Public Enemies (10 page)

Nowadays, it’s almost impossible to drive through Moscow; the cars now are Nissan Micras, Volkswagen Golfs. The restaurants and the cafés are full of Russians who drink according to their budget; young women wear the current fashions. In other words, a middle class has formed, and the first thing one notices is that the pockets of “terrifying poverty” have vanished; the mysterious, almost mystic formation of a
Westernized middle class
(or that, at least, is how it is usually referred to).

These middle classes voted en masse for Putin, voted en masse for Medvedev; they believe they have no credible alternative; like their government they consider the rebukes of the West (over Chechnya et al.) to be
unacceptable meddling
. It must be admitted that, in this, the Russian government is on the same wavelength as the populace.

Nor has Russia, and here I have to contradict you, become a cultural desert. In the numerous bookshops, literature from around the world is freely available with no restrictions. The books are exceptionally well made and well printed and, most
important, they are very cheap, even on a Russian budget. In short, in Russia, many people still regularly buy books—more so than in, say, Brazil or even Italy or Spain.

It’s true that Solzhenitsyn is considered to be an orthodox old pain in the neck; he, I admit, has every reason to feel disappointed in the recent evolution of Russia, to feel that it has “betrayed its soul”; and I’m not sure that Dostoyevsky would have
adored
the nightclubs … Then again, I’m not sure whether I
adore
the nightclubs, but I was glad to see Frédéric again and the
sumptuous blondes
, well, you know the terms of the equation, I’ve written enough books on the subject.

On my second trip to Moscow, I had a very interesting conversation with a civil servant in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. (These people lead a strange life; they spend a few years in a job, develop a temporary sense of belonging, only to be uprooted; their conversation is often fascinating.) I was telling him that in France after the war, it was said that the country was ungovernable, the Fourth Republic, the frequent changes of government, etc.; none of which prevented France from fast-track development, so much so that this period of government irresponsibility remains, from an economic standpoint, the most flourishing period in our history. He replied that though Putin’s Russia could be accused of all the evils in the world, though not of “governmental instability,” the same phenomena were evident (the rise of the middle classes, consumer capitalism).

There was silence for a few seconds, then he said something like: “All in all, maybe it’s for the best; it proves that society has its own momentum and the system of government superimposed on it with its regulations, its government officials, is simply a form of parasite.”

Then he stopped, remembering that he too was a government official, a civil servant at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, to be precise; there was an awkward silence, which I easily managed to dispel, since I’m quick to play the fool by asking for more vodka. Another example of the tendency of people to
tell me things
that they themselves hadn’t expected; even so, we changed the subject pretty quickly.

There you are, dear Bernard-Henri, the first root (the one I consider to be honorable) of my lack of political commitment: an ideological diffidence verging on atheism. Russians certainly do not feel that they are
living in a democracy
; I think for the most part they don’t give a damn and who am I to disagree with them? For many years, I lived in a country (France) where I had the right to vote, a right I barely exercised. From a political point of view, many measures were implemented, concerning public health especially, of which I completely disapproved. Off the top of my head, I would mention the banning of products considered to be “drugs,” the constant hectoring campaigns against alcoholism, in favor of using condoms, against cocaine, sugary foods, and who knows what-all, the absurd inability to buy most common medicines without prescription, and more than anything, the thing that in itself is symbolic of all the others: the slow, pitiless pincer movement that in a few short years closed in on
smokers
. All these things contributed to my cutting myself off from the world, of becoming someone who absolutely does not consider himself to be a
citizen
. Sadly, I’m not exaggerating; I have gradually grown to see public spaces as a hostile territory bristling with absurd and humiliating bans, which I negotiate as quickly as possible to get from one
private
residence to another
private
residence; a territory in which I am deeply unwelcome, in which I have no place, in which nothing interesting or pleasant can happen to me.

Having done a little research over several elections, I quickly discovered that all the parties courting my vote held almost identical positions on these public health issues; that there
existed a broad consensus of opinion on the subject
. So what did I do when I came to the ballot box? With a goodwill that in retrospect seems to me absurd, I hesitated endlessly, painfully, sometimes for hours between different candidates, different electoral platforms; I hesitated for a long time before eventually, on almost every occasion, abstaining. You see, I have never had the sense of
living in a democracy
; I’ve always had the sense of living in a sort of technocracy, though without necessarily feeling that this was a bad thing; maybe the technocrats are wise and just; maybe I should give up alcohol; maybe I should even
give up smoking
.

And I would be wrong to accuse these decent technocrats who doubtless have all the relevant qualifications necessary to carry out the difficult task of formulating laws; these public health measures would no doubt be approved by our fellow citizens in a
crushing
majority. Thereby literally
crushed
, all I can do is shut up and accept that I live in a world where the general will “exercises too great a pressure on the will of the individual.” In practice, I can try to find a corner where I can go and die, some isolated spot where, all alone, I can give myself over to my modest vices.

It must be said that in the years since I have been living in Ireland, things have been better. Not that the public health policies are any different, they are European, and Ireland has enforced them more swiftly than other countries; but my situation here is profoundly different. The Irish government has never proposed that I
participate in the democratic process
, nor given me the impression that I had to take part in
any way, shape, or form in the political decisions taken by the country. The level of taxation, which is extremely low for earnings relating to artistic work, is quite low in general; almost no one in the country pays much tax; it is a different concept of State. With this level of taxation, you can feel you are dealing with essential, incontestable expenditure—law and order, refuse collection, road maintenance; you never think that the government has committed itself to some bold policy on which you would be called on to have an opinion, for which they would ask for your support. All this is calming; you don’t really have the impression of participating, or at least you don’t have to ask yourself any questions; all this, in a word,
depoliticizes
. I suppose there is a
psychological threshold
, which it is dangerous for a government to go beyond. On that subject, it is interesting to note that different churches, regardless of the geographic or historic conditions that shaped them, are more or less agreed on the extent of the financial contribution they can expect from their faithful: 10 percent of their income, no more.

