Stolen Kisses
Stolen kisses. They say truth comes from the mouths of children…Is being 11 years old still being a child? It’s
The Enemy.
Faced with misery and its harsh reality, I was afraid of leaving behind in Haiti a bit of my optimism for a better world. I was afraid of leaving behind some of my conviction, of being able to be an actor of this positive change. I was afraid of no longer believing in you, in us, in myself, when it’s together that we will succeed.
But I was wrong. Because I saw people who look towards the future, who are convinced they can build a brighter future. And it’s a true life lesson, in which I had the chance to participate. If we want change, we shouldn’t wait for it from others. They have nothing and believe in everything, we have everything and no longer believe in anything…
I came back and you left me with dreams filling my head.
If only I could forget that one day everything stops.
Except for my dreams which, in eternity, in the end, throw themselves.
I wanted to tell you this story to illustrate what I just wrote.
I would never have enough stories to tell you. How difficult it is to choose one from Haiti…
I spent two weeks in New York in early July with young people from around the world. A young Albanian, passionate about knowledge, lent me his book, Les Fleurs du Mal by Baudelaire. We finally made an exchange and I was able to keep the collection of poems in exchange for a book by Kundera.
Arriving in Haiti a few weeks later, I gave away the children’s storybooks I had brought from France. And I added Baudelaire’s book for the older ones.
A week later, while I was accompanying a young person to the doctor, I took Baudelaire’s book out of my bag while waiting for the appointment. It was then that his older brother, aged 15, told me that he really likes this book!
Pleasantly surprised, I asked him a question:
– Tell me, what’s your favorite poem?
– It’s ‘The Enemy’!
– I don’t know that one, show it to me!
– Here, read:
The Enemy
My youth has been nothing but a tenebrous storm,
Pierced now and then by rays of brilliant sunshine;
Thunder and rain have wrought so much havoc
That very few ripe fruits remain in my garden.
I have touched the autumn of ideas,
And I must use the rake and the spade
To gather again the flooding soil,
Where the rain digs holes as big as graves.
And who knows whether the new flowers I dream of
Will find in this soil washed like a shore
The mystical nourishment that would give them vigor?
– O sorrow! O sorrow! Time devours life,
And the dark Enemy who gnaws at our hearts
Grows by drawing strength from the blood we lose!
Charles Baudelaire
Les Fleurs du mal
I was left speechless.
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