Michael R. Marrus is a professor emeritus of Holocaust Studies at the University of Toronto and co-author, with Robert O. Paxton, of Vichy France and the Jews.
Were the marches across France of some four million people last Sunday, January 11, in sympathetic identification with the massacred journalists of Charlie Hebdo, patrons of a kosher supermarket and three police officers, an "historic moment" in the history of the country? The eminently serious Le Monde, France's center-left daily, posed this question a few days ago to some of the country's most eminent historians. A Canadian historian of France myself, and having been in the streets with my wife that afternoon, I offer a few observations of my own, seasoned by conversations with dozens of French co-demonstrators.
Getting there was an experience in itself. It turned out to be easy to find one's way to the assembly point of some 1.6 million people, as the police later estimated. The closer my wife and I got to the Place de la République, the more the tributaries of small side streets of the Marais quarter of Paris thickened with marchers, all heading toward the huge square, at the centre of which is a monumental statue of Marianne, the national symbol of the French republic – an allegory of reason and liberty, holding aloft in one hand an olive branch, a symbol of peace, and bearing in the other a tablet with the words Droits de l'Homme – human rights. Approaching the square before the march was to begin, the mood of the crowd shifted palpably. From afar, participants seemed out for a quiet Sunday stroll, but people seemed progressively uninhibited the closer we came to Marianne, onto which dozens of athletic demonstrators had climbed. Having set out in a mood of grim political commitment, we felt an exuberant anticipation – and then, as we entered the Place de la République itself, a joyous but defiant expression of collective commitment. There were no leaders. The idea, in these kinds of French demonstrations, is not speeches, but rather the march itself. From the crowd itself, packed into the huge expanse and waiting for the passage to the Place de la Nation, begin, emerged periodic chants of "Charlie!" "Liberté!" and of course the Marseillaise, the blood-curdling (to the non-French, at least) French national anthem and its historic association with the French Revolutionary year, 1792. There were relatively few signs, but a profusion of small slips of paper, fastened as badges. The most common declared that the wearers "were" Charlie. Some said simply, "I am not afraid." Others proclaimed messages of what we call "multiculturalism" in Canada. Many denounced anti-Semitism. I saw thousands brandishing pens and pencils, championing what we are much more skittish about than the French, namely "liberté d'expression" – in this case the full-throated support for those who paid a supreme price for the right to vent critical views of others' revered beliefs.
Was this great demonstration a flash in the pan? Unsurprisingly, this opinion was unrepresented and few seem to have given much though to what effect the demonstrations would have. Politicians do not have a strong popular following in this country, and even though the President, François Holland, is deemed to have handled things well in recent days, his unpopularity is at record levels. Over all, it seems to me, people turned out because they wanted to be there, and needed to express themselves. At one point, as the crush of the crowd intensified, my wife commented to an elderly lady that standing up for liberté was not always easy. (Both women are rather short, not helpful in large crowds.) "Mais oui Madame," she replied, "but we have to do it. It's important." Sustaining us through the afternoon was a rich display of good humor. This is a difficult impression to document, but it was nevertheless palpable. Jokes, scraps of political wisdom, the evident conviviality among people and cultures not always familiar – all of this warmed participants through a cold and sometimes rainy, grey afternoon. Muslims were certainly evident, as were flag-bearing young and old from North African countries. Among the most exuberant, in our sector, were about a hundred Kurds, among the few national groups to march together. Most demonstrators did not, however, mass together under the banner of some collectivity – school, trade union, or political party. Rather, identity was individualistic, in keeping with the slogans of unity and "republican" values, the cause of the day. A hand-written leaflet pinned to a neighbor I saw was, "I am Charlie, a Muslim, a Policeman . . . and I eat kosher!"
So will people remember, years from now, this event as a moment of historic significance for France? No one knows for sure, not even the learned historians who gave their views to Le Monde. But however it turns out, there is no doubt that hundreds of thousands were deeply moved by what we all witnessed. In their great scale and unmistakable generosity, the gatherings that afternoon were unprecedented for France – and would be for any country, anywhere. (Paris had not seen such a rassemblement, it was said, since its liberation from German occupation in 1944.) In its unity of focus and affiliation – expressed in the oft heard if undefined expression of "republican values," and appeals to "fraternity," and "solidarity" in the cause of freedom, the day was a powerful call for national resolve. Whatever direction France takes in its grappling with terrorism, anti-Semitism and intolerance, people in the future will test its achievements against commitments expressed on January 11, 2015. On that, at least, the French historians seemed to agree.