For nearly two kilometers—the length of twenty football fields—the truck plowed through the crowd. The driver, a 31-year-old Tunisian man named Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel, leaned out the window and fired a pistol several times, adding the crack of gunfire to the chaos. Police officers on motorcycles gave chase, their sirens a futile, wailing chorus behind the beast.
That was Bastille Day. Not the celebration of liberty, equality, and fraternity, but the night a white truck turned a holiday promenade into a battlefield. It was the moment the sweet sugar of a chichi turned to ash on the tongue. It was the summer the French Riviera learned that the devil does not need a bomb—just a steering wheel, a rented truck, and a long, straight road full of innocent people heading home. Bastille Day -2016-
At 22:30, the first rocket shot into the black velvet sky. For twenty-three glorious minutes, the crowd gasped and applauded. The finale was a thunderous cascade of gold and silver, a weeping willow of light that seemed to hang in the air for a long, silent moment before fading to smoke. The symphony orchestra on the stage by the Jardin Albert 1er struck up a triumphant “La Marseillaise.” People began to gather their blankets and children. The party was over. The long walk home began. For nearly two kilometers—the length of twenty football
It was a night for liberté , for the simple, fierce joy of being alive and French, or simply being human on a beautiful coast. Families were out: fathers with toddlers on their shoulders, teenagers with sparklers, old couples holding hands on benches. The annual fireworks display, set to launch from the sea, was the crown jewel of the evening. People craned their necks, phones held high, waiting for the first red, white, and blue starburst. That was Bastille Day
The driver floored the accelerator.
We do not forget.