Stephanie Novak • France
It’s impossible to go to Paris and avoid the métro. Quick, convenient and affordable transportation moves everyone, from tourists to residents, around the city. Therefore, I couldn’t help but post about my daily commute, especially since living in the 12th arrondissement for the past two weeks meant that every morning around 8 am I joined Parisians on their way to work for a solid 45 minutes of métro time, leaving me plenty of time to get to know Paris’ public transportation. Here’s the top ten fun and quirky things about Paris’ famed métro system:
1. When you’re running late, it’s always the métro’s fault, even if you avoided it and walked to your destination (“I would have had to change lines 5 times! So I had to walk…”)
2. The uniqueness of the different stops, from the old, illuminated lights of Cité, the the Declaration of the Rights of Man at Concorde, to the 5 million stairs out of Abesses to Montmartre.
3. People watching well-dressed Parisians on their way to work, play, anywhere really.
4. Knowing that there is a métro stop within 400 meters of any point in the city when your feet just refuse to walk down another cobblestone street.
5. Watching people try to illegally hop over the turnstile only to get caught in the métro entrance as the door closes on them.
6. Commiserating with your fellow métro riders during the cramped morning commute…
7. …and getting a smile and an “au revoir” from the very cute French guy who you’ve been rolling your eyes with during the past six stops of being cramped together like sardines.
8. Feeling like a real Parisian with a Navigo unlimited métro pass.
9. Groaning about strikes, but feeling a sense of solidarity with your fellow commuters who will valiantly walk an hour to work in order to support the right to express yourself by striking.
10. Learning that the company that first built the Paris métro (La Compagnie du Chemin de Fer Métropolitain de Paris) is the namesake of the work “métro”, and why “métro” is a worldwide word meaning “underground subway system.”
While we’ve heard from a lot of veterans of journalism throughout the week, even those familiar with the old print model of journalism can’t avoid the topic of social media. As I blog for The 195 and followed the role of social media in the revolutions in the Middle East, I’ve generally considered social media in a relatively positive light. Not hard-hitting journalism, for sure, but an interesting and sometimes entertaining way to have a more universalized freedom of the press.
Notice how I said “entertaining”.
It seems obvious, but while social media has a lot of positive qualities, its also distracting, and, according to one of our speakers, remarkable in its ability to distribute opinions, solidify people in their own belief systems, and turn these opinions into facts and breaking news. Our generation lives in an era where we receive news as it happens, usually in short, convenient clips that get us the information we need instantly. If a golden rule of journalism is, as our speaker said, to “only believe what you can see, and then only believe half of that,” opinions and instantaneous tweets can make former war correspondents like our speaker cringe.
Conversely, social media’s ability to get people’s opinions to a wide, global audience with little to no review by an outside source can also be the very thing that provides it with legitimacy. Especially in countries where the media is often controlled by the government, and freedom of the press is largely nonexistent, hearing reports or opinions sent out via mobile phones from civilians not restricted by the editorial limitations of journalists can give validity to social media and make it the best place to discover the truth behind reports claiming to provide the facts of precarious global events.
I’m thus left seeing the positives and negatives of the medium that has been the catalyst of my pursuit of a career in journalism. While social media is clearly not going away, and is, in fact, growing every day, it is something that my generation must approach with caution. An increased reliance on instantaneous news can reflect a somewhat lack of philosophical engagement with the world, always seeking the most up-to-date news means that we have less time to reflect upon the implications of important events, and we do have a somewhat decreased ability to focus on longer, more in-depth articles. Regardless, social media still serves as an essential tool for communication, and can get both critical and interesting information across the globe in seconds. Like all progress and innovation, social media is neither solely positive or negative. Rather, it is multifaceted, something we’ll have to regard critically in order to make it an effective tool of communication. Traditional media isn’t going away either, rather it’s adapting to a new form, another thing that makes journalism such an exciting field right now.
