Nefertiti was in Austin

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Virtual Court in The Hague


For those of us who once lived in the former Yugoslavia, The Hague is the symbol for international tribunals.  Our bloodstained nation is just a myth nowadays, but this court, a congelation of nations, still exists in a building in the Netherlands, processing our historical war crimes.
I stood next to the Dutch brass plate with the name of Yugoslavia engraved on it: once it used to be the name on my national passport , nowadays it is a court.  Good thing that such a court exists in the world, I always thought, but after many years of its work, I realized that it could do  much better.
 The rule of law is not sufficient to create justice,  just as democracy is not enough to create equality.  Women activists from former Yugoslavia have created tribunals to examine the  crimes committed in our names.  The scope of rape in wartime was one of many things revealed by these women activists with their initiatives, and for the first time in history rape was criminalized by The Hague court.  Women’s courts cannot issue sentences, but can shed light on neglected aspects of wartime suffering, or the postwar transition to nowhere,  that the world’s legal systems overlook.  Such is the law of Antigone or Cassandra, or of Simone Weil, who claims that in dark times of confusion and shattered legal systems ,  only emotions, moral conviction can determine what’s right and what’ s wrong.
Nowadays we have a similar need for a parallel court in the case of Edward Snowden: his coming out as a NSA spy who refuses to do his job  because he considers it unethical and wrong resembles the act of Antigone. The coming out of a crazy woman, her refusal to collaborate, becomes a standard for the new justice. Of course there is no ruler’s law or court created for those who rebel from their own ruling class: they are offered only silence or death. In the case of the ancient heroines death is the minimum the myth will give them, in the case of modern ones, silence and neglect,  the civil death is in order.
Peter Sunde is an internet activist who suffered a sentence in prison for virtual copyright crimes committed by his Pirate Bay, which existed outside the local national laws of various intellectual property owners. His internet crimes were not even identified as such, far from being properly regulated, but after much determined struggle they found a way to jail him anyway.   Speaking from experience, Sunde assured me that Snowden would never get a fair trial anywhere, and probably no trial at all, ever.  So the Internet’s rule of law  is golden: those who have the gold tend to make the rules.
 But what about the ethical, moral, and other standards of the people, of the Internet users, of the citizens, of those who are involved against their will in the grand global game of being spied  upon or spying. Do they have any formal say? Not really. Do they have an opinion? Too many! Contradictory, honest and eager opinions.  Not only trolls, though they are loudest.  But no single place on Earth in which to state them, to discuss them, to legally argue.
   During the “Crossing Borders” conference in The Hague,  Peter Sunde and Addie Wagenknecht presented an idea.  During the conference, they would  stage a people’s virtual tribunal for the Snowden case. This brief work of political art would probably be the first and only public trial Edward Snowden would ever get .
    The three members of the improvised jury were happy to stage this entertaining event (Ancilla Tilia, Joerg Blumtritt, Jasmina Tesanovic).  It was certainly international in flavor, since it was done in The Netherlands, by citizens of three nations with radically different national law systems. We three could debate about the meaning of  NSA spying, agreeing or disagreeing about how it should be revealed, or not. And we did: we debated to reach a recommendation and two entirely different sentences.  The sentences were hand-written on a piece of paper which  will eventually be delivered to Edward Snowden.
There is no international court for the likes of Edward Snowden.  How would it ever collect evidence from the billions of people spied upon, or weigh the injustice inflicted on them?  Many witnesses gave precious testimony at the women’s court, but the  organizers refused to hand that over to The Hague tribunal.   The Hague tribunal already discarded and destroyed material evidence which the survivors collected for the genocide of Srebrenica: personal testimonies, precious souvenirs of the dead were seen as bulky and useless to the global justice process. The genocide was declared as real by the court, and yet the guilty parties were never singled out: a global war crime without local criminals.
     History is not written usually by single human beings acting alone, but in this case it will be. Snowden’s coming out resembles that of many invisible victims of obscure wars.  Snowden needs to tell the truth the whole truth for the sake of his own country and colleagues around the world.   This is only the beginning. Truth is not a comfortable burden for him or anyone else: it takes courage and risk as well as huge sacrifice to carry that burden of conveying the silently obvious to a world that would prefer not to know.  But someone must do it. It might as well be him, for the sake of a wor
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Maker Faire Rome 2015

