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Conversation with Javier Cercas about the fraternity

Conversation with Javier Cercas about the fraternity

By Włodek Goldkorn / The main scene is this: We are in Spain, in the second half of the 1930s, during the civil war. In a forest not far from Gerona, a soldier catches sight of the Falanga ideologue Rafael Sánchez Mazas fleeing from the firing squad that is firing on the fascists. The eyes of the two enemies meet. The good soldier decides to let him go, saving his life. This story was told by Javier Cercas almost twenty years ago in a very beautiful novel, "Soldiers of Salamis", a book that brought to the Spanish writer, now 59 years old, fame, gratitude and authority. But think about it, that scene speaks for the Brotherhood, with all the ambivalence, but also with the charm of that word. Brothers Cain and Abel,

The word Brotherhood, the third of three words symbolizing the French Revolution, appears today as a key to reading and building a livable future, not a nightmare. We talk about this with Cercas. Because he is an author who, like few others, in all his books, is committed to this concept. The writer says: “When we talk about brotherhood, first of all something weak, sentimental comes to mind, a kitsch. But then, if we read with a sigh: "Liberté Egalité Fraternité" we realize that it is the most important value of the three. You smile and raise your voice easily. "The fact that we are all brothers and sisters is not a moral consideration, but an indisputable fact." And then we try to understand why he is like that. He reflects: "The communist, Republican soldier who saves the life of the enemy is called Miralles. Someone told me that in Catalan, the word "mirror" means "mirror". Well, Mirall looked at the enemy himself in the mirror. "It seems like an invention, but the story is true."

The conversation continues and Cercas insists on quoting the Deceiver. The "Mastruesi" tells a rough story: a man for several decades appeared in Spain as a former convict in a Nazi concentration camp, but in fact the whole story was a fabrication. "He used the most cruel crime in the history of mankind to be in the center of public attention, to receive honors and to be caressed by beautiful women. A monstrous behavior ", he says and shakes his head:" And yet he was a man like me and like you ".

Opposition from the reader: that man also arouses empathy. Answer: “I appreciate the compliment as a writer, but in Spain and above all in France the reaction to my story was: This guy is inhuman. "But to me he is a brother."

Then Cercas will come up with the idea that even in war there are moments in which belonging to the human race overcomes hostility and anesthetizes hatred, quoting an episode of "Sergeant in the Snow" by Mario Rigoni Stern, whom he has known through readings of Borges and Bioy Casares, where the protagonist enters a "isba", in a Russian hut, says he is hungry, a woman gives him a bowl of milk, he eats and leaves unscathed. That chapter is one of the most touching of the Italian writer's prose. It also states: “For once, circumstances made people know how to stay human. "Once this has happened, it can become a habit, a way of life." In fact, a Cercas uncle was a Frankish soldier and his family in a remote village of Ibeharnando in Estremadura was on the side of the fascists. However, in one of his texts he tells how in that village a phalanx saved the life of the former socialist mayor. "He was my grandfather from my father," Cercas said.

So far we have cited cases of abundance and a kind of brotherhood beyond political and ideological divisions. We can add that "Soldiers of Salamis" was the title of the book which the phalanxist Sánchez Mazas would like to write, but which was written by the anti-fascist Cercas. He betrays the emotion and responds that those (three anti-fascist brothers) who later helped the fascist hierarchy told him: “You wrote the book that he failed to write. "And for me it was a very special moment."

But civil war is usually the theater of the greatest atrocities, precisely between the most intimate people, between neighbors. And enough to think not only of Spain with the dead, of destruction, of hatred and oppression, beyond the praiseworthy episodes precisely because they are extraordinary, but also of the Yugoslav cause in the 1990s or the case of a Polish village, Jedwabne, where one day in 1941, neighbors locked all Jewish residents in a barn and burned them alive. Cercas responds, citing a book on the 1994 Rwandan genocide in which people who committed atrocities said, "We are like you." What then? "It is horrible to think that we are brothers of bad people too."

Thus we came to the issue of responsibility for our family members, the real ones and the imaginary ones. The idea of ​​responsibility also carries with it a sense of shame. Cercas interrupts me: “When I was young, I was ashamed. I was ashamed of the fact that I was an immigrant from the south, but also of my ideological roots. Then while investigating my uncle's case I realized that everything was more complex. There is a difference between guilt and responsibility. "I do not feel guilty about my ancestors, but I certainly feel responsible, because I benefited from the actions they did."

However, the question remains, to what extent are we really brothers? In Dostoevsky's "Karamazov Brothers", Zosima tells of a doctor who loves all of humanity, but not individuals. Cercas has no doubts: "There is no complication here and it is something very concrete. Collective life is a dimension of individual life. I can not be happy if others are not. Insist, our happiness depends on the happiness of others. It is the ABC of Enlightenment thought, from Diderot.

