Just an arithmetic question?

Two numbers: 272; 1555.
Let’s do some math: 1555, it’s 5.71 times more than 272.
1555-255= 1283.

The good thing with mathematics is that figures don’t lie; figures don’t take side; 1555 is a far greater figure than 272. It is undeniable.

And still. Still. When you shed some humanity on these figures, they lose their stone-like immutable quality, they start to dangerously falter, stumble toward the elusive, the scurvy.

1555 days and nights of incomprehension, fear, anger, hope, depression, pain, longing, screams, tears, forlornness, and pain again and again.
272 days and nights filled with the same fear and pain.
And still. Still it seems that for the French media, despite the arithmetic, 272 is a far greater figure than 1555.

Why? Because 272 is the number of days and nights so far spent in captivity by two French journalists (Stephane Taponier and Herve Guequiere) abducted by the Taliban somewhere in Afghanistan while they were trying to do their job.
Why? Because 1555 is the number of days and nights so far spent in captivity by Gilad Shalit, (who is also a French citizen), brutally abducted by the Hamas on the Israeli side of the border between Israel and Gaza while he was trying to do his job.

So what? The French international TV, TV5 monde (whose political line well reflects the main political line of the other French TV channels) has the portrait of both journalists incrusted in its screen during each news report; the portraits of both journalists are on display on the facades of numerous French town halls; demonstrations, meetings on their favor are regularly held; TV5 monde doesn’t bother displaying Gilad’s portrait on its screen; to my knowledge, the city hall of the 16th arrondissement in Paris is the only one displaying Gilad’s portrait.

Let’s go back to TV5 monde, that covers almost on a daily basis the situation in the Middle-East: last week, Mohammed Kaci (one of the regular anchormen of the TV station) interviewed the mother of a Palestinian-French citizen (Salah Hammouri) imprisoned in Israel for having tried to commit a terrorist act. Here is what, among other things, he asked her:

" - When is the last time you saw your son?
- I saw him for the last time on September 12 [2010] since I can see him twice a month for 45 mn; the visits are supervised by the Red Cross”
- How is he treated in prison?
- They are 8 by cell; he spends his time as he can; you know, in jail, there is not much to do, so he tries to read and to study.”

Oh, that’s very sad, that the mother of a convicted terrorist can only see her son twice a month and that all he can do while doing his time is read and study! It is really worth wasting some “on air” time!

Now, I would have liked these journalists to interview Aviva Shalit and ask her the same questions:
“- Aviva Shalit, when is the last time you saw your son?
To which she would probably answer: I haven’t seen him since June 2… 2006.
- How is he treated by his captors?
To which, nobody can answer. Because for Gilad, there are no visitation day, no Red Cross supervision, no packages, no letters, no medicine to be sent to. Nobody knows how he spends his time; if he is allowed to read, to study; these preoccupations even seem completely surreal applied to Gilad; for we don’t even know if he is given any basic human right, such as seeing the light; being fed regularly; being talked to…

So what?
TV5monde, as do most of the main French medias, has just proved one more time the depth of its bias when it comes to anything related to Israel. Spending time on a terrorist, deliberately ignoring the fate of Gilad Shalit and systematically inviting biased interviewees [for the French readers, see Alain Gresh’s blog, invited last week also], that seems to be one of their major missions.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t count the days for Stephane Taponier and Herve Guequiere, but we should also, in the same measure, count them for Gilad Shalit, whose detention is as unfair and as horrible as theirs.

And yet, 1555 is a far greater figure than 272. It is undeniable.

On (American) football and the French literary prizes season

For someone coming from outer space, similarities between the U.S and France, at first sight, would probably prevail over differences: both countries are to be counted among the luckiest on earth, meaning the ones with a true –but, of course, imperfect- democracy; with a very enviable GDP, with some (angry) bike commuters; with a permanent seat at the U.N security council; with a government generally composed of fiftyish white men wearing dark-colored suits and the occasional running shorts (usually at the beginning of their term); with some record of excellence in several sports (basketball here, soccer there-did I hear someone snorting?! Wait for the next World Cup, you’ll see!); with a high literacy rate, with a compassionate health care system…(oops, almost forgot to strike this one out…)

Of course, a person from outer space with his/her incredible brain would quickly notice that we certainly don’t speak the same way and, more importantly, that we don’t eat the same way. But he /she would probably not be instantly aware of all the “petites” differences, extravagances that make our countries so deeply alien to each other. Like the one ( I have a very long list that I intend to explore in this blog) concerning the seasons. Just consider the fall season: here, in the U.S, most people get excited by the start of the new season of their beloved TV series, and more can’t wait for the start of the new (American) football season. It is almost impossible, for someone owning a TV and/or a radio, to escape any of them. Ads overflow magazines’ and newspapers’ pages. In France, people certainly do get also excited by the start of new TV shows and by the succession of strikes/demonstrations that also pertain to the fall season. But in France, the season that resonates as much as the football season here is…the literary prizes season, la rentrée littéraire. As some of you might already know, France, since it s first piece of literature written in 880 (La sequence de Sainte Eulalie, written in roman language), has always had a love affair with its literature and its authors. And still has. To the point that any celebrity (be it a politician, a TV anchorwoman, a soccer player –yes, even a soccer player-, an actor and so on…), when sufficiently connected, will publish a novel. It is the ultimate way to prove to yourself and to the world that indeed, you are someone, “ Un honnete homme”.
No wonder, then, that the season in which literary prizes are awarded is of such importance. Any respectable newspaper, magazine, TV show have to talk about it, and sometimes as early as mid-August, when about half of the population (the half that was working in July) is still perfecting its tan on the beaches of Saint-Tropez or Sainte-Maxime. Bookstores struggle to find room for both textbooks and the ton of new books being published in September: for, even an avid, glutton reader can easily be swallowed by all these new tiltles waiting to be read. Why publishing so many books at the same time? Because in October-November, the most famous literary prizes for the French-speaking world are awarded, just in time to make it to the gift-list of the holiday’s season.

