Amine Kessaci, in Marseille, October 8, 2024. MIGUEL MEDINA/AFP
Y
esterday [November 18], I buried my brother. My heart is nothing but wounds. The pain tears me apart. But it does not cloud my clarity. We are not fooled by anything. I hear the fine words, the suddenly resolute speeches. I see the posturing of those who put on mournful faces but will continue on as if nothing happened, because for them, other people's lives mean nothing and only the carousel of their own vanity matters. I see, though I do not read, the flood of comments from people who think they know but know nothing.
Because his death must not be buried by the sands of indifference and forgetfulness. A thousand times I will write his name and confront his killers. I will be the keeper of his memory. No, I will not stay silent.
I will say and repeat that Mehdi died for nothing. I will speak out about the violence of drug trafficking. Its grip. I will speak out about the cowardice of those who order these crimes. I will speak of the madness of those who carry out contracts, destroy lives and stain their souls forever. I will speak to pierce the silence, just as they pierce the bodies of our loved ones. I will speak of the failings of the state, the flaws of the Republic, the abandoned territories and the obliterated populations.











