I could speak, since I am Armenian, of this end of the war in the south of the Caucasus, where the multimillionaire dictators Erdogan, Aliyev took control of Artsakh and orchestrated a 44-day war, followed by ethnic cleansing at the expense of its Armenian population. They celebrated their common victory with great fanfare, scrolling through the Middle Ages (all that was missing were the chained slaves), the Armenian equipment destroyed during this conflict. The victory was possible not by this only Turkish-Azeri over-equipped coalition, where the Syrian jihadist mercenaries paid 2,000 euros took their share of blood with, as a bonus, 100 dollars per head of Armenian cut, but also by the “pragmatic silence” »Western democracies, guardians of humanist… and economic values.
I could also say the Armenian prisoners of war, civilians and soldiers that the Baku regime, despite international law, still refuses to return to their families; tell how the cultural heritage of Artsakh, two thousand years old, will disappear under the Azeri bulldozers. As was the case in the once Armenian Nakhichevan. But maybe this time Mr. Le Drian will brave the neutrality enclosure in which it is so good to live and ensure that the prisoners of war return home safe and sound and that these architectural treasures, which are the much of humanity as a whole, from being reduced to rubble by his “friends”, as he says, for a long time.
I could also speak, since I am an actor, of the crisis affecting the world of culture ; to say the halls and the theater and dance companies, large and small, the orchestras of all kinds which risk disappearing definitively, not to mention the night restaurants and all the trades which populate them. I could still warn that the public suffers from no longer meeting at the theater, then at the corner café to debate over a drink while remaking the world. I could rehash the wonderful mystery of a performance hall where people lock themselves in the dark so that there is light; recall the illuminating darkness where time stands still in order to catch its breath in the looks in search of beauty; recall how, in the space of a play, a concert or a film, innocent joy meets and appeases the demon of everyday life. I could repeat why the nourishment of the spirit is no less essential than that of the body. Yes, I could talk about all of that.
But I am a son too, and I would like to talk about my mother, my shadow heroine. Her name is Sima, she is almost 84 years old. She just lost her cat. She is sad. The day before yesterday, I went to her house and found her in tears.
– Mom why are you crying?
– It’s nothing.
– Mom, it’s been two weeks since your cat died.
– I’m not crying for him.
– Why then ?
– I’m waiting to be vaccinated.
– So what ?
– So what the hell!
– It will pass, mom …
– It will pass, yes, and me, I will pass with.
Here is Sima, my mother is waiting. What does this mother want beyond this long-delayed vaccination? It is coming back to the theater, going to a restaurant, without worrying to hold her grandchildren to your heart, to stroll as still as she can on her crutches, to have her coffee on the terrace, to resume her life.