jasmina-laser-makerfaire jasmina-dome

Maker Faire Rome, in its third year and already a tradition, had a hundred thousand visitors.  Students were the protagonists this year: the huge fair was held all over the wide campus of the Sapienza University of  Rome.
Real Italian revolutions have had smaller crowds than Maker Faire Rome did.  The prestigious Sapienza campus, founded in 1303,  was rented, gated and dedicated to the fair’s themes of innovation and new technological futures.   Squads of flying drones and giant steel 3DPrinters are certainly a  futuristic departure for an Eternal City so heavy with castles, churches and catacombs.
Microsoft, Google, Intel and IBM were much in attendance, while the Sapienza’s leftist students were miffed to find themselves locked outside their own campus gates and forced to pay for tickets to see the  hundreds of exhibitors.  Sapienza’s employees were also on involuntary holiday, and the joint student-worker protests brought in a further audience of armored Roman riot cops.   Makers or not, this is still Italy where people protest, react, have their say in the streets.
Any Italian event with a hundred thousand people will bring out the radicals, and the Sapienza students, who were a small for effective and motivated group, confronted a heavy police presence for many hours.   The protests climaxed in nightstick beatings and four student arrests.
This wasn’t really a conflict over Maker Faire, more a principled struggle between the dean and the students over the commercial use of the Sapienza campus.   It’s rare to see any academy nowadays that prefers student democratic process to the allure of wealthy corporate sponsors.
 This small but typically modern struggle took place in the Roman square symbolically named after Aldo Moro, the Italian premiere kidnapped  and executed by the Red Brigades.  Inside the Sapienza, the campus buildings bear the august names of scientists and writers such as Primo Levi and Italo Calvino.
Inside the fair,  the drones were flying, good pasta was served, makers showed their home-manufactured wares to wandering Roman families.  Chromed baby carriages jostled with android-style prosthetics and open-source home seismometers.
As usual at Maker Faires, there were a lot of weird disaster playgrounds and pre-visions of catastrophe, the powerful psychological emanations from lone inventors who feel that no one in authority is ever likely to help them. However, this  year, the wares on display were dominated by everyday life tech inventions more or less intended for real people: smart wearables, light bulbs transmitting internet data, smart gardening, interactive home floors, open source foods and, of course, elaborate Italian coffee machines.
As social movements go, there are some oddities about the open source Maker Movement. Maker objects still look pretty much the same as commercial products of standard capitalism, but they are simpler to assemble, strangely impersonal, often uncomfortable and not necessities of life.
They are expressions of creative freedom, a kind of philosophical toy rather than an answer to life’s needs. But that is why homes of the future, such as our project Casa Jasmina, are becoming necessary.  We need to refine our tools and skills, but also need courage to live in a different way.
Makers already have their own fashions: the checked shirts, rather ugly shoes (by Italian standards) oddly combined with fancy wearables and designer glasses. They seem more relaxed that  average Italians, more global in their tastes.  But they still would never give up their superb coffee and pasta.
Open source luxury is what country like Italy has to give to the world.  “Connected homes” are connected to us, they should be our safe place, our toy but also our joy.
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Jasmina Tešanović´s Story

Misplaced Women?

Here I am now as a wannabe European woman traveling alone. Because you see, women don’t travel alone; they travel with their men, families or friends. If they are alone, it means they are lost or dangerous. I always get those looks and check ups, even friendly offers.

I entered in the first comfortable train heading north… to even more United Europe.

Border officers were entering my train, checking us, and it all went well, until we managed to come across one small piece of one small country that once used to be called Yugoslavia, that once used to be my own country.

I didn’t have the proper papers, they claimed. Politely, they took me out off the train, and even more delicately, they locked me behind bars. A small prison hut, really, with two young officers watching me from outside with guns.

Then they went through my suitcase, then…

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Pride Parade, Belgrade 2015

12046675_1163833180298610_1937147492725605469_nThe successful gay parade this year in Belgrade resulted in a rather dirty aftermath among the participants.

I am pleased that this year this dangerous, always threatened event was a truly “gay” parade. People threw flowers at the participants instead of spitting on them or beating them.  I wasn’t there myself, but I saw the social media coverage, because various notable political and other stars marched along with the gay activists, attracting plenty of attention. The parade looked rather normalized, like a gay pride parade anywhere outside the Balkans.

