Immigration: I Live in New York. France Should Be Inspired by This Tower of Babel
Published in Le Nouvel Observateur
(France) on 2 June 2014
by Sandrine Kukurudz (link to original)
(France) on 2 June 2014
by Sandrine Kukurudz (link to original)
Translated from
by Taylor S. Hammer.
Edited by Gillian Palmer.
The National Front Party just received 25 percent of the vote in the last European elections. Sandrine Kukurudz lives in New York where she inquires about the causes of this result. Why does communitarianism sound like such a bad thing to the French? Why be afraid of it? These are the questions that our contributor takes on.
“When I was a child, there were no Jews, Arabs or Christians … There were only friends.” On reading this sentence on Facebook this week, I had the unpleasant feeling that something was effectively broken in France. Inter-community tensions have effectively dug a pit and made the France of our childhood a sweet and distant memory. Everyone has come to detest himself or herself in the France of 2014.
22 Floors and As Many Nations
However, it is possible to have good relations between communities. New York has succeeded in this, even if many neighborhoods are still ghettoized and many ethnic groups wish to remain among themselves. So what? What if we didn’t feel the need to integrate immigrants by force so that the following generation will feel perfectly assimilated?
I live in Queens, one of the outer boroughs of New York City. Here the whole world lives together.
In my 22-story building, I greet all the nations of the world and rub shoulders with people in saris, chadors and yarmulkes. In my building, no one exchanges hateful looks, highlights their difference from the others, or dares to complain about the fragrances of spicy cuisines. Each lives alongside the other, respectful of the other’s differences and traditions.
It is the same at school. My daughter is the only Western European in her class. Her friends are Russians and Hispanics, Chinese and Italians, Filipinos and Pakistanis. Each one speaks the language of his or her parents and the English of their country of birth.
Hanukkah, Christmas, Chinese New Year
These children are Americans by day, and by night go back to their languages, cuisines and centuries-old cultures. They recount their histories, speak of their customs, and are rather proud of their origins. At school, one celebrates Hanukkah, Chinese New Year and Christmas at nearly the same time.
Mr. Lee, the math teacher, came in traditional clothing to celebrate the new year of his country of origin. The art teacher, a Hindu, celebrated his festival of colors as they do in India, to the delight of his students. During Black History Month and Hispanic History Month, they explain the traditions and histories of these communities, and the students from these cultures bring the foods of their respective country, which they then share with their classmates.
But what about headscarves? It is not really a problem in Manhattan. But rather, in the country which endured Sept. 11, paradoxically, it does not bother anyone in the street. Even street vendors serve halal food on every corner. And yarmulkes? The orthodox Jews with their black clothes are in every neighborhood, making up a part the décor of the city. Pakistanis? It will almost certainly be one of them who charges you for your ride in the yellow cab, at least if it’s not a Persian speaking his own musical language.
For me, the European cheese and fish mongers are Chinese, my pharmacist is Filipino, my sommelier is Irish, and my butcher is French. And every day, I experience the luxury of living in this tower of Babel where each speaks his or her own language as well as that of another.
Communitarianism? But Where Is the Problem?
In France, one might contradict me with the idea that this American communitarianism is intolerable. Perhaps — but if it’s the first stage in integration, why not? All of the children who come out of this generation of immigrants are little Americans, whatever the shape of their eyes or the color of their skin may be.
If their parents needed to create a Chinatown, a Russian neighborhood or a Korean quarter in the very heart of New York City, it was perhaps in order to not feel foreign in the land of Uncle Sam. Of course, this “familial” cocoon preserved them from the incomprehension of the outside world. Their children struggle against this in order to become part of the American people. And they have done so perfectly well.
One need only attend a basketball or soccer game and see all the spectators intone the national anthem in the same voice, hand over the heart. In a country built on immigration, the foreigner is part of the nation. By the way, even we French have a tendency to gather together as French, and feel comfortable sharing a language that we have mastered and a culture which is our own.
