France has caught the covid blues

It’s 6 PM. The sun is still shining and temperatures have risen into the 50’s. I’d love to go outside but instead, I’m standing at my living room window and I’m not the only one. Across the street, in a big apartment building that towers over mine, others stand. Some peek out from behind a curtain; others throw their windows open, lean out, and stare at the street below.

 Why are we all here, as if on cue? What are we looking or waiting for? The answer is “nothing.” It’s curfew time. Since January 16^th, all over France, we are supposed to be in for the night by 6 PM. Yearning draws us to our windows. Traffic is still heavy, mostly busses and taxis; a few lone pedestrians carrying grocery bags hurry through the streets. The night may still belong to lovers but, at least for the moment, it doesn’t belong to anyone who forgot to buy a quart of milk or a pack of cigarettes. And forget about a moonlight stroll.

Last evening, at about 5:45, I heard whistles blowing in Buttes Chaumont Park, a few steps from my Parisian apartment. The guards were emptying it of joggers, strollers, and parents with children running free in the park’s playgrounds. Earlier, outside the local Monoprix, the biggest neighborhood supermarket, late-afternoon shoppers stood outside, waiting in line because the number of shoppers inside was at covid capacity.

In a smaller market in a nearby street, there was a police raid earlier this month. Instead of locking the doors at 6 PM sharp, checkers were still scanning the purchases of shoppers who, in many cases, work till almost curfew time and then have to buy food before returning home for the night. Police sources claim the store, called Franprix, had already been warned. Those waiting in line to check out received a 135 euro fine—that’s about $165 for shopping five minutes beyond curfew time.

We can also receive a fine for not wearing a mask in public. I’m used to mine and put it on before I leave the apartment. I won’t say I like it, but in my present disheveled state—I haven’t had a haircut in months, the more I cover up the better. But not wearing glasses gets to me. Since my return to Paris, I leave them at home when I go out. I no longer drive and I prefer being nearsighted to observing urban life through a heavy layer of steam.

Until January of this year, I experienced the covid pandemic in the country. When I walked in the streets or in the woods, I rarely crossed another person. When I shopped for food, I went to what the French call a “hypermarché,” a supermarket about the size of your average Walmart. Shoppers steered their carts clear of each other. I felt safe and though I wore a mask in the store, I never put one on in the car.

In Paris, even with crowd control, shoppers rub elbows and even breathe down each other’s necks. It has taken some getting used to. And now that the UK variant, highly contagious and perhaps more deadly than previous forms of the virus, is getting the upper hand in the Paris region, I’m never too impatient to go outside.

In all of France, restaurants, cafés, theaters, museums, cinemas, gyms, stadiums, funeral parlors and crematoriums, discothèques, conference centers, circus tents and even outdoor sports facilities remain closed. The official government list is actually much longer. Since January 31^st, shopping centers have been partially closed, with the exception of groceries and supermarkets. 

To tell the truth, after 6 PM, there’s not much to do in France.

To tell the truth, France is not doing so well with the covid pandemic at this time. Each day there are between 20 and 25,000 new cases, as compared to 50 to 60,000 in the US, with a population 5 times greater. There are 27 deaths per 100,000, compared to 24 in the US. At this date, about 3% of France’s population has been vaccinated, and many of those over 75 do not yet have a vaccination date. There are not enough vaccines to go around, a problem the US, with 13% of the population vaccinated, is encountering as well. Both President Biden and President Macron announce that by summer’s end, those who wish to be vaccinated will be, but as the French say, “Wait and see.”

For a little over a year, we have been living with this virus. Everywhere in the world, people’s lives have changed. I know I’m among the lucky ones. First of all, I’ve not caught Covid-19. I’ve been spared its immediate and long-terms symptoms.

Since retiring, I have also escaped the grueling working conditions of teachers in France. Fom nursery school to high school, teachers have been pretty much continuously on the job since last year’s springtime quarantine came to an end. France’s Minister of Education has made a priority of keeping schools open.

University students, however, have been kept out of the classroom and my former colleagues spend their days glued to a computer screen, teaching on-line, correcting on-line, mostly without tech support, often using all their own material. Last fall, when universities were open, the number of covid cases soared. France went into a short-term quarantine in late October. When it ended, universities remained closed. 

Since that time, suicides have been on the rise among the young, and many students now depend on food banks to eat because, with so many sectors of the French economy shut down, they cannot find parttime work. Yes, because of covid, youth is truly being wasted on the young. They can’t even take advantage of it!

Everyone in their own way must yearn for a “return to normal.” Those of us who come to our windows at curfew time would like to step outside after 6 PM. We’d like to take off our masks, sit at a neighborhood café, or, luxury of luxuries, have dinner in a restaurant, simple pleasures too long denied.

Yet “normal” will not be coming back any time soon. It may not come back at all. Our world has changed, and covid is not the only cause. The question then becomes how we ourselves are going to have to change. That’s something I think about each evening at curfew time.

       On a balmy winter weekend, a lucky few escape the city for nearby beaches in Normandy.

