In Paris

Monday afternoon I left Australia. Tuesday afternoon Passport Control at Charles de Gaulle airport paid little attention to me, ushering me into France with hardly a glance. I wanted to be affronted and take offense at my apparent inoffensive self but who can stay mad when visiting Paris?

Then I did what loads of travelers do: I got so involved in what was happening for me that I was unaware of what was happening for the people around me.

Tuesday, the day I arrived, a young man died at the hands of someone in power, someone trying to manage a situation that went very badly. I didn’t know and headed off to find Sorbonne University, the location of the conference I had come to attend and speak at.

I notice sirens.

It’s something you do when married to a paramedic stationed in the country town you live in. That siren might mean Hubby will be home very late. He might have to face something terrible. It might be one of our friends or someone we know. It might be nothing.

Sirens unsettle me.

At twelve years old I found my elderly uncle dying. I rushed to get my mother and then someone—it could well have been me—phoned for an ambulance. Then, as my mother attempted CPR, it was up to me to stand on the side of the road to make sure the ambulance would come to the right house.

The vignette played out through the open door–my mother begging my uncle not to die. Him dying. And the sound of a siren in the distance. Coming but not quickly enough.

Wednesday in Paris the sirens seemed to go on and on.

The French are so dramatic,I told my friend.

Police cars rushed by, over and over. Sometimes in groups, sometimes one at a time. Close and loud, further away, quieter.

I had no idea.

There were armed police when we went out for dinner. Armed and ready. Three of them walked around the square, smiling, and talking. In Australia, our police might be armed but their guns are away in holsters. It is highly unusual to see the police armed and ready. It is highly unusual to see anyone with a gun, for that matter.

Jet lagged and stumbling with my very basic French—every French person I have met has been so generous with my attempts—I found myself shocked. This isn’t something I see in Australia.

But these police were smiling and chatting to people and no one seemed upset so I explained my reaction to myself as a type of tired, surreal culture shock. Armed and ready seemed to be the way the police in France did their work.

Let me be clear, it wasn’t that they were armed that bothered me. It is that they were ready. They had their guns in a position to fire them. I wondered what might happen if one tripped or were to suddenly feel very angry about something.

In my tiredness, I looked around the cobbled square. No one seemed bothered. It must just be me. Then they were gone and musicians came by with their Parisian magic.

I had no idea things had already gone wrong.

I make no comment about the situation itself, except to say this. My heart aches for the loss of the young—it is tragic when any young person dies no matter what they have done. I don’t know why this situation happened but I understand that people are upset and that there is something much bigger going on.

For me, sirens signify death. Unlike church bells honouring the deceased, sirens call death forth, invite death in, and show death where to go.

There they are again. Calling forth death. In the time it has taken me to write this blog, there have been four lots of sirens going by.

Will they never stop?