A few years ago, I remember talking with Sylvain Bourmeau. This, incidentally, is a second honorable reason for my
lack of political commitment:
never has my friendship or my respect for people, little though it might be, been marred by their political opinions. I know that Sylvain Bourmeau is a fine representative of
la gauche morale
—the moral left—and indeed he is passionate on the subject, which, to be honest, bores me, but it’s his pet subject. I nonetheless consider him to be an honest and thoughtful literary critic, one of the few in France whose opinion of my own work might affect or sway me. I also—more important—consider him a good guy.

Anyway, chatting with Sylvain, I told him that although I was in favor of immigrants in France being allowed to vote, in all elections, obviously, I was against the French abroad being
allowed to vote. I couldn’t see why, having consciously decided to live outside France, I should have any right to pronounce on the politics of the country. He replied, or rather he was thinking aloud: “Yes … reserve the right to vote for
users.
”

Thinking about it some months later, I realized that this ugly little word
user
(and I realize this is going to plunge Régis Debray
^*
into despair) precisely describes my relationship with the government of my country, of any country. As regards France (or any other country where I might decide to live), I do not feel (deep down I never truly felt and would come less and less to feel) like a
citizen
, but, in banal terms, like a
user
. There, I’ve said it. It’s a little sad; it’s a sense of belonging that is failing, deteriorating. But we have reached the point where we can tell each other the truth more or less, haven’t we?

As we come to the dishonorable reasons for my lack of political commitment, you have the right to shudder. Don’t worry, I’ll be quick. I completely understand that the trips to Darfur, the danger they entailed, may have speeded up the process of giving you a sense of yourself; but, sadly, no one or almost no one can go through life without encountering precise situations in which he can get a pretty clear idea of his moral worth. So don’t worry: I am not speaking on the strength of self-examination but from experiences that enabled me, concretely, to appreciate my own worth.

Almost incapable of physical violence, I have, in addition, never taken any pleasure in it, even in those—rare—cases where I had the advantage. In fact, giving up physical violence as the principal means of settling disputes seemed to me one of the only advantages of becoming an adult. I have
never been fascinated by weapons, nor really by games of strategy.

I am, besides, organically, viscerally incapable of
obeying
. When I sense that I am being given an order, something inside me freezes, transforms itself into a sort of painful, impassable mental nodule. Since more often than not I am too much of a coward for confrontation, I am evasive; I give the impression that I will obey when the time comes. And then, at the last minute, without thinking ahead, in an impulse so irresistible it seems like a reflex, I disobey.

Incapable of taking orders, I take no pleasure in giving orders. It is something I do reluctantly, only for brief periods and only when it is absolutely necessary.

Given all of this, it is not difficult to imagine what kind of soldier I would make. I have no doubts, dear Bernard-Henri, that in the event of war (and I think this is what one must envisage as the last resort when discussing commitment), I would fight little and badly. I would throw a few punches or fire a few shots depending on the context (ideally, the whole thing would be played out on a computer screen); and pretty quickly I would start wondering what I was doing there; the vague thrill of combat (I am, I suppose, capable of secreting a little adrenaline) would wear off. And, at the first opportunity, I would quite simply
do a runner
. I would join the vast throng of those who fought little and badly; of those who waited, without quite daring to say as much, for everyone else to
stop their fucking nonsense
. Of those who do not care about the fate of democracy, of Free France, of Chechnya or the Basque country; about those who succumb, as de Gaulle rightly said, to the spell of the “terrifying emptiness of general renouncement.” I am one of those. Of those whom nothing general and universal (nor specific and domestic) can really move. Of the vast troop of people who endure history, interesting
themselves only in that which directly concerns them and those close to them.

I find it extremely unpleasant that choosing to take the standpoint of selfishness and cowardice may, in the eyes of my contemporaries, make me
more likeable
than you who advocate heroism; but I know my peers and that is precisely what will happen.

I’d like to speak on behalf of a superior heroism, that of the Dalai Lama, say. In the writings of a Tibetan monk I was struck by the thought experiment he describes, where he imagines lying down on a railway line just before a train comes. The monk, he says, understands the phenomenon of his body being cut to pieces, and envisages it calmly as a representation of his spirit. This guy wasn’t joking; this was how far he’d got.

I haven’t got that far and in practice I speak on behalf of nothing very much. Of some vague concept of progress, maybe, which to my mind is scientific or technical. A vestige of the seriousness I had in childhood, continued through my studies, that means that I consider war (civil or religious, of independence or of conquest) as so much
waste of time
. The important thing, surely, is to invent the steam engine, develop industrialized production, control the weather. It is more than a vestige, in fact; this is how I was brought up, I can’t help it.

So, there are the good students who go home after class and do their math homework for the next day; and the bad, the morons, who hang around the streets looking to play some mean trick, to start a fight.

Later, there will be honest engineers who build railway viaducts and office buildings; and bloodthirsty clowns who
seize on any pretext, ideological or religious, in order to destroy them.

Is this, then, the core of my beliefs? Is it as simplistic as this? Sadly, I fear it is. I have always felt the deepest mistrust for those who
take up arms
in the name of whatever cause. I have always felt there was something deeply unwholesome about warmongers, troublemakers, rabble-rousers. What is a war or a revolution, in the end, but a hobby fueled by spite, a bloody, cruel sport?