Along with being a romanticized, incredible city, Paris is also an epicenter of news and vibrant life. The current situation in Libya and across the Middle East are directly affecting journalists in Paris, as well as France itself. I spent my past Thursday morning in the 11th, 19th and 20th arrondissements, in a neighborhood known as Belleville. Its farther from central Paris, which is home to many of Paris’ famous monuments and where I observed a more stereotypical “Parisian” way of life. While in the 5th, 6th and 7th arrondissements, where I lived this fall, well-dressed Parisians walk down streets lined with designer boutiques. In the Belleville area, the air is vibrant with the ethnic flavor of France. Hijabs and Arabic percolate the open air markets next to the métro stop Couronnes, whereas Chinese and Asian Food Markets dominate the nearby 13th arrondissement.
Its neighborhoods like this that tie France to the Middle East in a way that surpasses international politics. During French classes at Sciences Po, we learned about the large North African population that has emigrated to Paris, settling in the neighborhood where I stopped for an espresso in a café where Arabic, not French, was the dominant language.
Sunday night Christian Malard, a noted French reporter currently covering Libya, came to speak to our program during our welcome dinner in order to share his extensive knowledge about international affairs. We talked about the clash of ideals between the Western world – France, Great Britain, the US, and most of Western Europe – and the Arab world. Mr. Malard will be watching with trepidation, he told us, as two major belief systems confront each other, especially now that France has sent troops to aid civilians in Libya.
I’m interested to see what will happen in this clash of ideals, which will obviously have worldwide consequences. As Mr. Malard said, we may be witnessing the culmination of the discord between the major philosophical ideals of the West and the Middle East. While relations are sure to change between these two corners of the world, these rebellions will also change the way that Western nations relate to each other, as President Obama is hesitant to engage more US troops in the Middle East, whereas President Sarkozy was one of the first leaders to send forces to Libya.
According to Mr. Malard, Libya was an opportunity for Sarkozy to change his image in the eyes of the French population, and even in the global arena, for taking a stand in Libya in contrast with the lack of engagement he has previously shown regarding foreign affairs, particularly in the Middle East. It’s a contrast to America’s current position in the Arab world, to be sure, and it will be interesting to watch not only the clash of ideals between the West and the Middle East, but also how this conflict changes relationships between Western countries, such as the U.S. and France.
I’ve lived the past several months with my feet planted in Chicago and my mind in Europe. In his book, Mountains Beyond Mountains, one of my favorite authors, Tracy Kidder describes what I see as one of the most interesting moments in the life of the story’s protagonist, Paul Farmer. Working in Haiti with another American physician, Farmer shares his love of Haiti and of its people. His colleague responds, “Not me. This was nice for a while, but I’m an American. I’m going home.” Farmer sits with this thought for a while, wondering what it means to be an American, contemplating the feeling of citizenship in his home country while living a life outside of it.
That’s how I’ve felt for the last three months.
I love the US. Its because of my country that I’ve had incredible opportunities- international travel being one of them. I’m a product of my country’s ideals in a lot of ways. America has given me a creative, “put your mind to it and you can do it” mentality, which, quite frankly, has gotten me onto the very plane from which I’m currently writing.
I’ll be blogging on the195 for the next two weeks about the challenges and excitement of going back to a place that was my home only a few months ago, but first, some background on the purpose of my trip. I’m heading to France to attend an International Media Seminar that’s co-sponsored by Northwestern and the American University in Paris, or AUP. I’m staying with my friend from my fall semester at Sciences Po, Pauline, and I can’t wait to see her and explore the 12th arrondissement, a part of Paris that’s a bit new to me, having lived in the 5th during my semester abroad.
I’ve been everything from exited and in shock that Northwestern is sending me back to Paris for two weeks, to frazzled and busy balancing classes, booking flights, sending in expense reports and planning for the trip. I’ve been nervous that Paris won’t live up to the excitement I’ve put into it, and I’m nervous, but mostly incredibly excited, to see the people who were such a big part of my life three months ago.