In France, where we seek to assimilate all in the name of the Republic, it is necessary to note that in 2014 that does not work as well as some have wished. And this failure is one of the reasons that the National Front Party has been able to capture 25 percent of the votes in the European election.
There are no magic formulas. There is no paradise on earth. But one can learn from lived experience … That’s what I’m doing today, after spending 38 years in France and eight in the United States.
“When I was a child, there were no Jews, Arabs or Christians … There were only friends.” On reading this sentence on Facebook this week, I had the unpleasant feeling that something was effectively broken in France. Inter-community tensions have effectively dug a pit and made the France of our childhood a sweet and distant memory. Everyone has come to detest himself or herself in the France of 2014.
22 Floors and As Many Nations
However, it is possible to have good relations between communities. New York has succeeded in this, even if many neighborhoods are still ghettoized and many ethnic groups wish to remain among themselves. So what? What if we didn’t feel the need to integrate immigrants by force so that the following generation will feel perfectly assimilated?
I live in Queens, one of the outer boroughs of New York City. Here the whole world lives together.
In my 22-story building, I greet all the nations of the world and rub shoulders with people in saris, chadors and yarmulkes. In my building, no one exchanges hateful looks, highlights their difference from the others, or dares to complain about the fragrances of spicy cuisines. Each lives alongside the other, respectful of the other’s differences and traditions.
It is the same at school. My daughter is the only Western European in her class. Her friends are Russians and Hispanics, Chinese and Italians, Filipinos and Pakistanis. Each one speaks the language of his or her parents and the English of their country of birth.
Hanukkah, Christmas, Chinese New Year
These children are Americans by day, and by night go back to their languages, cuisines and centuries-old cultures. They recount their histories, speak of their customs, and are rather proud of their origins. At school, one celebrates Hanukkah, Chinese New Year and Christmas at nearly the same time.
Mr. Lee, the math teacher, came in traditional clothing to celebrate the new year of his country of origin. The art teacher, a Hindu, celebrated his festival of colors as they do in India, to the delight of his students. During Black History Month and Hispanic History Month, they explain the traditions and histories of these communities, and the students from these cultures bring the foods of their respective country, which they then share with their classmates.
But what about headscarves? It is not really a problem in Manhattan. But rather, in the country which endured Sept. 11, paradoxically, it does not bother anyone in the street. Even street vendors serve halal food on every corner. And yarmulkes? The orthodox Jews with their black clothes are in every neighborhood, making up a part the décor of the city. Pakistanis? It will almost certainly be one of them who charges you for your ride in the yellow cab, at least if it’s not a Persian speaking his own musical language.
For me, the European cheese and fish mongers are Chinese, my pharmacist is Filipino, my sommelier is Irish, and my butcher is French. And every day, I experience the luxury of living in this tower of Babel where each speaks his or her own language as well as that of another.
Communitarianism? But Where Is the Problem?
In France, one might contradict me with the idea that this American communitarianism is intolerable. Perhaps — but if it’s the first stage in integration, why not? All of the children who come out of this generation of immigrants are little Americans, whatever the shape of their eyes or the color of their skin may be.
If their parents needed to create a Chinatown, a Russian neighborhood or a Korean quarter in the very heart of New York City, it was perhaps in order to not feel foreign in the land of Uncle Sam. Of course, this “familial” cocoon preserved them from the incomprehension of the outside world. Their children struggle against this in order to become part of the American people. And they have done so perfectly well.
One need only attend a basketball or soccer game and see all the spectators intone the national anthem in the same voice, hand over the heart. In a country built on immigration, the foreigner is part of the nation. By the way, even we French have a tendency to gather together as French, and feel comfortable sharing a language that we have mastered and a culture which is our own.
In France, where we seek to assimilate all in the name of the Republic, it is necessary to note that in 2014 that does not work as well as some have wished. And this failure is one of the reasons that the National Front Party has been able to capture 25 percent of the votes in the European election.
There are no magic formulas. There is no paradise on earth. But one can learn from lived experience … That’s what I’m doing today, after spending 38 years in France and eight in the United States.
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