So, today started out really nice and lazy. I woke up nice and slow, read for a little while in bed, then decided to go into town for lunch. After a quick lunch, the plan was to go ride the cable car up the mountain and enjoy a nice vista of the Jura. However, things changed once a dozen, blue police vans whizzed past. The police maintain a very, very low profile in Geneva (and in Switzerland, in general) so the odds of going for weeks without seeing any are high. Needless to say, seeing SWAT vans fly by was a bit unusual. I look down the street and see a protest making its way down Rue de Mont-Blanc, and then I remembered what was going on: there was protest of the WTO Ministerial Meeting. The World Trade Organization is headquartered in Geneva, just like many other major international organizations, though it's easy to forget they're there sometimes.
It's important to point out that most of the protesters opted for peaceful means to demonstrate for their cause, and that it was a select few (few meaning probably around 100-200 out of the supposed 2,000+ people) who caused problems. That being said, the problems were definitely there. The Geneva police force seemed well prepared for it though I, of course, was not.
I walked down the street to take a look at the noise and saw what looked to be over a 1,000, later confirmed to have been over 2,000, people marching across the bridge and into the northern part of the city. I saw about 4 tractors pulling floats and effigies of figures I didn't recognize, as well as numerous flags and banners airing grievances against the WTO and the general, global community. After the tractors passed, things got out of hand. I heard a car alarm go off, then began to smell something burning. Black smoke began billowing from behind a large crowd and, by this time, I had positioned myself behind the police barricade that had formed to keep the protest from getting into the square I was eating lunch. Bright red flames began to billow out of a brand new Mercedes-Benz, and three other cars were ignited next to it. Soon, riot police were running towards the location and I was backing away. That was a little much for me, really. Sirens could be heard converging on our location from all over the city. I took a few pictures with my phone (it was all I had on me, because my point and shoot is broken, sorry for the poor photo quality) and then moved on to a safer, less chaotic and smoke filled, place.
For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, the public transit was out of whack and police were out in full force. I have never seen anyone in full riot gear before, much less an angry mob burning cars, so it was a spectacle. I can't say I understand either ways of manifesting (the French word for protest is "manifestation," by the way) their frustrations with the WTO, though. The peaceful protesters banners said all sorts of constructive things, ranging from "The WTO is Bad" to "Stop the violence in Darfur!" While I certainly agree that the violence in Darfur is bad, the WTO doesn't have much to do with that. A lot of the things being yelled and protested about weren't related to the WTO at all...it just seems as though some people live for a good protest. The violent protesters are a little easier to criticize. Burning up people's cars and smashing the storefronts of innocent people doesn't seem like the best way to further an agenda of progress, though the "black bloc" activists are supposedly anarchists. So I guess they don't really care.
The Swiss were very prompt in their deployment of street sweepers to clean up the mess, though. Once night fell, most of the trash had been picked up. Unfortunately, store owners and four car owners will be beginning the clean up process tomorrow.
Needless to say, all of this was a lot of excitement. I met up with some friends and watched a bit of football (European football) before heading back to the John Knox Center. The transportation was all out of whack, but we made it safe and sound. Thank goodness, because I've been looking forward to cleaning my room.
Before I continue, I will finish updating the rest of my blog and will make another post with links to the corresponding days. Thanks for reading, friends and family (and strangers, too).
On the shores of Normandy, where the hedgerows still stand and the wind bites to the core, there stands a tribute to the valor of our soldiers during D-Day and World War II.
I don't really know how to appropriately begin writing on my visit to Normandy, in particular Omaha Beach and the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial. On the train ride from Geneva to Bayeux, I could feel my gut twisting up inside of me as the kilometers passed by outside the windows of the TGV and regional trains. Soon, mountains gave way to fields, fields gave way to Paris, and Paris gave way to the rolling and hilly countryside. Another Davidson student on the program, Hubie, and myself made our way to a hotel (our original one was inexplicably closed early) and went to bed. That night, before going to sleep, I read online about the shootings at Fort Hood. That night, prayers for the soldiers who were killed in Texas were said along with a little one of preparation. A heavy day lay in wait.
We caught the bus shortly before lunch time (which we skipped, oblivious to time and hunger) and rode through the countryside to Colleville-sur-Mer. Hedgerows and pastures welcomed us to the Norman countryside and, in all seriousness, I could almost picture the US soldiers fighting and crawling in the mud in their attempts to breach the rows of trees and German soldiers.
