Early this morning, listening to the news on the radio I said to myself that war is at the portals of Europe: a new offensive is underway against ISIS in Libya, a country less than 300 miles from Italy; Russia continues to bomb Aleppo in Syria, a mere 750 miles from Athens, Greece.
Other battles rage in the Middle East: American troops have joined Kurds, Turks and the Iraqi army to chase ISIS from Mosul, a city with over one million inhabitants. In a civil war that kills mostly civilians, Saudi Arabia fights alongside the currently ruling power in Yemen at the southern tip of the Arabian Peninsula.
And before winter sets in, refugees ready to risk their lives continue to board leaky vessels and sail the Mediterranean Sea. In Greece and Italy, the bodies of those who have drowned continue to wash up on the shore.
That’s a lot of war, suffering, destruction and death.
In France, “Plan Vigipirate” has become a part of our daily lives. It is a government program to fight against terrorism first put into place in 1978 in response to terrorist attacks in France and Europe at that time.
Since January 2015, marked by two deadly attacks in Paris, we also live with “Opération Sentinelle,” which has mobilized 10,000 French soldiers to patrol sensitive points throughout the country. In the Paris region alone, 6,000 soldiers walk the streets with their assault rifles slung over their shoulders, barrel usually (but not always) pointed to the ground.
In the town where I take the train to travel back to Paris from the country, Nogent le Rotrou, whose population is about that of Pottsville, I sometimes see soldiers patrolling the avenue that leads from the train station to the center of town. Very serious, they stare straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with the locals who wonder about the reasons for such a military presence in their town.
France also has its refugee problem. On October 24th, French authorities evacuated its biggest refugee camp located near the English Channel. Built by the refugees themselves, it is a sprawling shanty town on the outskirts of the port of Calais. In existence since 2002, this tent-city known as “la jungle” sprouted up when the French government closed an official camp nearby. It has recently been home to close to 10,000 refugees.
Between 6,500 and 8,000 are being willingly transferred to other towns throughout France. In some places, such as the city of Béziers, a few miles inland from the Mediterranean Sea, the mayor and some citizens are trying to keep them out.
Earlier this month, on October 13, the Catholic Bishops of France released a new document encouraging the French people to “rediscover the meaning of politics.” They call for a “new social contract” that would “accept cultural differences” so that people of all backgrounds and religions could learn to live together in a more generous spirit than the one that currently prevails in France.
Making no apologies for terrorism, the bishops point out that contemporary French society is failing to integrate the children and grandchildren of immigrants. They also emphasize that for the past 30 years, France’s number one problem is its high unemployment. In certain neighborhoods home to those the French call the “immigrant population,” it can rise to over 25% of those able and willing to work.
Finally, the bishops characterize the French as “anxious and on edge,” claiming that “sadness” pervades French society today.
Yet, and this is the mystery of life, despite the sorry state of the world, the wars, the threats, the dangers, the depths to which politics has sunk on both sides of the Atlantic, the endemic unemployment in France, I don’t feel sad. I feel happy and grateful to be alive. In that, I may simply be a piece of data, one of those Frenchmen who feel pessimistic about the outside world but largely satisfied with their personal lives.
I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. The French love to analyze social trends and I recently heard that we’ve become too individualistic to feel sufficient empathy for those suffering in the world. If their religion, skin color or culture is too different from our own, we’re all too likely to feel unconcerned by the trials they undergo. The refugee crisis is unfortunately a case in point.
Whenever I am in Paris, I see refugees at bus stops where the city has installed electric outlets where anyone can recharge their phone. That’s what they’re doing, two young men or a young mother with her child, huddled together on the edge of a bench. People hand them sandwiches, bags of food, but what they need is a home.
In a Bible story about Abraham and Sarah, three strangers show up at the entrance to Abraham’s tent in the shadow of the Mamre oaks and he does what is perfectly natural to him. He washes their feet, slaughters a calf and prepares them a copious meal. In this passage, Sarah laughs when she hears one of the strangers say that within the year she, an old barren woman, will have a son.
This is also where Abraham bargains with God and makes him change his mind. Through dialogue, he convinces an angry and destructive Lord to become more compassionate.
A few years ago I had the chance to see a 1930 German silent movie called “People on Sunday” with musical accompaniment provided by an orchestra. Billy Wilder, best known for “Some Like It Hot,” wrote the screen play, a simple story about how ordinary people spend a Sunday in Berlin. I loved that movie, made with amateur actors. Yet I marveled at the calm of those Berliners at a time when the power of Hitler and the Nazi Party was exponentially on the rise.
Sometimes I wonder if we are living in such times, but I don’t have an answer. Sometimes I wonder about my capacity for generosity when confronted with refugees in need. I know, though, these are not times for building walls and barriers, neither physically nor in our hearts.
Today I set out to write an article about autumn in le Perche, my “new” region. Instead the outside world came pouring in, along with sunshine and the scent of autumn. That’s life, the good with the bad. Carpe diem. Let’s seize the day while we can.
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