What do you think?
Rate this book


227 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2010
You know how the wind blows. You can't grasp it or take it into your hands and capture it, but it's all around, it envelops you and sometimes it slows you down. It rustles the leaves of quiet trees, changes the rhythm of a man who is walking, and who bends his back to push through the invisible force. In Africa, rumour is like the worst kind of wind, like a sandstorm. The wind goes where it wants to. No-one knows the origin of the wind of rumour, but it blows and chokes people, it makes them blind and mad. Sometimes, often, it kills and starts bloody conflicts.
"My father used to say that your can't take the hatred out of hearts a century old. Here, every heart, even the child's, is a century old. They are fed on stories and fables and old wounds, and you can write a name on every scar. Sometimes it is the name of someone's family, but most of the time it's the name of a group, an ethnicity. You have to understand the importance of the tribe. It's what you call social security. The tribe is family and there's no such thing as justice."
How do you reconcile the search for truth with legalities? It is the first time I've asked myself that question, the first time I think that statutes and procedures and legal guidelines don't guarantee the administration of justice. What if law were only an intellectual exercise with no relation to what is just, decent, and self-evident? Kabanga is guilty. Hundreds of thousands of people experienced his guilt in their flesh. Why do we have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt, like in an ordinary murderer's trial? And whose reasonable doubt - that of thousands of victims, or of three cold-eyed, distant judges who have never set foot in Ituri?
Reading the world press casts me into a despair that has nothing theoretical about it. Now that Kabanga is free, my life is slipping away, like blood dripping slowly from a wound next to the heart...My ability to analyse and synthesize disappeared with Kabanga. Astonishingly, I discovered anger, rage, real revolt, rejection of the established order, of the rules and conventions that once governed me. And if these emotions are so strong and so clear, they must have been in me all the while, and I was denying them, I was wrapping them carefully in sheets of silk paper known as pragmatism and my rational method, I was filing them away as if they were items of objective information... I was a coward.
Will I ever be able to speak and act like a man, and move from cold observation and meticulous analysis to words and actions? I think so, even if I know nothing of the process that appears to be so natural, but is baited with traps, by the illusions of the educated and aware man: the feeling of being superior, the certainty of the analysis, the incomprehension of chance and the unconscious. Only my ignorance of man will keep me from being a man. How many emotions have I repressed that way, abortions of my own self?