I now have two issues of the New York Times sitting on my desk that read “Paris Attacked.” The first was from the Charlie Hebdo shooting that happened last spring, and the second was from last Friday, Nov. 13, when France was yet again struck by terrorism. The targets in both attacks were civilians, and the most recent violence not only targeted individuals but also a culture, as a soccer stadium, bars and restaurants became sites of massacre. Fear is not an irrational response to this type of shocking brutality. It is a natural one. I was gripped by its cool hollowness nearly half a world away as I tuned my guitar for a performance that seemed ridiculously innocuous in light of the horrifying live feed on my television screen.
The fear was prevented from turning into pointed anger because I could not name my enemy. I could not give it a face or trace its thought process. I could not understand, no matter how hard I tried, why someone would commit such an inconceivable act of premeditated violence. I wanted to lock my doors, turn off the lights and quietly mourn for the innocent victims of an ideology that defied politics, religion and even logic. Many here in the United States had similar reactions.
Somehow, the terrorism that occurred in Paris last week has evolved into a new debate on the Syrian refugee crises that not only demands a decision from the United States, but also the world. These refugees were stateless far before individuals claiming allegiance to ISIS attacked Paris, and I suspect their placement will remain an issue far after the military threat of ISIS is neutralized. The rhetoric this week, from Republicans and Democrats alike, has included references to these people as a threat, a liability, and even as Dr. Carson called them in his troubling analogy, “rabid dogs.” I have heard the denouncement of refugees for their nationality, their religion and even their age and gender.
I thought back to my ninth grade English class when we read a book called “Farewell to Manzanar” about Japanese internment camps in the U.S. during WWII. What shocked me more than any political debate about the issue ever could have was the response of the narrator, who was a young girl when her family was moved to a camp in California. She was, above all, hopelessly confused. She did not understand the connection her country had drawn between her and the Japanese Empire.
I wonder if there is similar confusion in the minds of the Syrian refugees now as they wait in political limbo for a decision as to whether they should be given the chance to continue to exist or not. I wonder what parents are telling their children about the United States, and whether even they have given up on the consolation, “It will be alright.”
Less than a week after his country was assaulted, President Hollande reminded us, “Life goes on.” France, he said, would continue to take in those fleeing starvation, war and almost certain death in Syria. A new widower, Antoine Leiris, created a powerful online tribute to his partner who was murdered in the Paris attacks, in which he said he and his 17-month-old son were stronger than any army in the world because they would not “give in to hatred.” He said that every single day his son would be an insult to his wife’s killers simply by his “laughter and freedom.”
At the moment, I see an old bravery in France that I do not see in our young United States of America. The majority of Americans are against letting Syrian refugees into our country. Do we dare pursue this sort of cold isolationism while the warm light of individuals like Leiris still burns in mourning? We are a country where nationalism is not exclusively a birthright. We are a country shaped by Ellis Island, by the Civil Rights Movement, by the idea that inclusiveness and diversity are not just a lofty goal but an attainable reality. The face of our enemy cannot be found in the faces of the men, women, and children that compose the refugee populations desperately searching for the mercy of the world. On the contrary, theirs are the faces of would-be Americans, calling on our country to be what it claims to be: a light in a dark time. They are no more guilty of the murder in France than we are, possibly even less so.
It is easy to dehumanize people by using a different label to define them, such as a word rich in connotations like “refugee.” However, it is important to flesh out the actual definition when this tendency seems to become overly consistent in our national rhetoric. Syrian refugees, and all refugees, are people seeking refuge, solace, and hope that they may continue to live even while their homes are being ravaged and destroyed by war. This is not a call for partisanship or compromise; it is a call for compassion. We owe these people nothing but grace, and we should send a message to the world that while we may combat ISIS with soldiers and bombs, our most powerful weapon against an ideology of hate is one of relentless love and pluralistic hope.
Warner Thompson is a senior majoring in history.