 

 

 

             

 

How numbers numb us

Since the pandemic began, family violence is on the rise in France

Days begin and end with numbers and statistics: how many new cases of covid-19, how many new deaths, how many new variants of the virus present on French or US soil?

We’re used to this; it’s our daily bread: sickness and death and numbers that in their enormity tend to sweep under the carpet the reality of suffering and loss. After all, if there are more than 5,000 deaths in one day but no one you know has died, it is easy to ignore the pain. Numbers add up the deaths; they also tend to deaden us.

In France, as in the United States, the corona virus pandemic makes headlines every day. Yet in January, there have been some other numbers and statistics in the news that have brought home an ugly reality to the French: one person in ten admits to being a victim of incest, which comes to 6.7 million French women and men.

Since January 7^th of this year, incest, its numbers, its statistics, and the stories of its victims have been reported relentlessly. On that day, a new book was released; its title, La familia grande, seems at once light-hearted—it brings to mind a Spanish comedy—and ominous—when I first heard it, it made me think of the mafia and omertà, the law of silence imposed on those aware of mafia crimes. In fact, the title is both.

 

La familia grande, by Camille Kouchner, a 45-year-old lawyer and legal scholar, daughter of Bernard Kouchner, co-founder in 1971 of Doctors without Borders, is the story of one big happy family. It is also the story of incest. Camille’s step-father abused her twin brother in the late 1980’s. The step-father, Olivier Duhamel, is a leading specialist of French constitutional law. Until a few weeks ago, he was also a much-consulted media personality and president of the French National Foundation of Political Science. He is professor emeritus at the Paris Institute of Political Science, one of France’s most prestigious institutions of higher learning.  

La familia grande in some ways resembles one of those light-hearted French comedies, the kind that take place in a beautiful country home inhabited by beautiful, luminous people. Outside in June, in the shade of a fragrant linden tree, adults drink wine and banter with brio as beautiful children run and play in the sun. The book is about that kind of family, composed of intellectuals, doctors, lawyers and actors, a highly distilled who’s who of the best and brightest of France. It is also about a family that kept silent about incest.

Many knew or suspected. Many kept quiet for all the reasons people keep quiet when they know wrong has been done. Some beyond the family have felt the repercussions. Elisabeth Guigou, a former minister of justice, resigned on January 13^th from her position as president of an independent commission on incest recently put in place by the French government. She has been close to Olivier Duhamel for years and was close to him when the acts of incest took place. Many at that time, in the small world of Parisian power and influence, suspected and chose to look the other way.

Here I must make clear that Camille Kouchner’s book has not drawn such attention because it takes place among France’s elite. It tells a universal story of the abuse of a child by an adult with the power to humiliate, intimidate and destroy a life. Camille’s clear and powerful account of her step-father’s sexual abuse of her brother (it’s our secret, don’t tell your mother, it would only hurt her) has set off a “me-too” moment in France. Many who have never spoken are speaking out now and showing their faces for the first time. 

 

At about the same time Olivier Duhamel’s abuse of his step-son began, a victim of incest chose to be the first to show her face on prime-time French TV. On a popular talk show, she spoke publicly of her father’s crime. In 1986, upon the publication of her book, Le viol du silence—The rape of silence, Eva Thomas came forward and spoke to a national audience about how her father climbed into her bed and raped her. She spoke before an assembly of “experts.” Viewers could call in with their comments, and here is what some had to say:

In 1986, on prime-time TV, a medical doctor protested, “You’re just trying to stir up trouble in families and destroy our happiness. I myself have daily sex with my 13-year-old daughter.” Another is in love with his step-daughter and the whole family knows and approves. Still another father speaks of the pleasure he takes in caressing his 10-year-old daughter. Should he feel guilty about that?

Eva Thomas’s response is a resounding “oui.” Incest is abuse of power and an act of violence of a parent against a child who cannot say “non.”  

At that point, one of the experts, a well-known and respected gynecologist, interrupted Madam Thomas to “nuance” her point of view. Incest had changed; in most cases it was no longer violent. The parent sought to seduce with tenderness and gentle sexual games. In 1986, in those “enlightened” times, the act could be “romantic,” overflowing with tenderness if the right circumstances were put into place.

It is a crime, period, is the response of Eva Thomas.

While Camille Kouchner’s brother was being abused by his step-father, he tried to tell his sister, but she was too young to understand. To speak of incest, the victim needs someone who can. Such a person is rare, which is why in general silence reigns.

Eva Thomas created a national awakening in 1986, but then the French fell back to sleep. Today the same is happening again as more and more victims come forward to speak of their parents’ crimes. Many witness to lives destroyed.

How difficult for a child to speak a truth that no one wants to hear. How difficult to disrupt and perhaps destroy a family by accusing a parent or close relative of a crime. It is no wonder it takes years to “speak up.” It is no wonder so many victims choose sacrifice.

During the current world-wide pandemic, as families are confined to the home, domestic violence is on the rise. Statistics prove it, and behind every number there is a life.

