Performers take part in the Champions Park medallists celebrations in front of the Eiffel Tower on Aug. 5.Stephanie Lecocq/Reuters
Vivian Song is a writer based in Paris.
Over the past two weeks, amid the euphoria and exuberance of the Olympic Games here in Paris, I haven’t been able to shake an unsettling, nagging feeling that lodged itself firmly in the pit of my stomach.
I couldn’t quite put a finger on it at first. Unlike the many Parisians who had been moaning bitterly for years about the arrival of the Games and beat a hasty and haughty retreat (and later regretted it), I understood early that by virtue of being a Paris resident, I had the once in a lifetime opportunity to experience a shining moment in French history. I was so enthusiastic, in fact, that a year earlier, I applied to become a Paris volunteer and am, proudly, one of the 45,000 people who have donated their time and labour to make the Games a success.
Last week, I attended my first Olympic sporting event, women’s basketball, as a spectator and cheered loudly for any and all athletes, whatever the country.
But in the days after the furor of the opening ceremonies, and with the unbridled enthusiasm of the French crowds, I began to understand what I was feeling.
It was my inability as a Korean-Canadian immigrant who has lived in Paris for 14 years to reconcile the portrayal of France as a beacon of diversity, inclusivity and tolerance to the world, with the truth that lurks beneath.
Just weeks before, in snap parliamentary elections that plunged the country into political chaos, France was on the brink of voting in a far-right government.
In the first round of voting, the country’s anti-immigration party, the National Rally, took the early lead and captured 33 per cent of the vote. Though they were blocked from an absolute majority in the second round thanks to tactical manoeuvring from the other parties, this means that one in three voters in France look at people like me, a visible minority immigrant, with some measure of suspicion, bitterness and disdain and have no qualms about aligning themselves with a party that casts Blacks, Muslims and migrants as second-class humans.
Case in point: When news broke earlier this year that French-Malian singer Aya Nakamura, the most streamed female Francophone artist in the world, was tapped to perform an Edith Piaf song in the opening ceremonies, a tide of angry, racist vitriol flooded social media. In one poll, 63 per cent of respondents were opposed to her singing at the opening ceremonies.
Some claimed the artist’s use of slang and her propensity to make up new words was the reason for their opposition. But as many pundits point out, some of France’s most beloved singer-songwriters, including Serge Gainsbourg and France Gall, have done the same, playing with words and language as part of their art. But when a Black woman from a colonial African country does it, it’s considered linguistic blasphemy? Or is it that for some French people, Ms. Nakamura, does not represent France because she is not the right colour, or not French enough?
Ms. Nakamura did not perform an Edith Piaf song. Instead, against the backdrop of the Académie Française, an institution established in 1635 as the guardian and protector of the French language, she performed her own hits with the support of the Republican Guard. The performance was rich in symbolism and a defiant middle finger to the far-right.
So, too, were scenes of the controversial great banquet featuring drag queens and the infamous nearly nude blue man. In response to the outrage of Christian conservatives who misinterpreted the scene as a mockery of The Last Supper, artistic director Thomas Jolly said the tableau was meant to convey “inclusion, kindness, generosity and solidarity.” One of the recurring reactions among international viewers was that the celebration of inclusion was just delightfully French.
But that is a misreading. While the ceremony promoted the romanticism of French tolerance and inclusion, in reality, these values apply to some, and not to others. As part of the country’s stand on secularism, French sprinter Sounkamba Sylla was nearly forced to bow out of the Games owing to a hijab ban on Muslim athletes competing for France during the Olympics.
Throughout the past two weeks, the running joke among the French is that the uncharacteristically raucous and joyful ambience is because many of the most cynical, grumpiest Parisian doomsayers who warned of havoc and bedlam (which never came) have left the city. Of the estimated 15 million tourists, more than 80 per cent are French attendees, most of whom have travelled from around the country to attend the Games.
And while the atmosphere in the city has been feverishly festive with thunderous cheers for their athletes, I can’t quiet the thought that some of the exhilaration among the French fans around me is rooted in a love for France that comes at the exclusion and contempt of others.
That while it’s been all fun and good for two weeks, the Games are nothing more than a short intermission. And that once the last of the Olympic venues come down and the crescendo of excitement subsides, the suspicions, bickering and finger-pointing will resume.
Too cynical a take? You could say that in some ways, that makes me more French than ever.