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Sunday’s Rally in Paris: The Director’s Cut
I thought perhaps you’d be interested, given that we’ve been having a number of interesting conversations both about what happened—and is happening—in Paris and about the media coverage of it, in a piece I wrote for the National Post about the rally here on Sunday. They asked for fewer words than I submitted, and know their readership much better than I do, so it is entirely fair that they chose the words that they felt most important.
I’m going to post the entire original piece here. If you’re curious, have a look at the difference. I wonder if you would have chosen to cut the same words? If not, why? I am not disagreeing with them: I thought it was quite a good edit. And, even if I disagreed, I would hardly be so stupid as to bite the hand that feeds me. But I did think this was a good edit.
Still: sometimes a sentence omitted here or there changes the meaning of things in a subtle way. Perhaps these are things only the person who writes them notices; perhaps others might. Curious what you think.
The director’s cut is below:
***
This morning high mass was celebrated at Notre Dame, an obvious terrorist target. There was no visible security around the cathedral at all.
Today was one of those cold and beautiful winter days in Paris that calls to mind a 19th Century painting by Caillebotte. The police had promised “extreme security measures” for the rally: 150 plainclothes officers, 20 teams of snipers, 56 motorcycle teams, and 24 mobile units. When I read this, I didn’t know whether to be moved or horrified. That is nothing—nothing—like what you need to protect a crowd of the predicted size from a determined group of terrorists. Particularly since their sleeper units—we have been told by the same authorities—may recently have been activated. It is deeply moving that Paris simply has no idea how to become a proper police state. And it also just as clear this city must learn what “extreme security” looks like—it doesn’t look like Paris; and it doesn’t look like this.
There is, however, one thing this city does know: It’s what an outrage to everything civilized looks like. And it reacted to it with a breathtaking display of civilization. One so powerful that even the perpetrators of that outrage might doubt they had achieved their intended effect.
I got nowhere near any of the dignitaries who flew in for the rally. The only politician I saw—predictably—was Jean-Luc Mélenchon, a leftist known for his near-magical ability to be visible from every angle whenever there’s a protest. But the politicians are visiting dignitaries weren’t the point—particularly given that the word “ironic” hardly begins to describe the arrival of Turkish President Davutoglu, of all people, to defend the values of freedom of speech, religion, and assembly.
It was the sheer number of people who came out, on frigid winter day, to say that what had happened was insupportable. A slightly tricky word to translate: something like “intolerable,” but with other meanings beyond. That it is hard to translate is also why it’s important. The French take certain things about being French more seriously than most understand. These attacks were not only a devastating shock for their violence and depravity, but because they were an attack on the values of the French republic—words that may mean nothing elsewhere, but mean everything in France.
These were the words everyone used to me—and by this I do mean everyone. I asked as everyone the same question: Why had they come to the rally? “To defend the values of the Republic.” A middle-aged man told me, “We must unite against any form of attack on our liberty.” His wife said, “I am here to defend the Republic’s ideals.” They all said this: to defend freedom of expression, freedom of conscience, and freedom from religion—or of it, if you prefer, but privately and leave us alone with it.
Several told me they had never been to a rally before. “This is the first demonstration I have been to since I was born, that’s how important this is,” said a man in his late sixties. Given that this is France we’re talking about—where demonstrating is as much a national pastime as playing petanque or sampling the new Beaujolais—the number who said this was striking. Another woman said she had come to show her support because “il faut rire.” One must laugh. Like insupportable, the difficulty of translating this properly also makes the point: There are things you do in France and things that you do not. One must laugh. Anything less is insupportable.
Camille Consigny, about forty: “To defend freedom of expression, freedom of religion, and the Republic.” Daniel Porte, probably about 50, told me that he had come to “support values of the Republic.” His wife Esther added that she had come “pour ne pas y être.” In order not be here. An elegant reply.
Joel Houzet also said he had come because what happened was insupportable. It was “against every one of our values. We are here for hope. We are here for fraternity.” A 69-year-old woman, in a wheelchair, said, “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.” She said that said it all—and it did.