Normalized, that is, except for the presence of Women in Black.  Women in Black were, of course, the first group in Serbia that ever supported gay rights.  They sheltered draft evaders, especially gay ones, in their own homes.  But that was then, and this is now, so when a Woman in Black delivered an activist speech during the Pride Parade, she got as much sexist and offensive reaction as the gays used to get in the bad old days.

How did Women in Black became the new gays of the present season?  It’s ironic to see modern politicians, academics and intellectual stars in Serbian contemporary life hastily seizing credit for this long, bloody, twilight struggle, while Women In Black become objects of blame.

The pioneers, those who were prematurely correct, are often attacked by the new status quo they created themselves.  They get insults instead of public credit, while the usual boring limelight seekers sweep up whatever the situation offers in the way of political correctness and lucrative gain.

This doesn’t surprise me, I’ve seen it happen everywhere.  So I said to myself: never mind it, this is the victory condition.   When you truly succeed in changing society, everybody steals your clothes. The dismal epoch of the Yugoslav 1990s is behind us.  A new generation has reached adulthood, new political styles have arisen.  It’s parochial to dwell on Yugoslav civil wars in an era when Ukraine and Syria are bleeding as badly, or worse.

These are new times, and there is a wrongness to clinging to the condition of warfare. Resolving a trauma needs the courage to accept the sad truth, to find value in the life after the suffering.

But on mature consideration, I was still angry and sad about the way Women in Black were disrespected by those they had always helped. I know that history was often written by the winners. I know that the first voices of protest are never heard.  I know that women who change history never got the public credit for the change. On the contrary: they would not be merely ignored, but harshly rejected. But this is not like that anymore.

Women who seek to serve the public good tend to choose a dignified and diffident form of activism. They don’t want fame, they want change.  I can remember Juliet Mitchell, a famous feminist activist and psychoanalyst writer, telling me how she avoided putting her name to her own writing; everyone in her group acted in public unity.

Much the same went for “Women in Black:” they were never female stars  dressed in fashionable little black dresses, they were women publicly united by the harsh reality of their grief. I know those humble, intelligent and shy faces of my friends.  They would never step out in the glare of limelight, unless to speak some unspeakable truth, or to protect those who needed help.

In 2001 I was one among those persecuted and assaulted in the streets of Belgrade for defending gays.  It was not a popular political position, so I was ostracized by the very same political factions and cynical celebrities who now so easily steal our clothes. Never satisfied with their own  fame and glory, they are driven to deny us the pioneer work we did with  insults.

Thank you, straight and fancy modern Belgrade, for not being brutally antigay anymore. It’s a modern marvel to see Belgrade as a moral exemplar compared to Damascus, Budapest and Moscow. Enjoy that, but you’d better watch your step, for the primrose path of opportunists and liars is beset with thorns. Those who dig a pit will fall in it, even when they try to rewrite history.  Beware, for women everywhere are forced to dress in black today.

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My Stolen Life

USB My Life My stolen bagMy handbag was stolen two months ago. It happened in seconds in a mall in Turin , Italy. I never saw the thief, and neither did my husband, sitting two meters from the scene of the crime a fast food Japanese restaurant.

How is such criminal skill even possible? There was almost nobody around.  Now, after two months, I do vaguely remember though a nice young woman, sitting with a child, next to my table. Was it she who grabbed my bag off the back of a chair and escaped with it?

A week later, I read that a gang of four women, convicted of serial handbag thefts in Italy, was finally put behind the bars.  Even though found guilty several times, they were always released from custody because they had either small children or were pregnant.  So maybe they relied on the handbags of other women to feed their numerous children?!

But that would be a topic for a novel, and not what I want to write about. I will focus on this accident from a different angle. Because it can only be compared to an accident, a personal disaster, as if a truck ran over me.  No use asking, was it my fault?  Should I blame myself for leaving my chair to order a second beer to go with my sushi?  And why on earth did I center my earthly life inside one rather small handbag?   Why did I visit  a shopping mall taking with me all of my traveling documents, credit cards, checkbook,  USB backup, health insurance card, iphone, address book, prescriptions, etc.

I used to carry everything in one bag during the bombings in Belgrade, Serbia , or during political demos when I might have been arrested. But in those dire-straits years, in the nineties, my home was never bombed and I was not jailed by the Serbian police. I didn’t even lose my bag.

