Creative, Opinion, Spirituality
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Rebellion, Freedom and Passion

Friday 13th of November

I am quite superstitious. I usually feel weird when there is a Friday 13th around the corner. Not this year. This year, I had planned a date with a wonderful man and that was the only thing that mattered. Nothing could take my mind off this much-awaited rendez-vous.

So when my mum told me she was going to the Bataclan to accompany her friend at a hard rock concert, I did not pay much attention. I should have, probably. As much as my mother loves music, hard rock is definitely not her favourite kind.But the only person I was thinking about that day was not my mother. Or anyone else, for that matter.

11pm – I am in a pub. The whole world is in shock. I do not understand what is going on. And then I heard. And then I read. Only two words were reasoning in my head: deaths and Bataclan.

My heart skipped a beat, or even two. My throat closed. I tried not to imagine the worst. I tried to hide my fear. I could not imagine for a second that I had lost my mum. I tried to reach her. The phone was ringing. I was thinking of the last time I saw her. Our last fight. Our last goodbye. Our last meal. Our last moments.

Here I was in the middle of Bayswater Road, bursting into tears.I must have looked scary, with my face full of black marks. They lied, my mascara was most certainly not waterproof.  Suddenly, I heard her voice. “Allo”, she said. I was not sure if it was real, or if it was all in my head. “Ines, can you hear me?”, she asked. I felt alive again. I started laughing, and she laughed too. It was nervous. It was inappropriate. But god, it felt great.

She decided not to go to the concert at the last hour. She was not feeling too well, and three hours of hard rock were definitely not the best cure against a migraine.

I was extremely grateful that my whole world did not collapse on that night. But I felt incredibly sad.Because the hearts of  hundreds of families stopped beating that night. I was immensely angry. Because my country had been attacked at its core that night.

I was also hopeful. In the aftermath of this tragedy, I could see love and solidarity. Compassion. The willingness to fight together that common enemy.  The promise to never surrender.

When I went to sleep that night, I had mixed feelings. But I was not scared. I was eager. Eager to learn, to explore, to discover, to live. To live intensely, each day like it could be the last. That was the least I could do ,I thought, to honour the lives that have been lost on that 13th of November.

On the side : Quand on a que l’amour- Jacques Brel 



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