Everyone said it: the values of the Republic. That everyone, of every faith, must be free in this country, and that it was of overwhelming importance to them to be there, to show this to the world. And they showed it, certainly: The whole world has, by now, seen the images on television—and seen just what France thinks of barbarians.
They came with signs: “Je suis flic. Je suis juif. Je suis Charlie.” I’m a cop. I’m a Jew. I am Charlie. Another sign said, “Our freedom is greater than your faith.” An elderly man—on the verge of tears—held a sign that said, “I am here”—in Hebrew. Other stores in my neighborhood had put up signs in Hebrew to show their solidarity. Another man held a sign, as did many others, saying that he was a Muslim—and this was not in his name.
Many signs, of course, said, “I am Charlie.” Some showed the famous cartoon the magazine published in the wake of being firebombed. “Love is stronger than hate.” That cartoon was hardly as treacly as the words might make it sound. The French are not treacly, and Charlie Hebdo was anything but. The genius was the depiction of the lewd and drooling wet kiss between a cartoonist, carrying his pencil, and an equally lecherous man in an Islamic skullcap—against the background of the ruins of their firebombed office.
Others said, “I am French, and I am free.” Another said, “I am a Muslim. Born on French soil. Do not touch my France.” Another said, “Je suis pas manipulable.” I cannot be manipulated. I asked him what that meant: He said it meant just what it said.
Sylvain Victor, a younger man from the suburbs of Paris, told me, “Everyone has been attacked. We are united. That is the first thing. We are here to show we are not afraid.” I asked him if he was sure he wasn’t afraid. He said, “un peu de peur.” A bit of fear, yes. But then he shrugged to say, “Screw it.”
I did not know these streets could be so full. I returned to Paris last year after living for nearly a decade in Istanbul—a megacity of 20 million people. Paris had until today seemed to my eyes strangely depopulated. But today it didn’t look that way today. It was astonishing to me that everyone to whom I spoke said the same thing: that they had come to protect the values of the Republic. These values mean something very deep here.
But how to protect them? They all knew what they were. But when I asked how, specifically, they were unsure. The aging communist, predictably, said the answer must somehow involve freeing Mumia. The mood was such that I was able to explain to him exactly what I felt about both communists and Mumia—and we could both laugh, and agree that what had happened was insupportable to us both, and we were also both on the verge of tears.
A middle-aged woman named Gabrielle Lopez said, “I am here to protect the Republic. To protect our liberty.”
But how, I insisted? How, exactly? I was thinking of that undefended Cathedral, of the hopelessly inadequate police presence. At one moment I thought for a hopeful split second that I had seen one of the promised snipers on a balcony above the street. On closer inspection, I saw that it was just a television camera. I know what a police state feels like. I lived in one for years. France isn’t a police state. It wouldn’t have the first clue how to be. But what short of that could protect everyone here who needs protection?
“I don’t know,” Lopez admitted. “That’s up to them.” By “them,” she meant the politicians. Did she think they would have any better idea?
“I hope so,” she said. Her tone of her voice said “no.”
Yesterday, one of the cartoonists who survived, Bernard Holtrop—his pen name is Willem—said something perfect. It summed up Charlie Hebdo: “We vomit on all these people who suddenly say they’re our friends.” That was exactly what you’d expect from them. It was exactly why they were so important in a world where people are afraid to say anything for fear of causing offence—and where, in particular, they are afraid of saying the obvious.
The rally was mostly quiet, and all the more moving for that. There were occasional bursts of applause—spontaneous, just shows of some kind of solidarity—and calls of “Charlie, Charlie.”
The streets—the whole city—were thronged with quiet, dignified, and civilized people who had come to protect the values of the republic and had no real plan for doing so beyond knowing for sure what those values were.
But they were there in such numbers that I wound up stuck for a good hour on the crossroad of one those old Haussmannian boulevards, the kind lined by staid apartment buildings with terraced balconies, and rows of leafless chestnut trees like somber skeletons. Everyone around me was exhausted and red-eyed, almost to the last. At one moment, though—I don’t know why—the Ode to Joy began pouring from one of the apartments above the street. When that famous overture–and all it represents—came pouring from above, there was indeed something about it that I suspect might have moved even Willem.
