Well, I meant somewhere not too far from that Museum, in Trafalgar Square, and beside the other great London,s museum, The National Gallery and with Saint Martin in the Fields and sir Neville Marriner..:-) stands the Southadrican embassy and stood at the time when Nelsson Mandela was in jail... I discovered that in 1987, withn a friend of mine and his girlfriend. After having lunch in Soho we went over there and as we was getting out of the N.T. we saw people running away and also bobbies being busy. Something was wrong but we did not know what it could be, but soon discovered the nightmate at about sunset time, a sunday early evening, Oct, 1987...A litle crowd of bastards -skinheads- went to the front of the southafrican embassy to atack the permanent pickett -24 hrs per day, 365 days every year...summer and winter too- standing in front of the building and asking for Nelsson Mandella,s release...and keeping it untill he was free...
Since that time I went several times over there to stand in front of, on that time shameful building and to talk and help in the way I could, morally, at least -I would say I was 24 y.o., a student working illegally for short wages in restaurants and hotels to pay my room and so on...- but I tried my best, not only with the pickett. I went to the Wembley Stadium a saturday afternoom but all the ticketts was sold out for one of the International concerts promoted by Bob Geldoff and also other great artists... and I was hunging around for a while, catching the air and crying, emotionally and ideologically touched, but supporting somehow on the way I could, and so on...
More than twenty years later, Nelsson Mandela is obviously free, but seriously ill and the National From have got some chairs in the European Parliament...and thinking-back and about all that, and in today,s world...I can,t avoid my silly tears like when I was around Wmbley,s Stadium...
In 1989, after a Poetry Reading, a sumday evening, at about 11,00 PM, clossing-up time for pubs and so on, I went from a bar with two collegues, a male poet from Belfast and another Poet, from London: My beloved Dinah Livingstone... Beside the tube station a crowd, and suddenly two skinheads -boy and girl- came over us -Dinnah and me, the irish poet left to other side a few moments before...-Why have you said fucking french? spoke-up the filthy and drugly anoyed skinhead at less than three mts, from me -we was talking nothing about France, just about the artificious lorca,s poetry in Poet in New York...- While the skin male was trying to provoke at me, Dinnah Livingstonne suffered the insults and shouts of the filthy skingirl...and a crowd of about ten filthy bastards was pushing me from my back to avoid a possible way-out and I never thought about to scape while my friend was enduring such a nightmare...A litle book with poems of Lorca and San Juan de la Cruz translated into english by Dinnah Livinstone fell to the ground from my arms after so many pushings and slammings on my body...but I collected it from the ground and I still keep in in my library with shoes clues and my own blood in the covers...The only available way-out was the tube station and we went over there while the fucking bastards was attacking on us, but the tickett collector couldn,t help-us, just said : I can,t mate, the police is coming...and after a terrible rain of slamings, kickings on my face and cheast and insults and shouts to Dinnah, someone from the tube,s stuff collected us to a Tea Room where I released all my anger as the worker asked me if I wanted a cup of tea... Fucking Thatcher, Fucking Queen of England, fucking fascists... I want to leave this country, I can,t stand this anymore...while I was embracing Dinnah and crying with anger, wounded and a bit desperated... The police took us to the Hampstead Free Hospital, nearby Kentish town Tube station and I was in untill about 4,00 AM. I told Dinah to go home at about midnight even she did not want to leave me alone I convinced her...Nothing specially wrong in my diagnosis, just hurts, wounds and my blue coat full of blood. At about 4,00 the police van took me to my home in East Acton...I was a student, a young writer and someone,s tuttor, not a linnen porter in a Gloucester Road,s hotel rulled by pakistanish people...A long conversation during the journay... The bobbies was great and honest. They almost apologized in the name of the brave and honest people from England and the UK... and left me in front of my home and shaking my hands they said: Things like that...
The following morning Dinnah callt me at least five times and also more members of the Poetry Group of Kentish Town, showing support and help and mentionning a possible poetry reading of my poems in the Poetry Society of Earl,s Court...
I did not go to work on the following day. Mr Yakoubi, the manager understood that when I told him what happenned...and the shock came over, slowly but powerfully...I had no "papers", short of money and with a double life, three months before the exams...I was afraid of some places at some hours. During a tube journey, some one sitting beside me asked: Where d,you live? I thought he could be a policeman from the Inmigration Office, but in fact he was a baptist looking for unexpected followers for his religious meetings... After a short dialogue I told him not tobe interested on that: I don,t Believe in god, I said... You don,t? he asked. No I don,t, I replayed. Well, while he showed a shy smile... To cutt-off a senseless conversation I took a book from my pockett and showedf him what it was...Have a look, I said...and he replayed... Nietzsche...hmmm. No more coments was made untill I left at Tottenham Court Road Station to collect the red line to East Acton... The book was On the Genealogy of Morals translated into english by Philippe Kaufman, useful to learn good english due to the easy and deep gramar of Nietzsche,s thoughts...
A few day,s later a letter came to my mail box. Mr Swaterdidge, from the Metropolitan transport police wanted to speak with me about the incident and I did...
Žiadne komentáre:
Zverejnenie komentára