Car il sonne pour toi.

I´m sorry, Troy Anthony Davis.


"No human is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each human's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in humankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee."

Un des souvenirs les plus marquants que j´aie des Etats-Unis concerne une discussion sur la peine de mort avec une jeune fille de mon âge environ. C´était en Californie, j´avais 15 ans à l´époque, et tandis que je regardais ses yeux, brillants de vitalité et de ces milliers de petits feux synonymes de beauté répétée, je ne pouvais comprendre comment la vie pouvait justifier une mort programmée, un concert de mains abaissant le rideau et laissant cette scène à jamais vide, résonnant seulement du tintement métallique des échos sans substance.
Je croyais que le feu de mes mots signifiait tout, vous comprenez, lorsque mon âme explosa et lui affirma que la peine de mort était la négation de toute vie, parce que personne, non, rien ni personne ne peut prédire le chemin que prendront les gens au cours de leur vie, et qu´il n´est jamais écrit que quelqu´un ne peut pas changer. Jamais, serais-je même capable de sentir l´âme des personnes sur le bout des doigts, jamais, s´agirait-il même du pire monstre humain ayant existé.

Jamais. C´est là la grandeur particulière de l´essence humaine, à la fois le choix et la grâce de chaque instant qui nous échoit. Merci à toi de me l´avoir appris dans le sein de mon coeur au-delà des questionnements philosophiques sur Goering, Himmler, Tojo et le soldat anonyme de Nankin, I. Merci de m´avoir montré à quel point une vie humaine s´étire et se dilate dans tous les sens et n´a ni début, ni fin. Même lorsque la douleur appelle le sang.

Troy Davis. Innocent (or not), he was not guilty. Not guilty of a conscious, rational choice, drawn out over 20 agonizing years, over 4 torturing hours, to watch into the eyes of a living, sentient human being, eyes so like our own, and say: I´ll let you die.

I wish us all to always know Donne´s grain of sand.

Edited to add: To Alireza Molla-Soltani. May your memory be beloved forever. May the world and Iran soon find the peace that didn´t come on this day, of all days, nor any other so far.

Have some decency, or shut that trap.

Where is the memorial for the victims in Afghanistan? Where are the glowing names, the flowing water, the revered bronze?
All of them just as sacred as you. Those women thrown to religious fundamentalists in Iraq because we-who-are-alive-and-kind-of-content-to-be-so let it happen; those children starved to death in the rubble that has encompassed 8 years and countless hearts; those men blown to pieces in wedding feasts. All of them thrown again under destroyed bridges on this date, because we just can´t face that we are in the end perfectly happy to have some lives count for less than others.

Where is our refusal to be part of this monstrous thing we have become? What do you think of Western civilization, we asked; and he replied that it would be a good idea, yes!, Gandhi replied that. So where are we, we who hide behind the lofty veneer of humanist philosophies born from our esteemed lands to open our mouths for grandiloquent proclamations, where are we when it comes to saying "No" to this day, this endless 9/11 day? Where do all the steady words we boast of go to when we don´t proclaim them? Do they just lie where we can´t see the impervious truth they reflect?
Dire avec la force que le non est destiné à conserver.

Where is the grave for the unknown kid of Gaza, for the forgotten embargo-breakers of the world, for the Muslim enemy combatant that ended up in Romania? Is it being bulldozed along with olive trees, sunk in the bottom of a bay, airlifted in the darkness far away?
Or is it being splintered between warlords that fan the flames of famines and droughts so we can appeal for donations?

Stop. Just stop. This day belongs to no one. I have 3000 names to learn, plus 110 thousand, plus almost 3 thousand again, plus 40 000, plus, plus, plus, minus jingoism and delusions. It leaves us with the truth: "The utter stupid waste of war is so staggering to those who have to endure it. And it always was, despite the poets, and always will be, despite the propagandists."
The good fight weaves growing whispers of peace, and that ain´t what´s coming from the gigantic plazas all named after some Victory.