Paris, November 14, 2015

On the evening of Saturday, November 14, I stood amongst the quiet crowd outside the La Belle Equipe restaurant on rue de Charonne in the 11th arrondissement of Paris, an ethnically mixed neighborhood of wonderful small restaurants and a lively yet relaxed nightlife.

All was calm this time, a bit somber, a bit reflective. The restaurant was shuttered. Nineteen people had been killed there the night before in a terrorist attack. Eleven of the victims had been celebrating the birthday of a waitress from a nearby restaurant, the French-born daughter of Tunisian immigrants. The Jewish owner of the restaurant survived; his Muslim wife did not.

People lit vigil candles in the dark night, and left flowers and signs of their support, their prayers, and their hopes. There was no uniformed police presence; no yellow police tape, no barricades, no flashing lights or sirens. Each person could make their own peace with what had happened, could share an intimate moment together with strangers and friends who now shared a bond of sorrow and redemption.

There was something affirming about the moment, in its very informality and openness, as if to say that, indeed, life would go on, and Paris would be Paris, and people would still gather in the nights and days ahead, to share a drink, a conversation, and a handshake or kiss with neighbors and those passing through, somehow all sharing something special in the quiet dark.