terrorist gun violence can be swept under the rug until you personally know someone who has been affected by it.
I researched American gun control (or lack thereof) a handful of times in both high school and college, and have tried to be conscious of the issue ever since. But these past couple of days in France have made me realize how desensitized I still am. My first thoughts were taken up with processing how horrible the situation was: worrying about my beautiful but superficial memories of first seeing Sacre-Coeur and the Eiffel Tower; but my next thoughts reminded me that I could name several deadlier American school shootings alone. While American news giants obsess over the "terrorist" element of the attacks, it's the guns themselves that have many French people stunned. There is no "but - what - if - every - citizen - in - a - fifty - mile - range - had - had - a - gun - for - protection? - it - could - have - been - stopped" mentality. Shootings are not normal here.
Shootings should not be normal anywhere.
This morning, I started teaching a new class - the equivalent of 11th graders, who are studying to be cooks. I asked, "How are you?" and instead of the usual "Fine, how are you?", I got a different response from one boy: "Bad." I asked why. He struggled for a bit before expressing, "Because I'm scared."
When I first heard of the attacks yesterday, I was scared too. In France, nothing is too far from anything else (by American standards of distance), so violence feels closer to home than it would in the U.S. I thought of the very kind owner of the apartment my parents and I stayed at over Christmas, not far from the Charlie Hebdo office building in the 11th arrondissement. I thought of my friends who live in Paris. I thought of my American friends vacationing in Paris. I thought of the extended families of my students and colleagues who live in Paris. None were hurt, but some live in the neighborhood, just down the road. For them, the violence came much too close. I watched my students and colleagues in la Roche-sur-Yon watch the news coverage. For all in France, the violence came much too close. I thought of the United States. In the U.S., the violence is always much too close.
All large cities are boosting their security, including Nantes and Bordeaux; thankfully, the Vendée is a relatively safe place to be. I'm working at the high school this week. Today, the whole school gathered midday for a minute of silence. I felt numb; everyone around me felt numb. There were no tears. Classes went on, but students chanted in peaceful protest during the afternoon.
I hope that the violence in France is over. I hope that, someday, violence "in the name of religion" will end too, in all countries. I hope that, someday, the "right to have guns, just because" will no longer be valid. I hope that I can help to start that conversation. I hope that people will start seeing and reflecting on every act of violence; that at the very least people will start realizing that shootings in America by Americans might be something that can be changed, even if terrorist attacks can't be controlled. I hope that "more guns" does not become the solution to guns. I hope that brave people will continue to express themselves peacefully and without fear. I hope that people will learn to listen, not judge; listen, not kill.
I am proud to be living in France today. I am proud to be Charlie.
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| "This isn't a weapon. It's is a tool of expression." |
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