Stretching like a cat
That night the whole city stopped. Everyone remained flabbergasted, stunned, watching around. The breath taken, snorkeling. What’s going to happen ?
It can’ be possible … it’s a bad movie … worse than a bad movie …
And all night long hanging on the news. Flow of bad news. So many dead, wounded.
First thoughts for the relatives.
And finding damage, pain along weeks. And coincidentally, a cold, rainy gray sky above the city. A week after the terrorist attack as if it was accompanying our sadness.
And then I waited, attended the stream of words, of emotions to express images, reactions, often beautiful, sometimes bizarre. Everyone went about his comment … all the world responded with its guts. Everyone was touched. Despite himself.
The storm has passed. The pain remains, a contained pain, a shared pain. One could perceive it, in newspapers, streets, breathing, confusion in when looking at each others. Even terraces, cafes, streets that were still emptier than before, before the day that changed everything.
Those idiots managed to sow doubt, fear … even if “not afraid » signs have been brandished every where. Still, I was scared. A selfish fear first and then a deep fear with which we realize that freedom is fragile. As in Afghanistan, Egypt, Syria …
Afraid that my children no longer stretch like a cat in the morning as I taught them, afraid that I can not accompany them in the morning to school, with shaggy hair, dressed anyhow. Fear of not being able to go to dinner with my girlfriends, fear of not having the right to get a coffee, by myself, at the counter, fear of not going watch the “Nympheas” at the Museum of the Orangerie whenever it suits me, afraid of not attending a play, fear of not being able commenting, fear of the beautiful Palais Royale gardens and the Buren columns could be destroyed , fear of not being able to offer education and the culture of my choice for my children, afraid that the freedom given to me would be denied tomorrow. Afraid these idiots could still manage their bad ideas. Afraid they keep on stealing lives, youths, laughs and dances.
Afraid they bring us in their macabre play. Lest darkness takes over.
I gave myself time to realize, accept the unacceptable. How to keep going again?
I’m Parisian, French of Korean origin, with an Alsatian Jewish name, my children are Korean-Lebanese, born in Paris. Their father is Lebanese maronite.
Because I was afraid that my values, my culture , the mixed world I love disappear one day as violence and the imprisonment become daily , and in honor of my country, France that raised me , I will continue to talk about beauty, joy, greed and travel. They say that travel is freedom.