However, in 2004, during a pleasant event in Amsterdam, in peace, my handbag was stolen in a bar.  I was traveling, so I lost pretty much lost the same set of documents, meaning all I could carry to support my life on the road.   I lost cash,  credit cards, phone, some jewelry, my diary, my address book, my passport, my visa.   But the damage I suffered 11 years ago cannot be compared to the damage I suffered a month ago.  The thieves have gotten much better.

Within half an hour, they managed to rush to ATM machines with my bank cards and, without a PIN or a credit limit, they robbed the banks of far more money than I could legally withdraw myself.  These “forchetta” hacks, which involve some kind of ATM hacking gadget, are getting pretty well known.  But of course the banks don’t want to take responsibility for these thefts.  They prefer to pretend that the ATMs are secure, and want me to absorb the loss.

Then there are travel documents.  In 2004 I could replace them without much fuss, but this is an age of terrorism.  So, far as my documents are concerned: Italian, Serbian and American: for each piece of plastic that I’ve carried for years on end, I have to go to the original country to have my biometrics redone.  I must pay all the  uncomfortable costs of travel without  any documents, while waiting for the new ones, being interrogated about my life! As if I weren’t already in their databases; as if they had never heard of me, as if I had never existed!  I was robbed, so I am the suspect.

This disaster crippled my daily life for the following two months.  I still cannot travel as I want, work, or pay .  I realize how vulnerable we are nowadays, since we’re supported by data and electronic gates and barriers. My USB key contained non encrypted backup of my computer’s hard disk. I carefully backed up all my books, essays, mail, films,  photos, music  and various secrets. Published and unpublished.  I am exposed totally, these thieves, if they bother to look, can know everything about me.  They have my email addresses, they know my friends and foes.   They even have the keys to my front door.

In some ways, losing access to your home and documents is worse than having your home and documents physically destroyed.  Because it means that someone can interfere with my life, they have stolen the power to spy on me at will.  My daily life has been hacked, and somebody else is, if not living my stolen life through fake ID, then at least surveilling it. I live in subconscious fear of blackmail, threats, violence!

The police told me theft like mine happens everyday, to many people.  And indeed, sometimes hackers steal entire databases of people’s names, addresses, credit cards — colossal leaks of a quarter of a million people at once.  Even American spies with security clearances have had their security declarations stolen by the Chinese.  How humiliating to be a SONY executive and have your business emails leaked by tools of the North Koreans.  Or to be an activist stalked by political enemies who want to aggressively “dox” you and your family.

Will I ever get my dear purse back?  Often the victims get their documents back through some weird channels, or just from the trash collectors.  But not in my case.

I am still waiting for the second shoe to drop. I have a feeling this is not the end. It depends on the fantastic skill of the thieves and my legal ability to fight them back and re-assert my existence to bankers, police and immigration bureaus. I could write a novel on a twilight struggle of this kind.

One feels that the stakes are growing and the pace of the trouble is accelerating.  Still, I will never forget that July 6th between 1.30 and 2.00 PM.  A very close friend of mine died that very day at that very hour.  It was an unlucky, scarifying moment, although no one killed me, no one struck me or bruised me,  I was stripped of my virtual identity.  The impact of  that loss is like a virtual rape, a small death in itself.

Oh yes, one small detail: during the war times I carried sleeping pills in my bag: enough to put me to sleep forever, if I had to avoid torture.  (I had read that Freud family did the same during World War II, and it seemed like a wise precaution.)   Sometimes, in conditions of real fear, it is a psychological comfort to feel that one can put a clean end to one’s self.    But what about my virtual life?  What unknown antitheft device could ever put a clean end to that?

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We are all Refugees

In English, in French11909508_1171524932864041_4877756800872856132_nOnce11892206_10153133822977643_8404134162947521449_n I was a refugee, too.  During the fall of former Yugoslavia, I visited many refugees camps all over the war-torn region.   I edited a book of  refugee stories.

Every war is different, so we should never put  wars into the same theoretical box, or placed on the same vanity shelf.   But anybody can become a refugee. Rich or poor, black or white, male or female, adult or a child.  There can never be absolute safety on Earth, and empathy is even rarer here.

Only few weeks ago, in downtown Belgrade, I saw the latest wave of refugees to cross that city.  As it happened, I’d just lost my purse to bag thieves, who carried off my legal and residency documents.  So I was distracted and rather oblivious of the world’s newly colossal refugee situation.  Wrapped in my own woes, I didn’t at first understand why these rather  decent-looking people were sleeping, eating and camping under the blasting August sun, next to the Belgrade bus and railway station.