What’s more, I’m navigating the feeling, be it a blessing or a curse, of knowing and loving two cultures. I’m not really sure what it means to be fully American anymore, much like the sentiments of Paul Farmer in Haiti, but at the same time, while I love France, I’m far from fully French. Relics of India also percolate my thoughts, frequently, as I’m living in material based societies and aware of how fortunate I am compared to some, and still sometimes have residual feelings of guilt about loving places that are indeed consumer-based. Mostly, though, I can’t wait to return to a place that feels like home to me and to solidify the cross-cultural friendships that I value so much, and that I know that I’m incredibly, incredibly fortunate to have.
“Islam, it means peace. This killing, this is not peace. Nowhere in the Qur’an does it tell me to kill. By some…ahh how do you say it in English…by something from God…”
“Divine interference?”
“Yes! By this divine interference, by this gift of God, you have been given a life, a life from God, and God, he has given me the same gift. You, me, boy, girl, we are all given this life. Why then, do I have the right to take away this gift that God has given you? Killing, this is not a religion. It is not Islam. Islam is peace. When you travel, when you leave this place, I will wish you Inshallah, it means “God willing”. I believe that God wills our paths in life, and God does not will us to be killers. I am a Muslim man and you are a Catholic, and even if you have no religion, what do you believe in your heart? Surely you must believe something, I think that you believe the same sentiment as I do in God”.
Peace, was the same sentiment. All four of us believed in peace. Islam is peace.
“But then”, my friend asked Hassan, “what do you say to the extremists in Afghanistan? Those who are declaring war and killing Americans in the name of the jihad?”
“Listen my friend,” he responded, “nowhere in the Qur’an does it say that jihad means that we must kill. These extremists fight in the name of Islam, but that is not the purpose of the jihad, of the holy war. Our religion is not one in which we must preserve it and spread it at the expense of killing others. To you I say this is not Islam, this is not a religion, it is nothing…”
If the one common thread that unites us is humanity, then here in the High Atlas mountains of Morocco, as dusk creeped into darkness, I found three others who, across cultures, religions, gender, age and lifestyle, all affirmed this idea as much as I did, even Hassan, a Muslim man from Morocco.
I wish everyone could have heard the words he spoke, to see this different side of Islam. It was one of those conversations that, while its happening, you know you’ll remember for the rest of your life. Here I was, learning about Islam as a religion that people follow, a God in which people believe, not the extremism of terrorism that has become synonymous with the word ‘Muslim’. Here I heard the other side of the story. Next to me sat someone for whom the Islamic faith mean that “Allah is God and Mohammed is his prophet”, and that the Qur’an calls for peace.
“And”, Hassan interrupted my thoughts, “what do you think of Islam”?
I thought, and answered honestly, “I have friends who are Muslim, and they are some of the most wonderful people that I know”. As an unshared thought, extremists scare me, but they’re just that- extremists.
“Do you know what happened to me yesterday?” Hassan asked. “I was a guide for a girl about your age who wanted to hike through the mountains. She came and said her friends had been here yesterday and had a wonderful guide and she wanted the same one. Well, I was her friends’ guide, so I said of course, I will take you out and show you the mountains. And she was uneasy. She said I was too young, I was a boy, but eventually we went out on the trail together, and you know what she did? Halfway though, she grabs my arm like this-” Hassan grabbed my arm to demonstrate- “and sat me down and sat in front of me and said ‘What is your religion? Are you Muslim?’ I responded that yes, I practice Islam. She asked me if I had been to Mecca, other questions about Islam, like when do I pray, what is my religion about and I answered her. And do you know what she said? ‘You’re a bad man’ she told me. I was so shocked! She tells me about all of the things that she saw in Afghanistan and how people just kill, kill, kill. I stopped her and said, but wait, it is your people that are killing too, why are you coming to my country, my part of Morocco just to tell me that I am a bad person? I am not killing you…I do not believe that is right. I am not in Afghanistan and I do not believe in what they are doing, what words, what messages they say come from the Qur’an. I could not talk to her for the rest of the day and she did not talk to me. These attitudes are the ones that I do not understand” he concluded.
