An American in Paris

Pro-Palestine Rally Paris

A few weeks ago, I was traveling on the subway alone in the middle of the afternoon, on the way home from my babysitting job. There were few people on board, and I was seated by myself near the door. As the subway rolled up to the station three stops from my destination, I saw through the window an enormous crowd gathered on the platform. The doors slid open on to a loud and chanting mass of people who proceeded to stuff themselves aggressively into the back two cars of the train, where I sat.

I looked around, nervous and surprised. The crowd was made up of men, young and old, and women with children. They were bustling and excited, and carried banners and signs over their heads and in their hands hanging by their sides. One of the signs showed a smiling picture of French president Nicolas Sarkozy with the word “ACCOMPLICE” scrawled in thick black below it. Another read in printed bold letters “ARRETEZ LE GENOCIDE A GAZA!” above a graphic picture of a bloodied body. As the swarm of people pushed their way on to the subway car, letting the doors close gradually behind them, they began to chant in strident voices, “Israel! Assasin! Israel! Assasin!” A few passengers on board shoved their way out the door to wait for the next train. Some looked worried, some even scared. I, not quite fully understanding what was going on, could only look on with interest and open eyes as the subway lurched forward towards the next station.

As they continued their chant at a thunderous decibel, I scanned their faces, examining their expressions. Their set stares were proud and enthusiastic, their mouths moving energetically to enunciate the words. Several had black and white scarves hung around their necks, and a few of the women wore veils and head scarves about their face. It was then I understood the nature of the demonstration: the group had come together to protest the hundreds of killings of Palestinian civilians at the hand of the Israeli military in the Gaza strip. Before going any further, I must add a disclaimer; I know very little of the complexities of the situation in Gaza, and therefore have neither the right nor the capability to comment on or take sides in the political argument. However, standing in that subway packed tight against the throng of screaming angry people, I had suddenly become involved. And all I could think, all I knew, was that I ought to give no indication that I was an American.

Again, the specifics of the circumstances in Gaza remain cloudy to me, yet the one thing I knew of the American participation in the situation was that our new president had remained conspicuously mum on the topic of the airstrikes in Gaza. From what I knew, he had in fact shown tremendous support for Israel during his campaign. This, paired with the resounding silence on the topic coming out of the US government, led me to believe that of all the times to be modest about being an American, this was certainly one. Now, that’s not to say I assumed the group would’ve become hostile or confrontational if I’d suddenly begun blabbing in English or raised my Obama button in the air. But I certainly felt an intuition, an instinct, to remain quiet.

At my stop, I squeezed my way out and exited the train. As it took of speeding with the crowd still bustling within, I noticed a girl, maybe twelve years old, standing on the platform with her mother, crying. Her mother was telling her she needn’t be afraid, but the girl was sobbing uncontrollably. I breathed deep and, pulling my jacket around me, exited the station in to the open air of the city. It was the first time in all my travels that I had ever been confronted with the fear of the perception of my country, the first time I had ever been conscious of my status as an outsider, an American, in a foreign place. It is something I will not forget as I venture on; that I am not merely a citizen of the world, but an American citizen in the world, and that that carries with it a profound and significant weight.