I have something to tell you, you who killed me.

I have something to tell you, but you must lend me your ear and listen very carefully. This same ear you never lent to anyone, neither to your father the farmer, nor to the teacher you’ve never had.

I would like to tell you, you who killed me, that I forgive you, because you have no comprehension of the gravity of your crime. You have no idea of the monstrous damages you have committed, the multiple lives you have devastated, and the wells of grief you have dug to infinity… No, you do not know any of this because in the world you lived in, one take care of oneself first, it is a matter of survival.

I forgive you because you are a victim, just like me. And perhaps even more, because unlike you, I knew precisely what I was getting myself into. I knew the risks I was taking, but I, like other passionate people of my kind, always managed to convince myself that I would fall though the mesh of misfortune.

It was not the case this time.

It was my time to go, although it came a little too early, because I had not yet finished my work. I had other battles to fight, blinders to remove, consciences to disrupt.

You see, I met a lot of young people your age when I made “Crossing”, a video about candidates for illegal immigration. And you know, what? They all looked just like you. Seeing them, I see you, with your Kalashnikov pointed my neighbors and I at the Café Cappuccino.

I knew you would shoot, the same way I watched them embark on makeshift rafts and get lost on the waves, in search of a better life. The same zeal. The same state of near trance where no alternative seemed possible. You shoot. They board.

The mafia that sold them Paris, Madrid, Milan or Brussels, is the same one that sold you Heaven, with its seventy virgins, its rivers of wine, honey flowing from trees… The language changes, but the mafias remain the same, professing to be religious or not.

You see, you who killed me, I would have liked to know your name, your story, snippets of your life I could have photographed to show the world, to save you… perhaps.

We could have sat at the Café Cappuccino and talk, you and I.

I would have shared with you my discontent with those states that impose on you a live in garbage dumps, favelas or shantytowns.

I would have said that I’m mad at these fanatics who’ve infiltrated your villages to condition and manipulate young people your age.

I would have said that I’m against the upper classes, who profit from this misery and continue to exploit and underpay people in your situation.

So, from deep down in my grave, I want to tell you that I have nothing against you, You who killed me.

And to tell them: Arrange what you still can… before it’s too late.