The friendly bus driver, who knew we didn't speak the best French, beckoned for us when we reached the gates of the American cemetery. He smiled and told is when to get off, and then wished us a good day. Sometimes, when you interact with someone even on the smallest of levels, you can tell that they are genuine and nice person. We stepped off the bus, and I was immediately overwhelmed with emotion.
Walking towards the visitors center, I could see two large flagpoles with American flags flapping in the strong, Norman winds. I could also catch a glimpse of the large statue through the trees, but I waited to visit that until after the main center. Walking inside and through security, we were met by a very friendly team of French security guards and memorial guides, as well as an American man managing the site. Before going downstairs and entering the main exhibit, I noticed a computer in the corner that allows you to view the records of all who have perished in American wars and where they are interned, if they are buried in an American military cemetery. I paused and looked up my great grandfather's citation, and it is pictured below.
After watching a beautiful and moving film about the lives of soldiers who were killed storming Omaha Beach, I visited the rest of the exhibit. It highlighted all the preparations, the incredibly and near insurmountable odds the soldiers were to face, and individual stories of heroism and sacrifice. Then, at the end of the timeline, I passed through a simple hallway. What a picture cannot capture are two things: the emotionless recording of every name of every soldier killed in the D-Day landings echoing through the hallway and the chills that move to your very core as you here each man's name reverberating off the cold, concrete walls.
The exhibit then changed dramatically, consisting of two large and plain, white rooms with glass placards that shared more stories of sacrifice and valor during the battle. A weapon and helmet stand alone amongst a patch of stones from the beach, and the exhibit ends with a pathway leading out to the hills over the beach. Before you leave, there is a guest book that is filled with messages of peace and remembrance by visitors from all over the world.
An informative tour with a wonderful, French tour guide followed (in English) that consisted of Hubie, the tour guide, the head American guide, and myself. It was hard to focus at times, because the scene and everything that surrounded me was overwhelming. To my right were the waves gently breaking on the shore, and to my left were thousands of crosses and thousands of bodies of thousands of men who, fighting not just for their own liberty but for that of everyone, died on the very soil upon which I was standing. My words cannot do justice to everything that I was privileged to see, so I hope these pictures can make up for my lack of description.
After walking amongst the headstones I approached the memorial statue and the wall of the missing. Inscribed on the wall are the names of 1,557 servicemen (and a few women) who lots there lives but their remains were never found. There are 307 unknown soldiers buried in the cemetery as well. One of my favorite things about this site is the inscription around the base of the statue, which I tried to photograph: "Mine eyes have seen the Glory of the coming of the Lord."
After the memorial statue and wall, I walked down to the beach. Walking down the hill and onto the same beach that our soldiers ran, crawled, fought and died on amongst the sea and the sand and the blood was one of the single most moving moments for me this semester.
The beach is different now than it was then. Paths of the trenches still remain, as do remains of the bunkers. Now, though, we have polished stone footpaths and boardwalks to get out to the beach that thousands fought and died to capture. There are benches for us to sit on and think about the literal uphill struggle they all endured.
My Dad wrote this to me in an email he sent while I was in Normandy:
"When you look across the beach think of those thousands of Americans who stormed across the beach when the landing craft ramps dropped. Many were rural folk who, before the war, had never left their home-place or town. Some could barely read or write. Few knew anything about Europe and couldn't find Normandy on a map. Our friend from Clarksville, TN came in with 1st Division on D-day. He told me he never had a pair shoes year round 'til he joined the Army. On the other hand, Pres T. Roosevelt's son was there as assistant division commander of 4th Division at Omaha. He was technically too old to serve but used his family influence early on to go. As a Brigadier General he was the first general officer to land at Omaha Beach and was awarded the Medal of Honor for personally rallying the early assault waves that were pinned down by German fire."
Those thoughts and more were racing through my mind as I stood on the beach, the waves breaking gently just meters away from me. I don't know if there is a better word for how I felt - humbled, quiet, moved, at peace - than "proud." Proud of those who died in Normandy, in Europe, in the Pacific, and proud of those who gave their lives later in our nation's history and proud of all who have served.
On the shores of Normandy, where the hedgerows still stand and the wind bites to the core, there is a cross standing testimony to the courage and spirit exemplified by each young man and woman who died to secure not just a beachhead, but freedom from tyranny and injustice. I'm lucky that I could go and pay my respects and give my thanks, but I consider myself even luckier to be a part of our great nation.