I queued with them at the kiosk.  They were extremely polite and I must admit even dignified. They didn’t look ragged or out of their minds. They were unhappy but purposeful.

A Moroccan friend of mine later told me: the Syrian people are the best among all of us Arabs. Their culture, their language, it is something that all of us have admired for centuries. It breaks my heart to see them in that way, suffering with dignity, fighting for their lives.” She had tears in her eyes.

Only a year ago, I wrote a text for the Guardian why I didn’t think the remaining Syria state should be bombed but the USA.   I know very well what it means for people to be isolated from the outside world by sanctions, and  trapped inside their country by a criminal regime.   We had sanctions in Serbia for years on end living under the regime of Slobodan Milosevic.   His nationalist propaganda had the support of the so-called decent people, who lost more or more until uprisings finally  toppled  the regime.

In the case of Syria the uprisings have toppled nobody, the USA did not bomb the regime,  and the people are despairing and fleeing as best they can.  They flee with history and culture on their backs, with children or without, with money or without, to hit the roads and become burdensome to everyone while they struggle with their burdens.   At that point everybody has to take some piece of the responsibility for the state of the world as it is.

You cannot ignore the headlines in the papers, the deaths in refugee boats , the endless queues at the stations to nowhere…A loud cry for help, a solution, temporary and permanent. They have each other, as friends or enemies, but they are isolated from the world order.  They are nobody’ s people.  Their culture and road becomes nomadic.   They have no promise of a future of their own.   They are called displaced persons, or other euphemisms.

Young people have dreams. Kids laughed and played on that sun-blasted day without water at the Belgrade railways station. Because you can stop everything, kill everything. but not creativity and joy. Even in concentration camps.

I have no political solution to offer, I have no power, I don’t even have the standard politically-correct ideas about  refugee issues that arise all over the world nowadays.  I only know that there are more and more of them. From political refugees, civil war refugees, to refugees from climate change.   Those who run away from hunger, repression, bombs, and those who run away from fires, flood and nuclear disasters.   I’ve seen them all all over the world.

They do have something in common: they are proud, they don’t beg.  They are the vanguard,  for the dangers that overwhelmed them are coming to us ,too.  They wanted to stay alive,  they managed to escape death. What else could they do or say?  They could commit suicide like Walter Benjamin on the border with France and Spain, fleeing the Nazis and awaiting a visa that arrived a day after he killed himself.  To survive as a refugee takes nerve and patience.

It will not do to point at them them anymore, for it is about all of us. The nomad population is growing, thanks to political and ecological failure. We are wasting our own lives by neglecting planetary politics.   In the Mediterranean the nomads drown in illegal boats while the seaside swimmers find the ancient sea to be lukewarm with greenhouse heat — it’s not refreshing any more.   The glaciers are melting into torrents down the  Alps, wildfires are leaping in rich high-tech California, the refugees are landing on every shore they can physically reach.  Such is my news today. As life goes on.

Photos by Elvira Veselinovc, Berlin

Suzanne Simon Paunovic, Belgrade

J’ai été autrefois une réfugiée aussi. Pendant la chute de l’ancienne Yougoslavie, j’ai visité beaucoup de camps de réfugiés dans toute la région frappée par la guerre. J’ai édité un livre de récits de réfugiés.

Chaque guerre est différente, donc, on ne devrait jamais mettre les guerres dans la même boîte théorique, ou placée sur la même étagère d’insignifiance. Mais n’importe qui peut devenir un réfugié. Riche ou pauvre, noir ou blanc, homme ou femme, adulte ou enfant. On ne peut jamais avoir une sécurité absolue sur terre, et l’empathie est encore plus rare ici.

Il y a seulement quelques semaines, dans le centre de Belgrade, j’ai vu un flot de réfugiés traverser cette ville. Par hasard, je venais juste de perdre mon portefeuille par des voleurs de sacs- à main, qui contenaient mes documents légaux et de résidence. Donc j’étais distraite et plutôt sourde à la nouvelle situation colossale des réfugiés du monde. Emballée dans ma propre infortune. Je n’ai pas d’abord compris pourquoi ces gens à l’apparence plutôt décente dormaient, mangeait et campaient sous le souffle du soleil d’août, près de la station de bus et de trains de Belgrade.

photo Suzanne Simon Paunovic

J’ai fait la queue avec eux au guichet. Ils étaient extrêmement polis et je dois l’admettre, même  plein de dignité. Ils ne paraissaient pas en guenilles ou fous. Ils étaient malheureux mais décidés.