I didn’t understand it either, all I comprehended was false fear that had driven this girl’s words. Her reaction to a Muslim man seemed increasingly bizarre to me after yesterday, when I had been at the Peace Café in Marrakech, Morocco, a place whose owner was a Muslim man who loved America so much that he kept around a jar of American coins.
“Do you know why I have this money?” he asked us. “Its because I love America. You know, I was there when it happened, see the posters on the wall? The ones of New York? I was in New York on September 11th, and my heart broke. It made me hurt in my heart that followers of Islam had sone such a thing. I had to come back to Morocco to care for my mother and after that I could not return, but I opened this café. Its called the Peace Café- peace to remind us that that is what we need, to bring peace to Morocco, peace to America. I want you to know that you have a friend in Morocco, if anyone here gives you a hard time, come to the Peace Café and I will help you. I love your country and you are always welcome here. Take this message to America- all are welcome in Morocco”.
For some Islam means peace, for some it means extremism. The Islam that I hear about is always the latter, while the Islam I know usually is the former. If such opposite extremes exist within one religion, how is it then, that humans begin to generalize about one another, to classify, to stereotype? Where, in our long history, did we start associating people with different groups and define everyone that belonged to one of these groups as either good or bad? When did generalizations substitute for real, human contact? The more I meet people who defy stereotypes, the more I meet people with backgrounds completely different from my own, the more I believe in the idea that the only generalization we can make is that we are all human.
Sciences Po had a break called Toussaint recently- a week off that, when our long weekends were included, meant an eleven day break. I chose to travel and was lucky enough to make it to Madrid, Spain; Casablanca, Marrakech and Imlil, Morocco; and Lisbon, Portugal. I’m going to take a break from writing about my life in France and post stories from my travels for the next few days, which I’m calling “Toussaint tales”. Stay tuned, I met some pretty amazing people around the globe, and can’t wait to share their stories!
“Ah, but do not worry about the strikes, tell your parents you are not in danger, you are just in France”
-My public health professor
“Today I learned what it means to travel during a French strike”
“How did it go?”
“Terrible! But I am fierce!”
-My friend Jan
“You know it makes me so proud to see the French striking. Why don’t you have the right to strike in the United States?”
-My friend Vincent
Strikes are all we’re hearing about in France lately. This time, President Sarkozy is proposing reforms to increase the minimum retirement age to 62- two years later than the current 60. It started with the métro, and public transportation in general. The last time I was here, the Centre Pompidou, Paris’ contemporary art museum, was on strike until two days before I left, although I don’t remember why. On our public health class’ trip home from Rennes, our train was cancelled and we had to rush to catch an earlier one. Usually, strikes start out as an inconvenience or an annoyance- shutting down public transportation, or at least limiting it, sends a message when you live in a city that relies on its métro and RER. Strikes are pretty common here, they serve to prove a point and, as my professor told us during our first Parisian strike, they don’t mean that we’re in danger. Simply put, they’re more or less a way of life here, and I’ve gotten pretty used to them after a month and a half.
This time around, the strikers are getting intense, and today they even made the front page of the New York Times. Students have joined the cause, and seeing propaganda spray painted on the streets and buildings of Paris, or on the sides of cars, is becoming more and more common. In the suburbs, its growing violent, and today I heard that the violence reached Paris’ République area. The Paris police are now a common site on the streets around my house and on my walk to school, although I have yet to see any protests in action.
