Who was your grand father?

M went to Ljungby yesterday evening, as every monday and I had to spend the evening alone.Somehow, now that I have M in my life, it seems that these lonely evening, even if they are few, will always be painful somehow. Anyway. I went to bed and as every day of the week, I listened to “là bas si j’y suis”, a french radio program which is kind of a documentary talking about actuality. Most of the time, the point of view is from the left time, but even if it is a little too much “from one side”, the program speaks of things that I wouldn’t think of that much else. Yesterday, the subject was how the Front National (extreme right) is growing in small villages in France. I was there, lying in my bed and crying for myself. I thought of my grand father. He died when I was 12 years old, so I cannot say I had the opportunity to talk with him about what he went through, but I thought of his and parents steps through France in 1940. How does it come that this story, which is not unique, already is forgotten? Why are we so afraid of who is not just exactly like us?

On an every day life basis, I am meeting this kind of predjudices, which are more an undelicate curiosity, but I am here the kind of nice immigrant, coming from a country that is not that strange to Swedes though, but somehow, what happens in the Mediteranean Sea, in every country with the right extremismus, with the rom people, with everyone that doesn’t look like the average? When was the last time you talked to someone from another culture? When was it the last time you let this person a chance to talk before to judge her or him? When was the last time you shared something with her or him? Who was your grand father?

imageThis is a picture of my grand father and myself. I remember that I loved to ride bike behind him.

 

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