When I was a child, we often visited the battlefields of Gettysburg and I remember visiting her home: Ginnie Wade, a 20-year-old woman, killed by a stray bullet, while she was in the kitchen kneading bread.
Since January 11, 2013, France has been involved in a military operation in Mali, a land-locked country of West Africa. On that day, the Ministry of Defense launched “Operation Serval” (the serval is a wildcat native to that region). In an official statement to the French people, the Defense Minister explained that the intervention was in response to a request from the government of Mali to help stop the advance of rebel and terrorists forces upon its capital, Bamako, and to aid the Malian army in re-establishing control over the entire national territory.
In a matter of days, French forces made it “all the way to Timbuktu,” the legendary Malian city whose name was once a synonym for the most distant place imaginable. At this time, after more than a month of operations, with about 4,000 French soldiers on the ground, only one of them has died in combat—which, of course, is one too many, but that figure attests to Operation Serval’s success so far.
The Gandamia Massif, northeast of Timbuktu
In mid-February, however, as French troops headed further north and east into the Sahara, the nature of this war began to change: landmines, suicide attacks, a sharp rise in civilian deaths. Back in Paris, the government reinforced homeland security, deploying more troops in airports, train stations and the metro, in response to a heightened risk of terrorist attacks.
Operation Serval, as the Minister of Defense Jean-Yves le Drian announced on Feburary 6, 2013, is a “real war” against “terrorists.” And, in “the war on terror,” as opposed to the Civil War, civilians are fair and often easy game.
Yet, in Paris, in the metro that I take almost every day, riding cheek to cheek with perfect strangers, we are all our usual, indifferent selves, more worried, at the peak of flu season, about germs from a neighbor’s sneeze or cough than the risk of a bomb going off in our midst. In general, I’d say, we’re indifferent to this war. I don’t hear many people talking about it nor do I see any outward signs that the French are supporting their troops—no banners, no flags, no ribbons, all signs of excessive American patriotism to French eyes.
This may be one of the reasons members of the French military are feeling discouraged, be they in the army, the air force or the navy. France has its “West Point,” a prestigious army academy called Saint-Cyr, founded in 1802. It also has its “Annapolis,” Ecole Navale, a naval academy founded in 1830. Its officers are among the best in the world. The military’s code of honor is strong and all its branches project an image of highly qualified professionals. The problem is, French society at large doesn’t seem to really care.
Blame it on former President Jacques Chirac, some would say. He’s the one who, in 1997, abolished the draft in favor of an all-volunteer army. He’s the one who put an end to what was once two years of compulsory service to the French nation (later reduced to 16 and then to 10 months), where young men of all backgrounds, races and classes came together in what many considered France’s “melting pot.” In a recent survey, 62% of the French regretted Chirac’s decision. This would appear to be an implicit wish for the draft’s return—though people may simply be feeling nostalgic about the “good old days” when a Frenchman knew what it meant to be French.
Recruitment poster for an all-volunteer army
In 2013, believing their glory days are behind them, feeling pessimistic about the future, the French are no longer so sure of who they are. Back in the days of the draft, when almost all young men served, the army was an essential component of French identity. Today, pushed to the periphery of society, the military, despite its annual budget of 43 billion dollars, placing it fifth in the world in terms of defense spending, is like a poor relation you’d rather forget about—and, in some important ways, the French have.
Last October, for example, French army wives began “battling bare,” inspired by Ashley Wise, the American who went to battle for her husband suffering from PTSD, spelling out her demands for better care on her bare back. These French women adopted her methods to bring national attention to the fact that their husbands, many on duty in Afghanistan, had not been paid for almost a year. They called themselves “un paquet de Gauloises en colère”—a angry pack of Gauloises, a reference to France’s best-known brand of cigarettes, but also, very literally, an angry pack of French women.
Their “bare-backed” methods worked. Just before Christmas 2012, emergency funds were unblocked so military wives could get creditors off their backs while, far away, their husbands served the nation.
Members of the French military are subjected to another strange injustice. Though medical care is excellent, if a soldier loses an arm or a leg in combat, he or she cannot be sure of who is going to pay for its replacement. Neither the health insurance nor the complementary insurance available to members of the military covers the costs. The national veteran’s association, as well as private charities, has stepped in to make up the difference, helping to pay for artificial limbs for those gravely injured in service to their country.
In early February, President Hollande, France’s Commander-in-Chief, paid a visit to Mali, where he was welcomed as a hero. In a speech, he proclaimed “terrorism has not been vanquished,” promising French troops would stay in Mali as long as necessary.
No one can tell how long this will be. That is another difference between the “war on terror” and past conflicts. As Americans know from their experience in Afghanistan, policing the world in the name of justice is an endless, often thankless task.
