As histórias podem ser tão ou mais importantes

"Uma Ofuscante Ausência de Luz" (2001) é um livro do escritor marroquino Tahar Ben Jelloun, baseado no testemunho de um sobrevivente da prisão de Tazmamart, uma prisão secreta marroquina construída no meio do deserto, exclusiva para presos políticos, dotada de condições particularmente extremas. Os presos eram mantidos em celas subterrâneas, com menos de um metro e meio de altura, 24/24, podendo passar anos completos sem nunca ver qualquer luz. O testemunho usado por Jelloun é de um prisioneiro que ali sobreviveu por 18 anos, de 1973 a 1991. A expectativa que uma história destas gera no leitor é enorme, mas o livro coloca-nos no devido lugar, não nos oferece emoção fácil, faz-nos caminhar os degraus devagar, até ao topo, deixando para o final a compreensão do sentir completo. O livro recebeu o Prémio Literário Internacional de Dublin em 2004. 

Deixo um dos excertos que mais me marcou, sobre a importância das histórias na sobrevivência do humano. Não tenho o texto português em digital, deixo a versão original em francês e uma tradução em inglês:

"Salim, mon ami, notre homme de lettres, toi dont l’imagination est magnifique, donne-moi à boire. Pour moi, chaque phrase est un verre d’eau pure, une eau de source. Je me passerai de leurs féculents, je partagerai avec toi ma ration d’eau, mais, s’il te plaît, raconte-moi une histoire, une longue et folle histoire. J’en ai besoin. C’est vital. C’est mon espoir, mon oxygène, ma liberté. Salim, toi qui as tout lu, toi qui te souviens de tous les vers, des points et des virgules, toi qui recrées l’autre monde où tout est possible, ne me laisse pas tomber, ne m’oublie pas. Ma maladie ne peut se soigner qu’avec des mots et des images. 

Grâce à toi, pendant quelques instants j’ai été Marlon Brando. Je marche dans ma tête comme il marche dans les films. Je regarde les femmes dans ma tête comme il les regarde dans la vie. Tu m’as fait un cadeau. Dès que ton récit s’est arrêté, je n’étais plus Marlon Brando. J’aime tes métaphores, j’adore ton ironie, tu me fais voyager et j’oublie que mon corps est meurtri. Je vole, je marche, je vois des étoiles et je ne sens plus la douleur qui ronge mes reins, qui me mine de l’intérieur. J’oublie qui je suis et où je me trouve. Tu crois que j’exagère, que je te dis tout ça pour faire l’intellectuel. Mon niveau scolaire est très modeste. Moi aussi, j’aurais aimé être un artiste, mais je n’en ai pas les moyens.

Depuis que tu nous contes Les Mille et Une Nuits, la survie ici est plus supportable qu’avant. Jamais je n’aurais pensé que j’aime tant écouter des histoires. Quand nous étions à Ahermemou, je t’observais et je remarquais qu’après chaque permission tu revenais avec des livres. Moi, je rapportais des gâteaux faits par ma mère et des jeux de cartes. Je t’enviais. Tu te souviens, un jour je t’ai demandé de me prêter un livre ; tu m’as donné à lire des poèmes, j’ai essayé de comprendre, mais j’ai renoncé. Une autre fois, tu m’as donné un roman policier. J’avais bien aimé, mais ça se passait en Amérique. J’aurais voulu une histoire qui se passe chez nous, dans mon bled, à Rachidia. 

Tout ça pour te dire qu’il faut absolument te remettre à nous emmener en voyage avec tes histoires. Là ce n’est plus pour passer le temps, c’est pour ne pas crever, oui, j’ai le pressentiment que si je n’entends plus tes histoires, je dépérirai. Je sais que tu n’as plus beaucoup de forces, que ta voix est enrouée à cause du froid, que tu as encore perdu une dent cette semaine, mais je t’en supplie, remets-toi au travail.” 

in “Cette Aveuglante Absence de Lumiere” 

"Salim, my friend, our man of letters blessed with a magnifi­cent imagination, give me something to drink. To me, each sen­tence is a glass of pure water, spring water. I'll do without their beans and chickpeas, I'll share my ration of water with you, but please, tell me a story, a long and fantastic story. I need one. It's vital. It's my hope, my oxygen, my freedom. Salim, you who have read everything, you who remember all the verses, the commas and periods, you who re-create the other world where everything is possible, don't abandon me, don't forget me! My sickness can only be treated with words and images.

Thanks to you, for a few moments I was Marlon Brando. In my head I walk the way he walks in films. In my head I look at women the way he looks at them in life. You gave me a gift. As soon as your story was over, I wasn't Marlon Brando anymore. I love your metaphors, I adore your irony, thanks to you I can forget my bruised body and go traveling. I fly, I stroll, I see the stars and I no longer feel the pain that's breaking my back, eating me up inside. I forget who and where I am. You think I'm exaggerating, that I'm telling you this to pretend I'm an intellectual. I didn't get very far in school. I would have liked to be a creative person like you, but I don't have it in me. 

Ever since you began telling us tales from the Thousand and One Nights, survival here has been more bearable than it was before. I would never have thought that I would love listening to stories so much. When we were in Ahermemou, I used to watch you, and I no­ticed that after every leave you came back with books. Me, I brought back decks of cards, and cakes my mother made. I en­vied you. You remember one day I asked you to lend me a book? You gave me some poems to read. I tried to understand, but I gave up. Another time, you gave me a detective story. I liked it a lot, but it was set in America. I would have liked some­ thing that took place in our own country, in my hometown, in Rachidia. 

I'm saying all this to tell you that you absolutely have to go back to taking us traveling with your stories. It's not just to pass the time anymore, now it's so we don't die, I have the feeling that if I stop hearing your stories, I'll waste away. I know you haven't got much strength left, that your voice is hoarse from the cold, that you've lost another tooth this week, but I'm begging you, come back to work !"

in "This Blinding Absence of Light"