In this conversation we quote many writers who quote other writers on their part. It is not accidental. If we wanted to give a geometric shape to the idea of ​​Brotherhood, that shape would be a circle. And then we talk about Elias Canetti. The Nobel laureate in literature in the book "Measure and Power" recalls the words of Thucydides who, describing the plague in Athens, shows how public funerals were no longer held, people did not touch each other and customs ceased to exist. Yes, we are talking about brotherhood in the time of Covid-19. Today, thanks to science, vaccines exist and the end of the pandemic can be seen on the horizon. But is brotherhood possible at a distance, in Zoom or in other electronic devices? How to be brothers and sisters without being touched, without being hugged, without public customs like theaters, concerts, football matches?

Cercas hesht për ca sekonda, merr frymë dhe thotë: “Unë nuk e shoh nënën time prej shumë kohësh, por flas me të nëpërmjet celularit. Marrëdhënia nuk mungon, por ama ndryshon formë. Kjo mënyrë mund të jetë më e fortë. Disa muaj më parë vdiq një prej miqve të mi më të ngushtë. Njiheshin qysh kur ishim tetë vjeç. Në varrimin e tij kishte shumë pak njerëz për shkak të pandemisë. Vetëm vëllezërit dhe miqtë më të ngushtë. Por pikërisht sepse ishim shumë pak, ai funeral krijoi një komunitet më të fortë. Në kushte normale nuk do të kishte ndodhur. Falë teknologjisë po flas vazhdimisht nga shtëpia ime me njerëz në shtëpitë e tyre në Amerikën Latine. Është një vëllazëri që teknologjia e bën më intensive. Nuk dua të jem një optimist qesharak, por nëse ju shihni reagimin e Europës ndaj pandemisë nuk mund të mos ushqejë shpresë. Në fillim kishte një regres nacionalist, ku Italia u braktis. Por më pas gjithçka ndryshoi. Recovery Fund u bë i mundur. Të gjitha vendet morrën përgjegjësitë njëri për tjetrin. Tmerri na bëri vëllezër, ndryshe nga kriza financiare e vitit 2008. Sigurisht, populizmi qëndron ende si një rrezik. Dhe nuk e dimë se si qeveritë e tjera do t’i përdorin fondet që do të kenë në dispozicion gjatë kohës së fushatave të vaksinimit. Por vëllazëria mes europianëve është një fakt historik dhe kulturor. Bëhet fjalë për një komunitet që ka kaluar luftëra dhe gjak, por që reziston. E tregon muzika, letërsia, arti dhe arkitektura”.

Biseda në mënyrë të pashmangshme prek edhe Papa Bergoglio dhe enciklikën “Të gjithë vëllezër”. Papa e përdor pa siklet termin Vëllazëri, që dukej i vjetëruar dhe siç thamë, i dobët. “Unë nuk jam katolik dhe shpesh e kritikoj Kishën”, thotë Cercas, “por kjo enciklikë është diçka jo vetëm e arsyeshme, por shumë e rëndësishme. Në vendet me shumicë katolike, fjala e Papës është thelbësore”. Shton më pas: “Nuk është inteligjente ta injorojmë peshën e madhe të kësaj fjale”. Qesh: “Njerëzit që si për shembull Trump mendojnë vetëm për paratë dhe pushtetin ndjejnë gjithë kohën frikë, nuk janë të lumtur”. Citimi i Trump, për fat tashmë ish-president, na risjell te populizmi që bazohet në frikën nga tjetri. “Si fashizmi”, thotë Cercas që shton: “Por ndonjëherë frika është e arsyeshme. Unë në fillim të pandemisë kisha shumë frikë. Por frika është armë dhe instrument i tiranëve. Diktatorët thonë: më jep lirinë tënde dhe unë do ta bëj jetën tënde të sigurt. Është një koncept i rrezikshëm”.

Bashkëbiseduesi më kujton Walter Benjamin, për të cilin një jetë e lumtur është një jetë pa frikë. Dhe kështu arrin te frika e emigrantëve që nuk i trajtojmë si vëllezër. Cercas hesh pak, pastaj thotë: “Para së gjithash kemi një reagim emotiv. Njerëz që çdo ditë vdesin. Por pastaj kemi nevojë për një reagim recional: një zgjedhje e përbashkët europiane ndaj fenomenit migrator. Nuk është vetëm një çështje drejtësie. Është në interesin tonë të ndihmojmë vendet nga të cilat njerëzit largohen. Vëllazëria është kujdes ndaj tjetrit. Nuk është as kapitaliste dhe as socialiste, është diçka që vendos harmoninë mes lirisë dhe barazisë”.

And he concludes the conversation with an answer to the question related to the father of all novels. Are Don Quixote and Sancho Pancho brothers? "Of course. They both belong to different social classes, constantly quarrel and are not the same. But the most beautiful moment is the scene of Don Quixote dying, when Sancho Pancho tells him: “You should not die. Let us go among the shepherds. "Let's go on an adventure."

* Włodek Goldkorn is a Polish-Italian writer and journalist, for years cultural editor at the weekly magazine L'Espresso. Javies Cercas is a writer and professor of Spanish literature at the University of Girona in Spain, as well as a weekly contributor to El Pais newspaper. This article was translated into Albanian by Erjon Uka.