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Jean-Claude Boyrie (part 2) New

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Shadows only die twice. (continued)

We was not our onion, we did what we could for these people. Just when we survivors were dismissed when they are gone! After liberation, it was the Americans who settled in Rivesaltes, for some years now the places are in the state where the GIs left behind. A hundred acres fallow, a total not far from the motorway exit Perpignan Nord. Inevitably, this land will generate envy. The hotel zone and business needs expand. The proposed "memorial" does in fact only a small way, the rest may one day or another return to the vine or promoters.

Younger generations get an idea very relative "Duty of memory". Facts sixty years old or more related "to those before," people now dead or senile. Come on! A little effort ... What were they, your parents or grandparents, rather, at that time? No idea! And you, what would you have done for them? Funny question! C'mon, this had no chance to reproduce the same now. It is vaguely question, of course, by this, and there, illegal workers, of being undocumented deported. Sangatte, you heard? It is a resort of Pas-de-Calais, 1400 inhabitants permanent. Over a population of 5000 "illegal" blocked at Sangatte after a long journey. Roughly the size of Rivesaltes in forty.

Yes, it's chaos at the millennium: a lot of people crowded there, entered France not to stay, we did not want it, but hoping to move across the Channel. It was quickly quell the scandal. The local prefect decided the final closure of the camp in May 2003. God thank you, it's already ancient history.

Well, you will not believe me, NGOs have found a way of bitching! Whatever we do with asylum seekers, there is always criticized. Open camp: you expose yourself to any extravagant demand. Advise you to close it, you'll be accused of pushing these unfortunate vacuum. Come on! Get some reason, the France of 2007 can not accommodate all the miseries of the world!


Night of the Living Dead.

The day declines very fast, just very normal at the end of summer: it's almost the equinox, it is already nine o'clock or so. The time for that would not have included notice that the "memorial" is still in draft, although his visit is the official catalog of Heritage Days. What the visitor does not take offense too precarious of a home: it opens by the virtual, in the remaining panels are warning that the site is not secure for him to be careful where he walks! A light generator as well as badly dilapidated facilities. After all the fugitives who crossed the passes of the night had not Vallespir However, those taking real risks!

The eye takes in the dark, sees the graffiti covering the walls of huts, scattered exposures. Works often abstract, humble materials assembled by artists known and anonymous Unusual fragments of eternity. Music and speech, now. Partita for cello lament for human voice: sobs: accents plaintive strings intersect a poem in tribute to refugees. And then there is silence again. The darkness is peopled with ghosts. They are naked, without age, without identity, their only apparent attitude these virtual beings to humans. A moonbeam maketh their contours dressed with polyurethane, you know: These plastic bags are undesirable for the environment that no longer distributes this ground in supermarkets. The hand of the artist has made it a translucent skin is like moulting of an insect giant folds and wrinkles.

A zombie is lying on the concrete slab. Another character is prostrated in the corner of the room. Two smaller forms evoke the silhouettes of children playing with a tin can, ridiculous ball. Arms held out, as in elytra: the android vertically mounted on a wall, grabbed the bars of the window. He tries to call for help. In vain: no sound comes out of his mouth without a face, frozen in contemplation hallucinated. Behind the window, there is only emptiness, a void sidereal.

"In space, no one can hear you scream '(Alien)

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texts by Jean-Claude Boyrie
on the site of the workshop writing by Carole-Menahem Lilin

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Lime-a-way & Ecolab Dishwasher

Jean-Claude Boyrie (part 1)

Shadows only die twice.

Suddenly, a face that is framed in tears in the glass of the window ...

It was an illusion. The face is a reflection, a strange dormer window, in fact, a TV screen that scrolls in an interview loop. The story of a woman. The tears are those of restrained emotion. This shows that is an ordinary person, between two ages, one that crosses the street, that one meets in the office. Neither starlet, or a politician. It is the daughter of political refugees from Spain.

What she speaks? Of the great retreat of 1939, the "Retirada. Civil War sealed the fate of his family. These events, she has not experienced, of course, she was not born. It only say and repeat what he has repeatedly told. Keep the memory of his own, finding your roots is important. The testimony of the woman relays the parents have disappeared. When they crossed the border, they were twenty years old. Where it

the boundary? Everybody thinks that the crowds have rushed to Perthus or Cerberus. With good reason: these passes where we now jostling to buy alcohol and cigarettes have overlooked the main body of refugees. These were immediately good for the camps: Argelès, The Barcarès, Rivesaltes ... many isolated places, hastily arranged by the then authorities in camps "host" and covered the end of the makeshift huts.
Those who thought they had escaped from hell to purgatory found on the other side.

Others, braver or wiser, had chosen the "narrow gate". In other words, the mule, the "cattle tracks." The move was in the mountains not without danger. A bad fall is quickly made on a steep path, especially when one is not driven. In addition, we saw nothing. Any lighting nuisance would have exposed the fugitives to fire a border patrol. No question of recovering the wounded. Mediators do not take risks, abandoning the unfortunate by the wayside.

Defying the curfew, the parents of the narrator were nightly parties Sant Llorenç de la Muga. (Alt Empurda) Hence, by Albanyà they had ascended the course of the Rio Muga to find themselves at daybreak in French territory, id est: Vallespir somewhere between Coustouges and Lamanère. The focal point of the small group, finally what was left, was the "Conjurador" Serralongue. A strange shrine on a hillock. Mr. Priest was there to prayer to avert the storm when the horizon was covered, obscured by clouds. That day in 1939, the storm was about Spain.

The story could end there, we say more? The woman finished her story. She speaks in a calm voice, it sounds monotonous, she speaks without hatred, without passion. She has no accent either, except that of Toulouse, where she was born and where she lives. That's where his parents settled after the events. She added when even an additional event, just a detail: at 42, his father went into hiding, he joined the partisans, risked his life to him, the stranger, for France. This country that had so badly received during the "Retirada. Sixty five years later, she, her daughter, yet feels French, birth and adoption. Tonight, she wants to testify, you see, only testify ....

A hand clap, clap, clap ...

hammer in solitude, call dull blows of fate. A hand grip on yellowed photos of exhibition panels. Today, 15 September 2007, the camp Rivesaltes relives for Heritage Days. The General Council intends to make a memorial of these barracks, "a place of remembrance." Normal, repentance is a fashionable term, the catechism, we called it an act of contrition. Basically, nothing too disturbing for anyone who still need to know to be recollection (or repent) and for what. Rivesaltes was nothing of the extermination camps. We, we were good French, they did not kill anyone, except by omission, not on purpose. Our brothers were only Spaniards go. They were filled where there was room. Unless they have been herded like cattle in the worst hygienic conditions. They were left to rot, to die of misery and illness, sometimes even killing each other. For, sad to say, among the hordes of refugees, there was settling of scores between rival factions. It must be objective when writing history.

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