In Lockdown for Thanksgiving

 

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and I miss it. Here in France, lots of Americans celebrate this day by preparing a Thanksgiving feast with all the trimmings. But having partaken of these meals, I can say it’s not the same. Turkey and stuffing somehow taste better when I share them with my family in the United States.

This year, on Thanksgiving Day, France was in lockdown. Since late October, the nation has once again been placed under quarantine. In terms of per capita deaths, the figures in France are close to those of the US. Hospitals cannot keep up with the arrival of new patients and testing capacities remain inadequate. In public we wear masks and the government asks citizens to limit private gatherings to no more than six persons.

 

A week before Thanksgiving Day, the C.D.C. encouraged Americans to do the same: stay home and celebrate with the immediate family instead of taking off during what traditionally is the most busy travel time of the year. Somehow it doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving, at least not the way it used to be.

This year on Thanksgiving Day, I sat home alone. Except for the allotted hour of outdoor exercise, in my case, a walk through forest and fields, I spent the day inside, under quarantine. I ate pasta with pesto sauce and a spinach salad, probably the greenest Thanksgiving dinner of my life, and I gave thanks. I am well, all my basic needs are satisfied, and I love and am loved. This is what is essential in life.

As always, in lockdown or not, I spend a lot of time reading. This month, two books have stood out. One is a biography of Abraham Lincoln. Entitled very simply “Abe,” it is written by David Reynolds, who has placed Lincoln within the cultural context of his times. I am learning that our 16^th president was quite a roughneck in his youth, brawling to prove his strength, but rejecting eye-gouging, a practice popular among young men on the frontier.

 

In the 1830’s, the state of Illinois, where Lincoln first held elected office, was where that frontier began and settlers were not afraid of taking the law into their own hands. If you disagreed with your neighbor, you went after him with a horsewhip. If a newspaper editor expressed ideas you didn’t like, you simply shot him dead.

In November 1837, the year Lincoln was elected to the Illinois legislature, this is exactly what happened to Elijah Parish Lovejoy, an abolitionist newspaper editor in Alton, Illinois. He was attacked and killed while defending his printing presses from an angry pro-slavery mob. In 1838, in a state where anti-abolitionists were a majority, Lincoln spoke out against what he called the “mobocratic spirit” behind the attack and cautioned that such incidents threatened to destroy American democracy.

 

A passionate and emotional man, Lincoln understood the importance of controlling emotions and bringing about change through debate, persuasion, and the law. Growing up on the frontier, he feared both anarchy and tyranny and was not afraid of knocking fledgling tyrants down a notch. He understood all too well that a tyrant with no respect for the American system could possibly take control.

Above all, he placed his respect in the law, for even a bad law can be changed. “Let reverence for the laws, Lincoln wrote, be breathed by every American—let it be the political religion. If we fail, we must die by suicide.”

Quarantined with Abraham Lincoln, I am in good company.

In my French home, I also have a piece of Pottsville, a book about the anthracite region. I am reading “River of Gifts” written by Sherrill Silberling and illustrated by JoAnne Doyle. 

 

In a collection of short stories, Ms. Silberling has turned her mother’s memories of Schuylkill County in the 1920’s into stories told simply and lovingly, perfect holiday reading. These are tales of a happy childhood in a loving family, back in the days when food, shelter, and love were enough. The final story in the collection, “The Gift,” is a tribute to a mother who, by instilling trust, gave the gift of life-long confidence to her child. Next to love, is there a gift more precious?

So far, my time in quarantine has been well spent in the nurturing company of good books, but don’t worry, I do other things besides read. Occasionally I watch a good movie on TV. A few night ago, I watched an excellent made-for-TV movie called “La maladroite,” The Awkward Girl,” directed by Eleanor Faucher. Based on true events, it tells the story of a young girl whose parents first destroy their daughter’s confidence and then take her life.

According to the latest official statistics, which concern 2018, 80 children a year in France lose their lives because of family violence. That comes to one child every five days. In many cases, such as that of Marina Sabatier, whose child-abuse death in 2009 inspired the film, teachers and social workers are aware of the abuse, doctors intervene, yet it seems almost impossible to remove the child from the home. Often, the abused child loves and protects the parents because abuse is all she knows.

To appreciate “La maladroite,” a viewer does not need to understand French. Elsa Hyvaert, the very young actress who plays the role of the abused child, speaks a poignant language beyond words. I encourage readers to watch this film and here is a link where it can be streamed:  https://www.france.tv/series-et-fictions/telefilms/1103191-la-maladroite.html

 

A 2019 report found that child-abuse related deaths are on the rise in Pennsylvania. In Annville, in neighboring Lebanon County, a 12-year-old boy was found dead of starvation and abuse in September 2020. The father and his fiancée have been charged with homicide. The Lebanon County DA Pier Hess Graf stated that this boy “never knew the unconditional love from a family.”

Covid and political turmoil seem to reign everywhere in the world today, yet a child who is loved, anyone who is loved, has much to be thankful for. This, for me, is what it means to be “pro-life,” making sure a child’s emotional and physical needs are met from birth onwards. Though my wish may be little more than an ideal, this is what I hope for every child.