Had the sniper I thought I had seen proved to be exactly that, I would have been even more moved.
Published in General
Somebody needs to take away that editor’s meat ax.
I didn’t notice any big changes. It’s more difficult to play “spot the changes” with articles than with cartoons, but the only change I noticed was your comparison of street traffic with Turkey. That was more of a personal observation without much relevance to most readers, and the crowd count already impressed the point, so that seems a fair edition. But perhaps I should have read the published version first and the draft second.
Is it normal for an editor to proceed to publish an article without first offering the author an opportunity to provide a more acceptable draft? I know editors have changed your titles before. Is there not enough time to include the author in the editing process?
Claire, this is a beautiful, brilliant piece of journalism, with the emotion to move a person to tears. The editor’s cuts seemed to subdued the emotional response.
The editor removed some of the music that you had built in. Sad. Thank you for letting us read your Director’s Cut.
Before I say anything, want to be sure I don’t prejudice anyone with my own thoughts. So I’m reading, but not responding for a bit more …
I like this line.
To paraphrase Patton, if mountains and rivers can be conquered, anything made by Man can be overcome. Fortifications are of limited value. I would rather see the French focus on hunting their foes than on trying to protect anything and everything that could conceivably be a target of violence. I would rather see the police improve their response strategies and foster a hardy civilian network than try to monitor every street corner.
The “Je suis…” lines get the message of solidarity across, but are bit egocentric. They remind me of the fashionable preference for talk of empathy instead of perfectly acceptable sympathy. It echoes the common misunderstanding of tolerance as indifference or even approval. We should defend the common rights of even people very different from us. One doesn’t need to be a Jew to defend Jews or be a writer to defend writers. I am not a Jew. I am not Charlie. Fraternity means I will stand beside them anyway.
Holtrop’s statement might be the most memorable point in the article, though I’m not entirely sure of its significance.
They took out the Caillebotte reference. Too highfalutin for the Canucks?
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paris_Street;_Rainy_Day
I didn’t read the edited piece. But as I read this post, I had a strong sense of Deja vu to articles I read about the Tea Party movement in 2009 and 2010.
Lots of people who’d never participated in a protest/political rally before.
An inchoate sense of anger/something’s wrong and needs to be addressed.
That “our culture/way of life” is being taken from us without our consent.
Having attended one of those rallies (in San Antonio in front of the Alamo), I agree. Though I wonder if, in the case of Paris, the media will become part of a subsequent demonization campaign.
CB – thank you for posting. This made me feel, just a little bit, like I was there, a mark of a well written piece.
One concern I have is a pattern I noticed in the descriptions of the people you talked to: “man in his late sixties”, “probably about 50”, “69-year-old-woman”, “an elderly man”, “a middle-aged woman”
What does this rally look like in 20 years?
Very well-spotted! And you know why? Not because there were no younger people–at all! But because I now see, looking at that, that I’m more comfortable walking up to older people and asking them what they think than I am walking up to younger people. A perfect example of the difference between “polling” and “journalism,” and why you should go with a good pollster every time.
And you know why I don’t like walking up to young people and saying, “Hey, what are you thinking?” It’s because I don’t want the boys to think I’m a cougar on the loose, and don’t want the girls to think that I’m a cougar on the loose after their boyfriends. And I realized none of that consciously–and all that it implied in terms of “sampling bias” until I saw your comment.
(However, I suspect the younger ones would have said the same thing. But I might have wound up spending more time than I wanted to trying to rid myself of a guy who thought I was a cougar on the loose.)
Thank you.
Okay, I shall now enter the conversation. Yep.
I guess their respect for the intellect of the good people of Toronto was a lot lower than mine.
There’s one more big one. I’ll wait to see if anyone notices it …
Well, if we’re to be fair, we have to look at the whole context of French military history, not just that blunder. Napoleon, after all, had rather a good run for a time. Until he made the usual mistake.
I approved the edited version. There’s no time, when doing journalism of the breaking-news variety, to do a lot of back-and-forth. I felt they knew their audience better than I do: As long as it was factually accurate, it was fine by me if they believed some of it wouldn’t mean much to their readers–I trust them.
C’est belle!
