It’s hard
to believe that in three days, France
will have elected its next President.
Nearly two
weeks ago, I watched anxiously as the candidates were narrowed down from 10 to 2 in the first round of
elections. Sitting on the couch among French friends, chills of anticipation
rushing down my spine, I realized that I was as excited about the results as
they were. I have been carefully following this election, listening to each
candidate, and have come to realize that I am probably more excited about the
French elections that the American ones… I suppose it’s normal, considering
where I call home now. As the two finalists were announced, we all groaned in
despair. We hoped to see right-leaning incumbent president Sarkozy eliminated
in the first round, but alas, he took a close second to Socialist candidate
François Hollande. We exchanged nervous glances. This is going to be a close
one. How ever were we going to survive two agonizing weeks before the second
election?
A few days
ago, relaxing on the couch watching the news with Sam, my French boyfriend, we
learned that President Sarkozy himself would be holding a rally in Toulouse that afternoon.
Sam glanced at me and said, “We’re going.”
Already aware
of his less than favorable views on Sarko, I looked at him as if he was joking.
He wasn’t.
The next
thing I knew, we were crammed among thousands of Sarkozy supporters brandishing
French flags and posters with the slogan “La France Forte” (A strong
France.) On my tiptoes, I managed to steal a few glimpses of the president…
Briefly his arm, a bit of his face, and then a full view of his stunning singer
wife, Carla Bruni.
Several of
my law students were present, some wearing Sarkozy stickers and distributing
literature. They smiled excitedly when they saw me… I averted my eyes. I did
not want to be associated with this man.
The
atmosphere was tense. I have never been to an American Tea Party rally, but
this is probably the closest thing to it. Sarkozy, in top form as a dramatic
orator, cultivated an ambiance of fear and mistrust, proclaiming that France would become the next Greece should
his opponent Hollande be elected. He then moved on to the subject of
strengthening French borders and removing France’s participation in the
Schengen Agreement.
From there,
playing on the emotions of an eager crowd, he went on to discuss his plan to
reduce the number of immigrants in France by half in his next term, to prevent
immigrants from entering French territory without speaking fluent French first,
and to protect the rich history of France. He went on to extol the virtues of
French cuisine, history, language, arts, culture and of course, the Christian
faith (odd to mention religion in a supposedly secular country.) He went on to
explain how immigrants were threatening these core values, and that they were
failing to integrate properly into the French way of life.
The crowd,
pushing and shoving, a literal sweat box, jeered at the mention of immigrants
in France.
A man next to me proclaimed loudly “ François Hollande, president des
immigrés!” (the immigrants’ president.) Every now and then someone fainted from
the suffocating heat, and had to be carried out. Every time that happened, the
spectators inched forward to take that person’s place. The tirade against
immigration continued. He did not even try to mask his disdain for North
African Muslims. I was simply appalled by practically everything that came out of
his mouth, and even more by the exultant reaction of his supporters, who hung
on his every bigoted word.
I dared not
speak out loud, for fear that my foreign accent would provoke a mob-like
reaction. I glanced at Sam, whose mouth was tightly clenched, eyes blazing with
rage. It was all he could do to keep himself under control.
Tears
brimmed in my eyes despite myself. The crowd was chanting anti-immigrant slurs,
and Sarkozy seemed to be feeding off their energy, his voice soaring above the
cheers. I looked around at the people in the crowd, trying to understand why
they hated me so much, just because I was foreign. It was impossible not to
take it personally.
The crowd
occasionally erupted into orgasmic applause, frantically waving their flags. I
stared at the tricolor flag I have come to know and love as much as my own
stars and stripes, and suddenly, I didn’t recognize it.
“I know it’s
difficult for you to be here, but you need to see that there is not just one France. There
are two.” Sam whispered in my ear.
Indeed,
this is nothing new. I have always believed in two radically different Americas, both
considering themselves patriotic. I suppose it should be no different in France.
As the
speech came to a conclusion, the crowd began to wave their flags and sing an
impassioned version of “La Marseillaise.”
One of my
most cherished dreams is to sing the French national anthem after receiving my
own flag at a French citizenship ceremony. Becoming French… Just the thought brings me
shivers of joy. That’s why it killed me so much to see the flag and national
hymn hijacked in a way, and used as instruments of discrimination and hate. This
is the atmosphere I would have imagined in France in the 1930s, not in 2012!
We trudged
out of the arena, a bit deflated by the whole ordeal, when we were stopped by
security forces. We were behind a barricade, and were told we would have to
wait until Monsieur le President had left the venue before we could walk home.
After nearly an hour under the intense Toulouse
sun, biting our tongues amid the pro-Sarko chatter, a heavily escorted black
vehicle passed by. In the back seat were the president and his celebrity wife,
waving to the people behind the barricade, probably three meters away from us,
close enough to make eye contact. I noticed a brief interruption in his
plastered-on politician’s smile, and noticed a hint of confusion on his face.
I turned to
Sam just in time to see his defiant middle finger displayed in all its glory
before the horrified face of the President of France. A few second later, the
car had continued on, but there is no way the gesture went unnoticed.
After the barricades were removed, we chuckled the whole way home over Sam’s candid
message to the president, but inside, our stomachs were churning with
uncertainty. The idea of five more years of Sarkozy frightens me very much, as
an immigrant, as a resident of France.
Last night’s
televised debate between Sarkozy and Hollande was riveting. All I can do is
wait and hope that the people with the right to vote will choose Hollande,
which would make my life a lot easier.
Hollande
will be speaking in Toulouse
this evening. His posters and stage are already set up. “Le changement. C’est
maintenant,” a party slogan reminiscent of Obama’s Change mantra during the
2008 campaign has me filled with hope. However, after seeing how Sarkozy excels
at public speaking and mobilizing large numbers of supporters, I am unable to
predict a winner.
It will be a close election, and, not having the right to vote in France,
I feel powerless… I hope one day to have this privilege.
The longer
I live here, the more French I become, the more I crave involvement in the
country I have chosen out of pure love.
I hope
Hollande is right.
Change is
now.
We managed to inch our way into this doorway, but never made it inside.
The crowd listening outside the arena.
Sarkozy's right-leaning slogan "la France Forte"
I managed to get this shot of Carla Bruni, but but unfortunately my shot of Sarko was blurry.
The President's car leaving the venue.
Sarko's right hand waves as his car pulls away...
