Text resist to 50409 to send instant fax letters
When the day of my release was so distant that I thought I wouldn’t live to experience it, I was able to formulate clear and distinct ideas ordered with an impeccable logic. This is apparently an illness that affects many individuals released after a long imprisonment. During the first two years I wasn’t able to remain in one place long enough to write a letter. I could also have devised simple ways to camouflage the letter’s origin, destination and content and sent it gliding unseen past the censor’s omniscient gaze. I could have found ways to reach you without sending a letter through their hands. I can’t say I failed to write you sooner because there were censors. Was our point of departure the same, and were we at some point interchangeable? How much has each of us contributed to what each has undergone? If a guard ever dreamed, was it of prisons and camps that he dreamed, and was he my jailer-to-be already then? Very few of those I’ve met admitted to never having dreamed, never having imagined themselves proud of projects undertaken with one or several genuine friends. I never met a guard who had dreamed that patrolling a convict yard would be the daily content of his life.
I’ve spent a total of twelve years inside walls, behind bars and fences, and I’ve never met a prison guard in whom I saw no trace of myself. Most of them didn’t choose their jobs they ended up there because they thought they had no other choice. They’re not inanimate things, cement walls that can neither see nor hear nor think. All human beings are transformed into prisoners and prison guards. The prisons and camps don’t contain only those inside them but also those outside them. In such a context, beings vibrant with the will to live are transformed into beings for whom death is no worse than a life marked by the dread of death. In a context where any word or gesture can lead to the dreaded arrest there’s no freedom. But the policed “free citizen” can’t ever get rid of the fear that he may be dragged off at any time, wherever he is, whoever he’s with that all his friendships and all his projects can suddenly end that the front door of his house can crash open at midnight that the ceiling of his bedroom might start descending on him while he’s asleep. Even in solitary confinement a prisoner tortured by dampness and rats is comforted by the thought that others survived it, that they weren’t crushed by moving walls or descending ceilings. If the change taking place around me is an illusion or a trap, then I no longer care if I’m arrested again.
Text resist to 50409 to send instant fax letters free#
Such a life is filled with dread and the only ones free of that dread are those already in prison. If there is no change, if this is another illusion, if I’m not writing to Sophia but to a benevolent protector of the people’s real interests, a censor, then I’d rather be back in prison than “free.” There’s no joy in such freedom. This change is reviving my interest in my surroundings, in my fellow beings, in myself, in you. Something is changing in this city, in the entire land I don’t know if the change is permanent. Rebellious words and even gestures are becoming frequent and I haven’t seen or heard of the arrest of the rebels. Letters aren’t being read by the eagle-eyed censors and letter-writers aren’t being escorted out of their homes by middle-of-the-night visitors. Part of my reason for writing you now is that the activities of our omnipotent and omniscient police have been blocked. Unfortunately I never saw that letter and never learned its contents. My wife Mirna memorized the name and address on the envelope because she attributed a strange power to your letter. I wouldn’t even remember your name if you hadn’t written me twelve years ago.
I vaguely remember admiring the energy and intelligence in someone so young, but I regret that you didn’t leave a lasting mark, you didn’t become my guide in my journey through hell. I can’t remember the sound of your voice, the shape of your face or the feel of your hand. Forgive me for addressing you familiarly, as a friend I have no way of knowing if you’re still the person I once knew.