The Night that Paris Caught on Fire
A photo essay on social unrest in the City of Light
If there’s one thing about France that I’ll never get my head around, it’s the culture of protest. Though I’ve lived in France on and off for about three years and have participated in — or rather, have been present at — my fair share of protests, I’ve never really enjoyed them. That’s not to say I think protests are unimportant or unworthy in any way; my disposition just doesn’t seem to suit them.
So no matter how hard I try to integrate into French culture, no matter how much I try to blend into the crowd, every time I’ve been in a protest, I’ve come away with the realisation that, yeah nah, I’m just not French. There’s a yawning gap between my cultural identity and French culture that’s the length of a demonstration. The idea of shouting slogans in the streets is simply alien to my way of being, and no amount of protesting has made it feel any more normal.
Of course, you might be wondering why on earth I’m going to protests at all. The truth is that most of the time I don’t plan to attend them. I just happen to find myself getting swept up in them at the most random moments. Because when you live in France, as I’ve come to discover, even if you don’t plan to participate in protests, you can’t get away from them. They sneak up on you when you…