I find it interesting, though, that many French seem to be more or less pro-strike. I don’t mean to generalize, nor to say that all French support every strike or violence, but I’ve found the general sentiment to be in favor of the ability to publicly express distaste with the government- as Vincent said, he’s proud to see the French striking. Even more, there is generally widespread support for the cause of the strikers, even if one doesn’t support their violence.
Sarkozy doesn’t seem to be wavering on his policy, making the strike go longer than expected. We’re all waiting to see if he will push the reforms through and tarnish his political reputation, or if he’ll take the strikers’ message into account. Since our program’s midterm break starts on Friday, my fellow Sciences Po students and I are all hoping that things get resolved soon, or at the very least, that our flights aren’t cancelled.
It might be a bad sign that our French teacher heard that our flights all leave on Friday and wished us a sincere “bonne chance….” and a sympathetic look as we walked out of class today…
There’s nothing quite like coming home to a French dinner.
I’m now almost halfway through my time in Paris, and lessons that I learned in India are holding true: it takes a good month to really become assimilated in a new place. After the first month, I’ve experienced both the excitements and the challenges of this city. When I first arrived, my host sister’s wedding was right around the corner, and I met so many people I could barely keep them straight. All four of my host siblings are in their 30′s, meaning that my host mother and I share our apartment, but often have visitors in the form of her children and grandchildren. A month ago I was still trying to remember everyone’s name. Tonight I achieved a goal I had subconsciously desired since the last family dinner: participate in rapid-fire French conversation.
My French dinners start off with an apéritif, where everyone talks, reads the paper, relaxes. I still feel somewhat awkward at this point- keeping track of seven different conversations is hard enough in my mother tongue, let alone in French. Thankfully Manon, one of my host sisters, takes me under her wing and starts asking me how I’m liking Paris, and we get to talking about how my French is progressing. Having lived in Washington, D.C. and Greece, she completely understands when I tell her that I’m shocked that my French seems to be getting worse after one month. I’m more aware of the small errors I make, a little more hesitant to speak. Its actually stressed me out quite a bit over the past few weeks. I feel as though I should be much better in French than I was a month ago. “C’est normal!” she assures me – it means that I’m on the road to improvement. One day, all of that thinking will just click, and at this point, the whole family overhears her and joins in, teaching me new French words. I bounce French slang off of them, asking if I really can say words like carrément in conversation. It’s a word my French friends taught me, and my host mom shakes her head- its not proper French, I learn. I’ve forgotten my moleskine in my room so I’m not writing down my new words – sometimes it’s enough just to process in the moment.
As we move to the table, we start off dinner with the entrée, or appetizer, a mix between a quiche and a tarte. With two pieces left, Raphael, my host brother, says he’ll save the rest for me, as I can’t eat the main course – chicken. Thus begins the conversation about my vegetarianism – something that delights the whole family. You see, veganism and vegetarianism are not popular in France like they are in the States. As my host brother-in-law François put it, “You can eat meat here! In the States, you treat your animals like this…”, he pauses, making a violent slaughtering motion with his hands. “But in Europe, we treat our animals like this…”; he smiles and pretends as though he’s petting a cat. This time around, instead of jokingly, but somewhat seriously, trying to persuade me to eat the main course, though, my family just smiles at my crazy American ways, and François peppers the conversation with the declaration, “I just love eating with you though, there’s always meat left over!” as he helps himself to seconds. Amidst the struggles of conversation, the ability to joke around with my new family is a small victory that I can’t help but smile about.
We finish our wine as my host sister Chloé brings out the obligatory French cheese course, followed by dessert. At this point into the two-hour-plus long dinner, my mind is fatigued with the overload of French. As I hear snippets of French that I don’t understand float around the room, my brain admits defeat and I start to long for English. This is the struggle of my globalized life – there are challenges in the simplest things. Eating dinner with my host family, or interacting with my Parisian friends is the best French class I could ever ask for, but it’s also the hardest. These are wonderful challenges, these struggles to create an international life for myself. Even when little things go wrong, they become exciting (albeit sometimes frustrating, like my computer and iPod breaking). Every day, I become more and more attached to the people in my Parisian life, and I can’t imagine leaving them in two months. Along with an international life, I’m learning, comes a varied group of friends who will never be in the same place, forcing me to always be missing someone. This, I think, is the best yet hardest part of being abroad- knowing that you have such strong ties to so many people, but knowing that they will never all be in the same place at the same time.
