Jean-Francois is French, he lives in the Saharawi refugee camps (desert southwest Algeria) for almost three years. Naama is Sahraoui and French by adoption, he lived as a refugee in France. He is a defender of human rights and advocates enforcement of international law in case of his country, Western Sahara, the last colony in Africa. He is in prison in Morocco and falls depending on the colonizing country of the court martial, for having planted the tent in the desert a few kilometers from the city of El Aaiun with 20 000 Sahrawi, in protest against their situation, and have explained it clearly to those who asked. Letter to Naama
In the heart of the night because of the faltering men, do not bend Naâma.
On the last day of the year, as all these days, I come to your parlor, one of your thoughts. This parlor where your voice arises clear, fair and peaceful. This parlor where your dignity supersedes the indecency noisy guards, deterrence creeping wire and the humiliation of your hands cuffed.
This is not the first time on a couch or floor slumber your pain.
Smara, Marrakech, Tan Tan, Tiznit, Salé. It does not get used, it does not harden. Even to think that your father, your uncle were imprisoned by the father of one who imprisons you once again, once too often and the wheel keeps turning, trying to grind down from generation to generation, the seed thrown into sands of the Sahara by the son of the clouds. You knew
promiscuity overcrowded cells, rounded up friends or common rights, pending trial on trial postponed. Your body remembers burns and blows, your eyes and glasses broken headbands worn. On the scale of endurance, it was no less hard than waiting judgments and show trials?
Smara, Marrakech, Tan Tan, Tiznit, Salé. It does not get used, it does not harden. Even to think that your father, your uncle were imprisoned by the father of one who imprisons you once again, once too often and the wheel keeps turning, trying to grind down from generation to generation, the seed thrown into sands of the Sahara by the son of the clouds. You knew
promiscuity overcrowded cells, rounded up friends or common rights, pending trial on trial postponed. Your body remembers burns and blows, your eyes and glasses broken headbands worn. On the scale of endurance, it was no less hard than waiting judgments and show trials?
The area where new and unknown political reason this time cast thee, cut more than anywhere else in the world despite the noise organized, more like torture. It is less desirable to be "forced disappeared", that "secret" or visited in degrading conditions and frustrating. There is an unspeakable scale of the need to overcome to save bits of itself to constitute your integrity, that is in you that you can close it, without totally Yet isolate you from the noise of boots. Weak protection against the onslaught of physical pain and hurtful images.
In this heart of the night because of the faltering men, I beg you, do not bend Naâma.
I never knew prisons than in books or recently by stories of Sahrawi. You the militant Respect of Liberties and Human Rights, guide my hand this pencil we refuse you, put on our lips the words that choke in your throat. Your only complaint will not claim the respect of freedoms or rights that you are yet so expensive, but your fundamental rights of prisoners, simply. You, the removed où est ta liberté ? Toi l’homme de paix, où sont tes droits ? Tu n’es plus qu’un prisonnier qui demande tes droits fondamentaux de détenu !
In this heart of the night because of the faltering men, I beg you, do not bend Naâma.
I never knew prisons than in books or recently by stories of Sahrawi. You the militant Respect of Liberties and Human Rights, guide my hand this pencil we refuse you, put on our lips the words that choke in your throat. Your only complaint will not claim the respect of freedoms or rights that you are yet so expensive, but your fundamental rights of prisoners, simply. You, the removed où est ta liberté ? Toi l’homme de paix, où sont tes droits ? Tu n’es plus qu’un prisonnier qui demande tes droits fondamentaux de détenu !
Pendant que ceux qui auront des comptes à rendre à la postérité, voire à l’éternité, jouissent d’un incommensurable présent volé, tu ramasses les miettes de ce temps qu’on te prend. Dans cet espace de survie où tu rentres, tu organises ta pensée autour de ce que tu ne veux pas céder. Tu écartes tout ce qui peut t’affaiblir, tout ce qui peut te rappeler la douceur, l’affection de tes proches, tout ce qu’ils could use to make you crack. You manage your strength for the next few minutes, at most half a day to avoid becoming the subject of this cruel game of moving from isolation to an examination calculated scripted. You concentrate your will to achieve this rock, then this hill, then this wadi, as so many liberated territories.
In a few hours of heads of state publicly and indecently venal want their wishes to indices, at rates at the margins, and secondarily to their subjects.
In a few hours of heads of state publicly and indecently venal want their wishes to indices, at rates at the margins, and secondarily to their subjects.
In the silence of your cell I just wish take you by the hand, you and all refugees, all locked, all violated
... For at the heart of that night when men of reason flickers, you do not flounder, Naama.
Jean-François Debargue
On December 31, 2010 
... For at the heart of that night when men of reason flickers, you do not flounder, Naama.
Jean-François Debargue
On December 31, 2010
19 other Sahrawi waiting in Salé prison, go past the court-martial Moroccan suspected of involvement in a loan or far in camp Gdem Izik.
0 comments:
Post a Comment