Friday, November 13, 2015 – Lion sur Mer to Benouville

I want to thank the hundreds of friends, family members and acquaintances who called or sent messages expressing concern for my safety in the wake of last night’s terrorist attacks in Paris. That meant more to me than you can imagine. Steve and I are indeed safe, as are Steve’s wife and daughter, who were in Paris at the time of the attacks.

We were sound asleep when a text message from Steve’s daughter jarred us awake. Kate broke the news of the attacks, and assured us that she and Pat were safe. Steve and I spent the next two hours watching the events unfold on French tv, disgusted and horrified by the carnage.

This morning, we sense shock and sadness among the people we encounter. But reactions to the attacks are mixed. We talk with three young Belgian men visiting the area to buy World War II memorabilia at an auction. They are quick to blame immigrants, and suspect Syrians affiliated with ISIS. One predicts civil war in Europe within the next five years. Another says with confidence that statistically, because of overwhelming levels of immigration in Scandinavia, every woman in Norway and Sweden will have been raped by an immigrant in her lifetime.

Others I speak with do not see the problem in racial terms – nor do they see easy solutions. One man is unsure what will happen next, but he is clear that the attacks will have a negative impact on France’s economy.

As I try to make sense of the events of the past 20 hours, I wonder if the nations of the world have the strength and wisdom to address the problem in a truly substantive way. Certainly, people need to be protected from the threat of terrorism, and that demands force.

But until we collectively address the social and economic disparities that inspire desperate men and women to commit such acts of terror, I don’t see an end in sight.

And what about the alleged connection between terrorism and the current wave of immigration? So much can be said. I simply offer this:

The arrival of new peoples in Europe (or America, for that matter) is hardly a new phenomenon. Take Ireland, my ancestral home. What does it mean to be Irish? When we think Irish, we think Celtic. Are you less Irish if that Celtic blood is mixed with Norman, Spanish or British blood from immigrants (ok, invaders, for the most part)? What if that Celtic blood is mixed with the blood of more recent immigrants, say African, Asian or Eastern European – in other words, if that blood is encased in dark rather than white skin? I would ask the Belgian men I met today: Is it blood type that bothers you or skin color?

Perhaps the best definition of what it means to be Irish – or French or American or anything else – is the connection developed and sustained over time to the land, language and culture of a place.

I have so much more I to say about this, but my mind and pen (ok, cell phone stylus) wander, bringing me back to the images of death and violence on the streets of Paris. I will walk those same streets two weeks from today. If I have a chance to visit one of the attack sites, I will approach the moment with a spirit of reverence and sadness, and with determination to continue to do my part to help humanity move forward to a world free of such horrific and increasingly common acts of violence.