Like “I am a Berliner?” (Which would have been a terrific line, except that it means “I am a jelly donut.” But everyone forgave him for that.)
This juive appreciated the sentiment.
Mumia Abu-Jamal?
They took out mention of the sniper. I liked the line and the link you made. Good piece, Claire. I watched a bit of the procession on Breitbart. Without commentary it was eerie.
Caillebotte, Mumia, and the sniper. You got them all. Those were the three that struck me as … tone-changing. Just slightly. Only the latter importantly, and had there been time, I probably should have insisted.
The sniper–to me–changed the story. As published, it ended on a higher note. The highest notes in history, in fact. Well … the best notes, if not the highest, literally, and certainly the highest metaphorically.
The original ended on a sniper.
I felt that a more apt image–and a more fitting tribute to a publication that would have the refreshing honesty to say, “I vomit on our new friends.”
But: Americans do like their optimism, don’t they? (Yes, yes, Canadians,* I know you like to think you’re more than our little brother to the north. That you’re a sovereign country and everything. Narcissism of small differences–eh?)
So … am I entirely American if I think it may well end in a sniper, rather than in an Ode to Joy?
I’ll now take this kind of attention to literary detail and apply it, say, to Proust, rather than myself. One learns more that way.
By “moved”, am I correct to think you meant “comforted”?
I was on the steps of St Patrick’s Cathedral when Pope Benedict XVI celebrated Mass there. Snipers were visible on nearby rooftops, in addition to other security forces. It wasn’t a comforting sight. When I was in Belfast shortly after a bombing in Drogheda, driving between guard towers and soldiers standing in the road with their weapons in hand, those watchmen didn’t comfort me either.
It depends on one’s perspective, I suppose. Such guardians can offer a sense of security or they can be a sad reminder of the evils which hope to disrupt our lives. Perhaps it depends how long one has needed to live among watchtowers.
Claire,
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
God of glory, Lord of love;
hearts unfold like flow’rs before Thee,
Opening to the Sun above,
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness;
drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness,
fill us with the light of day!
All Thy works with joy surround Thee,
earth and heav’n reflect Thy rays,
stars and angels sing around Thee,
center of unbroken praise:
Field and forest, vale and mountain,
Flow’ry meadow, flashing sea,
chanting[4] bird and flowing fountain,
call us to rejoice in Thee.
Thou art giving and forgiving,
ever blessing, ever blest,
well-spring of the joy of living,
ocean-depth of happy rest!
Thou the[5] Father, Christ our Brother,—
all who live in love are Thine:
Teach us how to love each other,
lift us to the Joy Divine.
Mortals join the mighty[6] chorus,
which the morning stars began;
Father-love[7] is reigning o’er us,
brother-love binds man to man.[8]
Ever singing, march we onward,
victors in the midst of strife;
joyful music lifts us sunward
in the triumph song of life.
Regards,
Jim
This is a wonderful evocation. We must all stand together, but as you say, how we defend those liberties is the next question.
So if not being consistent with French values is an acceptable phrase to express unsupportableness in France, can we bring back “unAmerican” for analogous purposes?
No, I suppose not, what with dissent in the process of beginning to make a comeback as a high (not yet the highest) form of patriotism.
May tell you about my mood that I decided I’d had enough of extreme emotion for the week and thus decided to save watching/listening for another time.
I think that’s exactly the right analogy, actually.
It’s always best to end things with a sniper; and usually pretty darn good when a sniper ends things.
The definitely blandified it and tried to insert more facts and figures. I prefer the uncut version. I was sorry they removed the first line about the mass at Notre Dame and the lack of visible security. That brought me right into the story, picturing a place I have been to and remember well, but that is familiar to most people through photographs. The thought flitted through my mind that you don’t want a lot of ominous looking security staring at you while celebrating mass, and yet that is what is needed.
It’s not a bad edit, but it decidedly changed the mood.
The only time I see my mild-mannered husband truly angry is when editors have had their way with his work!
I didn’t compare. I do not have a word limit.
I don’t care if the emperor-editor says, “There are simply too many words.”
There are just as many words as required. Neither more, nor less.
as always, thank you.