After collecting my new computer and iPod from the Apple store at the Louvre today, I spent my time walking home along the Pont des Arts, one of the first places my French friends took me upon my arrival. Its got a bohemian flair, people sitting and eating, drinking wine, smoking, and lots of… locks. Down each side of the bridge, people have locked locks, some elaborate, some simple, most with inscriptions. Today I found “Paris 2010″, “Steph N” and lots of “Paris, je t’aime’s.” Juxtaposed with the sense of excitement I found at discovering a local hangout a month ago, I now felt a sense of solidarity and belonging with all who had walked along the bridge, all those who had literally locked themselves to it, those who had come before me, and those who were there now. It’s a reminder that just as I’m becoming increasingly connected to an international lifestyle, so many millions have experienced this city already, so many others have faced challenges similar to my own, so many have fallen in love with this place.
I think I might quote Gertrude Stein on my lock: “America is my country, but Paris is my hometown.”
For the next week, I’ve been told that my city is on “high alert”. The American Embassy says (in its vague warning) to avoid tourist spots and public transportation (which is essentially impossible given that the métro runs underneath the whole city, and also the least helpful advice ever). Through word of mouth, I’ve heard that the Marais might be the place to avoid, just for a week. This confuses me, though, as I thought your target was Americans, and this is a neighborhood frequented by Parisians. My program sent out a more commonsense email- avoid “American” places, such as Starbucks and McDonalds, and again, public transportation. Really, I’m not sure what to avoid- the métro, any place touristy and anything American doesn’t help me too much, but that’s probably what you’re counting on.
So I walked to school today (like I do most days), even though I don’t know how safe I am walking above the métro as opposed to being on the trains. During my walk, I learned that I pass 2 Starbucks and 1 McDonalds on my daily commute- something I never noticed before. You also made me see my city through different eyes, as I started to wonder what would happen if this was all just….gone. Bombed. Ruined. Now, I don’t know if this attack you’re planning would actually wipe Paris off the face of the planet, and I’m not too worried (because what good does worrying do anyways?), but its a crazy thought experiment to play with. What would the world be like without the Eiffel Tower- the world’s most recognized landmark (seriously, it is the world’s #1 tourist spot, look it up, although you probably already know that). Would Paris still be the city most frequented by tourists? What’s going to happen if you attack multiple sites? The Louvre- its crazy to think that paintings like the Mona Lisa could just disappear in seconds, along with centuries of incredible art.
Do you think that this is what makes Paris Paris? I’m not all that sure myself, as I can go days, weeks without spending time in tourist locations, and most Parisians I know would say the same thing. However, these places that I hear are being threatened define Paris to so many people that, while most of the daily activities of the city could survive without them, I wonder what Paris would be without her icons.
You see, landmarks are how we define things- the Eiffel Tower for Paris, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament for London, the Colosseum for Rome- the list goes on. There’s a quiet solidarity about landmarks- knowing you’re one of many who has seen or been moved by a place, knowing that many will come after you. While the moment may be fleeting, the landmark endures. Landmarks symbolize places, times, memories. They illustrate where we’ve been and where we want to go. They’re a part of our lives whether we’ve seen them in person or not, they’re a way of connecting with others- common threads that wrap around the globe. They can be definitive, even if they’re not what locals would call the true flavor of the city.