And the competition is as fierce as on a football field. In fact, curiously, it looks a lot like football. Let me try to explain: there are some teams, the publishing houses; some are well-established, ruthless, jealous of their reputation, ready to crush the unexpected and truly gifted rookie writer unfortunately drafted by the rival team; rumors about this season’s shape of a famous quarterback are let out during the summer (this year, it’s Flammarion’s famous quarterback, Michel Houellebecq, whose condition has been repeatedly said to be excellent, better than ever); and of course, the literary prizes season has its Super Bowl, le Prix Goncourt (1). Normally, you can only receive it once (2), and it is a tremendous honor to be its recipient. Better than the Goncourt, in the literary world, there is only the Academie Francaise and the Nobel Prize of literature. And, for the winning publisher, it’s like winning at the lottery. So it explains why the competition is so fierce.

Bref, for almost three months, all the intellectual France, from the literary sections on high-school to the terraces of the cafe Flore are fluttering. There are the pro-Houellebecq, the pro-Amelie Nothomb (3)and the anti-; the ones that only swear by the name of that unknown genius published by that non-less unknown provincial publishing house (tu sais, mon cheri, ils publient aussi en province!)(4) Even if they also all know that sometimes, the name of the publishing house is more important than the name of the author…

However, as in a good football season, despite all prognoses, everything can still change during the last game: the jurors of the Prix Goncourt always have lunch (the French-style lunch, lasting at least two hours)(5) in Paris’ famous Drouant restaurant, where they cast their votes as many times as necessary to get a winner. Some jurors change their mind at the last minute or the expected winner is finally beaten by the unknown writer. Or sometimes, it seems that the jury wishes to demonstrate its true independence by awarding the prize to an author who doesn’t belong to the Parisian cenacle (these past few years, the prize has been awarded to a Senegalese writer (6) , an Iranian writer (7) and an American writer (8) ; all writing in French, cela va de soi. This might not happen this year, since except for one writer (9) , all of them are French or Belgian. But the jury may decide to embrace again the feminism cause and give the Goncourt one more time to a female writer, Virginie Despentes (not likely) or Amelie Nothomb (more likely).

What would our friend from outer space conclude from this? Would he/she prefer to watch every football game of the season or read all the books of the Goncourt’s list? Or would he/she just pack and go home, planning to come back when the season is finally over?!



(1) Le prix Goncourt was named and created by two very literary brothers, les frères Jules et Edmond de Goncourt, who wrote a famous journal in the second half of the XIX century; they were good friends of Maupassant and not so good friends of Zola…

(2) With the exception of Romain Gary, who received it twice: the first time for his novel “Les Racines du Ciel”, in 1956 under his real iterary name and the second time for “La vie devant soi”, in 1975, under the pseudonym of Emile Ajar.

(3) This year in competition for her novel Une forme de vie, published by Albin Michel.

(4) You know, dear, they also have publishing houses in the country! –meaning outside of Paris…

(5) Here is last year menu : terrine de gibier aux truffes et foie gras, crème de marrons à la poule faisane, bar poché au jus iodé de coquillages, tatin de légumes, perdreau gris et pommes au lard, munster, tatin aux coings et glace vanille. Côté vins, champagne blanc de blancs, Puligny Montrachet 2006, Château Rauzan Ségla 2003, Riesling Schlumberger, Tokay Azu 2000. Who wouldn’t want to become a juror, just for the meal?

(6) Marie N’Diaye, for Trois femmes puissantes, 2009.

(7) Atiq Rahimi, for Syngue Sabour, pierre de patience, 2008.

(8) Jonathan Littell, for Les Bienveillantes, 2006.

(9) The Moroccan writer Fouad Laroui, Une annee chez les francais.

An introductory note to my readers.

As Montaigne warning his readers that they shouldn't waste their time in such a "frivolous and vain subject" ("ce n'est pas raison que tu emploies ton loisir en un sujet si frivole et si vain"), I also must warn my readers that my blog has no other purpose but to entertain myself, to delude myself with the idea that I, too, can write...about literature...movies...politics...religion...family...how to survive in the U.S when you are from the Old Continent...and more. Quel bazar en perspective! (what a mess, indeed!)
 Adieu donc.