Une amie marocaine m’a dit plus tard : « Le peuple syrien est le meilleur parmi nous tous Arabes. Leur culture, leur langage, c’est quelque chose que nous avons tous admiré pendant des siècles. Cela me brise le cœur de les voir comme cela, souffrant avec dignité, luttant pour leurs vies. » Elle avait les larmes aux yeux.

Il n’y a qu’un an, j’ai écrit un texte pour le Guardian pourquoi je ne pensais pas que l’état restant de la Syrie devrait être bombardée, mais les US. Je sais très bien ce que cela signifie pour les gens d’être isolés du monde extérieur par des sanctions, et piégés dans leur pays par un régime criminel. Nous avons eu des sanctions en Serbie pendant des années pour finir par vivre sous le régime de Slobodan Milosevic. Sa propagande nationaliste avait le soutien des  gens considérés comme décents, qui perdait plus ou plus jusqu’à ce que des insurrections aient finalement renversé le régime.

Dans le cas de la Syrie, les insurrections n’ont renversé personne, les USA n’ont pas bombardé le régime, et les gens sont réduits au désespoir et fuient le mieux possible. Ils fuient avec de l’histoire et de la culture sur leur dos, avec des enfants ou sans, avec de l’argent ou sans, pour atteindre des routes et devenir un poids pour tout le monde tandis qu’ils luttent avec leurs fardeaux. A ce moment là, chacun doit prendre une certaine responsabilité pour l’état du monde tel qu’il est.

On ne peut pas ignorer les titres des journaux, les morts dans les bateaux de réfugiés, les queues sans fin dans des stations pour nulle part…Un cri sonore pour de l’aide, une solution temporaire et permanente. Ils ont les autres, comme amis ou comme ennemis, mais ils sont isolés de l’ordre mondial. Ce sont des gens « personne ». Leur culture et leur chemin devient nomadique. Ils n’ont pas leur propre promesse pour l’avenir. On les appelle, personnes déplacées, ou d’autres euphémismes.

Les jeunes ont des rêves. Des enfants rient et jouent en ce jour inondé de soleil sans eau à la station de la gare de Belgrade. Parce qu’on peut tout stopper, tout tuer mais pas la créativité et la joie. Même pas dans les camps de concentration.

Je n’ai pas de solution politique à offrir, je n’ai pas de pouvoir, je n’ai même pas les idées standards politiquement correctes sur la question des réfugiés qui surgissent maintenant dans le monde entier. Je sais seulement qu’il y en a de plus en plus. De réfugiés politiques, de réfugiés de guerres civiles à des réfugiés du changement climatique. Ceux qui fuient la faim, la répression, les bombes, et ceux qui fuient les incendies, les inondations et les désastres nucléaires. Je les ai vu partout dans le monde..

Ils ont quelque chose en commun : ils sont fiers, ils ne mendient pas. Ils sont l’avant-garde, car les dangers qui les accablent viennent aussi sur nous. Ils voulaient rester en vie, ils ont réussi à échapper à la mort. Que pouvaient-ils faire ou dire d’autre ? Ils auraient pu se suicider comme Walter Benjamin à la frontière entre la France et  l’Espagne,  fuyant les Nazis. attendant un visa qui est arrivé un jour après qu’il se soit tué.  Pour survivre comme réfugié il faut des nerfs et de la patience.

Je ne veux plus les mettre en évidence, parce qu’il s’agit de nous tous. La population nomade augmente grâce à l’échec politique et écologique. Nous rongeons nos propres vies en négligeant la politique planétaire. Dans la Méditerranée, les nomades noyés dans des bateaux illégaux tandis que les nageurs au bord de la mer trouvent leur ancienne mer tiède avec une chaleur de serre  – ce n’est plus rafraîchissant. Les glaciers fondent en torrents des Alpes, des feux de forêt jaillissent dans la riche Californie high-tech, les réfugiés atterrissent sur chaque côte qu’ils peuvent atteindre physiquement. Telles sont mes nouvelles aujourd’hui. Alors que la vie continue.


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