Paris endured World War II, but I hope she doesn’t have to endure this. I can’t imagine a world without the famous sites of Paris, can’t imagine how it would change the city. How would France respond, what would this do to the nation? What would Europe look like if Paris took a hit (literally)? If England, France and Germany were attacked? Do you want to create resentment towards Americans for being the targets of your attacks, or are you looking to envelope more countries in a “global war on terrorism”?
And after this great war, what would our cities look like? What would our people look like? Who would be left behind? What kind of world would we live in?
When I read foreign perspectives of France, a word that often comes up is xenophobic. If I had a Euro for every time someone said don’t you know that the French hate us, or good thing you speak French, no one there will speak English to you, I’d be able to afford a lot more globetrotting this quarter. The truth is, France sometimes gets a bad rap when it comes to welcoming foreigners and – gasp! – some of its true. So, I’m sure you’re dying to know, will people refuse to speak English to you? Probably not, not in the rude connotation of the word at least. Its true, though, that English is not a lingua franca in this country, as it is in other parts of the world. More and more, French children learn it in school, and yes, many people speak it, but French still takes precedence. It’s far more important than English. In order to understand the French resistance to my country’s official language, though, you first have to understand a little more about France – starting off with its pride.
In France, there’s a sense of pride in culture and in language that doesn’t quite register with Americans. Saying that you’re proud to be an American has a different meaning than saying you’re proud to be French. Americans tend to be proud of their country’s diversity and its accomplishments, whereas the French find pride in a common culture, State and language that unites them. In school, French children learn that their language is the best in the world, beautiful and eloquent, and are taught to speak it well. Furthermore, schools in France function to shape their students into well educated citizens of the French État, or State, meaning that a pride in their national language and culture in instilled in French citizens from day one.
Resistance to English started during the era of American dominance post-WWII, when the French (by way of de Gaulle) resisted adapting to American ways like many other countries were doing at the time. This included a resistance to absorbing English into its culture, and, as history is alive and well here, this influences how the country functions today. Are the French xenophobes? It depends on what you mean by the word, and to whom you’re referring. France generally resists globalization more than most, the idea of “multiculturalism” has very different connotations here than it does in the States. The US was founded on the idea that the blending of cultures is a good thing, as such, we encourage local communities to preserve their customs, religions and languages. Do immigrants in the US still have to assimilate to their new country, starting off with learning English? Absolutely. However, contrast this with France, where once one becomes a citizen of France, one does not join a “melting pot”, one becomes French, through and through. At the very least, one is French first, everything else second. The French census has no box in which one indicates one’s ethnicity and the likes, its unnecessary – they are French (this is also a relic of the fact that during WWII, the distinction of Jewish posed obvious problems during the Vichy regime).
France can’t completely resist globalization and immigration issues, though, as one only needs to read the paper to hear about how they’re knocking on France’s front door. The French expulsion of the Roma, or gypsies, back to their native Bulgaria and Romania has made headlines in the New York Times, and the EU is investigating the policy of deportation, trying to determine whether or not its discriminatory. Even if it’s ruled as okay, the gypsies in Paris live in the outskirts of the city or in the banlieues (suburbs). Suffice to say we’re not talking about American white-picket-fence suburbs. However, while Sarkozy’s policies head forth, there are many in France who oppose them, but still consider themselves proud to be French.
The longer I’m here, the more torn I become as I try to form an opinion on French nationalism. On one hand, I admire French pride in language and culture, I even applaud the idea of resisting globalization in a world where McDonald’s and Starbucks seem to be their own countries. However, do I support the extreme view of exporting people, or do I think its reminiscent of the exportation of the Jewish population during WWII (a common critique of the Sarkozy administration’s policy)? I’ll go ahead and say that I don’t know enough of the specifics of the current policy to make an informed decision, but that I don’t approve of the idea of using nationalism as an excuse for discrimination. So the question I’m left with, the question that France must answer is – where’s the middle ground between nationalism and globalization for France, and how will we know when we’ve found it?
