Part 1

I was a student when this story began. It's a wonder I am here today to relate how it ended. At that time, I must have been sixteen or seventeen; that is, I was at that age when you are old enough to make adult choices, while placing yourself beyond all kind of liability for your actions. One of those decisions led to a series of events that will always remain engraved in my memory.

In the early seventies, we were living under a repressive political system, the worst in the history of Tohu-Bohu,  my country of origin. Tohu-Bohu was a lawless banana island, where the ruler and his accomplices maintained an iron grip over every citizen. Consequently, most of the people were living in fear, for any velleity of resistance could lead to torture, rape and more often than not, summarily execution.

Despite their fear, some brave souls tried to fight back. A few militant groups went underground and dared to organize some kind of resistance. Among those groups, the students constituted an ideal target: Students were for the most part easy to convince; moreover, many students had family ties with government’s members and could provide the resistance movement with valuable information.



Independent by nature, though I sympathized strongly with the rebels, I did not want to get involved. I already had a sense by then that nothing was sacred and that even the resistance movement was tinted with self-serving interest. I felt vaguely --I wasn’t very analytical at seventeen --that the “ideals” and practices which the country had assimilated had permeated the entire society. Suspecting more or less that some cunning politicians were in the background pulling strings,  I was reluctant to become another puppet. Besides, I was a teenager having fun in a beautiful island, and   -why not say it? -my family and I were part of the unconscious elite. So I did not join the dissidents, but my best friend Gerard did.

Gerard was not your typical Tohu-Bohian. Over six feet tall in a country where Danny De Vitto would be considered of average height, he was a cross between Harry Bellafonte and Sydney Poitier. His Creole features coupled with his cafe-au-lait complexion were reminiscent of the former, while the strong resolve in his eyes and his feline moves deeply evoked the demeanor of the latter.

Gerard’s most striking trait was his voice. Low and strong, it commanded attention, whether it was uttered in perfect French or in the more popular broken French vernacular. No doubt about it! Gerard was a fascinating young man. And the ladies, from teenagers to those who remained teenagers after forty, found it natural to swarm around him. Nevertheless, pleasing ladies was the least of Gerard’s preoccupations. He had already found, in his own words, "the path of existential actions that lead to the roads of Freedom. "This kind of verbiage coming from anybody else than Gerard would have sounded pretentious or  phony. But he was charismatic. It seems like everywhere in the world, people like that who can speak well and look the part are preordained heroes.



I was not surprised at all when he came to me one day and announced that he had joined the opposition and was now acting as a martial art’s trainer. This fell right within the realm of his actions since he was a high degree Judoka who always nitpicking  my unorthodox throwing techniques. On that Sunday morning, our more or less regular training day at the neighborhood dojo, I knew he was not just lecturing me about personal commitment. I knew he was aware of the dangers to which he was exposing his family and himself. I believed him. This did not prevent me from murmuring to him, "Don't speak so loud! The walls have ears." alluding to some well-known French saying, as to point out the efficacy and the swiftness of the island's Secret Police. Those thugs were indeed practically everywhere!

But Gerard was already quoting Marx, Camus or Sartre, or at least some combination of Marxism and Existentialism, the type of aphorism he was a master at.

"I made the decision," he said, " a long time ago. "Quand je delibere, les jeux sont faits! [When I made my decision, the dice had already been cast!] Life does not have any meaning, unless you force one on it."

I countered, "Is it worth it? There are other ways  to give a meaning to your life, without having to fight such an unbalanced fight . . .  You know me Gerard, I never fight a battle which I have not some good chances of winning."

"Oh yeah!" He smiled condescendingly and commented, "You've got this strange philosophy. I wonder where you picked it. For you, there is no line between misery and happiness, laughter and tears, opulence and poverty . . .  You can never be serious about anything! This is not black humor! This is plain irresponsibility!"

I wanted to reply that my ambivalence about serious matters was connected to the    Nothingness of Being, that tragedy and comedy were closely related, that in the long run nothing was really worth too much ado about . . .  But I protested, "Oh no!" I said, "There are Human values I will die for: Friendship, Loyalty, Filial Devotion, Personal Development . . .  Yet, I still can laugh at a good joke; and life sometimes is a joke.”

“Yeah! I know how vulgar your jokes can be.”



“There is humor in every situation,” I protested, ”but I don’t like vulgarity. At times I am very impressed by the depth of your judgment. But there are moments . . . ”

He interrupted me again, retorting, "I know your unsure views my friend," and putting a protecting hand on my shoulder, he continued, "One thing for sure, I will never get you involved!"

He lied. He did get me involved. And how!

To be continued...

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