After the half day break of yesterday that allowed me to escape for a nurturing hiking in the Redwood Park, another rainy Sunday. In prospect nothing exciting in the air that can drag people out. Moreover, it is the Oscars night. Millions of eyes are riveted on tv screen, to share the emotion and the gratitude of actors who are rewarded for their genius. I wanted to stay home, and be part of the game. I catch myself thinking about the place of the cinema Arts in our lives. Anytime I walk out the dark of a movie theatre, I can’t stop reflecting on this questionable pact between “heroes”, and we the “ordinary” folks. We walk in, one hand loaded with a sack of popcorn, and the other a tank of soda; we take a seat, pledge to turn off our cellphone or are reminded to do so, and we are ready to go. By the time the light is off, and we let our mind captivated by the first images when in the meantime we keep our jaw busy, we never notice that we’ve just waived the boundaries of our ego, and give to a third party, the right to break in our “comfort” zone. For one, two or three hours, we assist to our own self-lashing or glorification. An unhealed wound re-opened, a dream expanded, a twinkle star in the sky to make us see, a failure to remind us our limits. It is still raining; the Oscars ceremony is on the air a while ago; I am not at home but in the dark room of PFA. The African Film Festival is in its last day ,and for 96 minutes we are taken 3 years back in the time, to see Paris through Moussa’s eyes. The water pump, the only source of hope in a Guinean village is on its last legs and Moussa is appointed to go and buy a new one in Paris. After coming across all the difficulties immigrants have to deal with, crime, police raids, working at small odd jobs, he is returning home with the precious treasure in his hands. He’ll never make it there alive. At the airport, he is commanded by the police to pay a fine; his visa expired 5 days ago. A police holds up his life when he asks to be treated with respect. “To come is a problem, to stay is a problem, and to leave is a problem” were his last words. Moussa’s tragedy as end of the movie is unexpected, unwanted. His visit to Paris is unexpected, unwanted. His life is a joke, his village a joke, the pump a joke, the future of his children, a joke. That is the way some people are called to be treated. They work hard, and before they reach the mid of their life, they lose the palm of their hands in the bowels of the earth. For them, no past, present or future is needed to be written, and will ever be read. When their land is snatched from them, and the river dries up with no fish to catch, they can still sail away, but not allowed to shore. If the angry stream of the sea cannot strip them, the spines of the wall of shame won’t miss them for sure. And if there is a few out there who are lucky enough to make it to the “promise” land, they can choose between the street, a charter or jail. Like the millions of immigrants souls who are lost in the waves of the Pacific and the Atlantic, like the thousands whose lives are twisted in crammed jails, Moussa is a stolen hand. It is just too hard to read the message written on the screen of his fading eyes: I come to give and share what I am made of: the fire, the water, and the sand. I am here for nothing but to enrich, respect, and dignify! After all what is the matter if Moussa dies? He has been brought to existence by mistake anyway, by a God who doesn't know quite well what to do with him out there. 2:17am
