Assange and Costa – Macau Today

My dear Julian Assange, you will never receive my forgiveness, and I tell you this with a broken heart. Like the criminals who arrested you and kept you on the edge of your life for many years, following their rules, you also declare your guilt in this agreement, not satisfaction, because you courageously fulfilled your duties, dignity and awareness of the risks you took.

Let me tell you, humanity should not need martyrs to survive and develop, but it cannot do without them and respect them if specific conditions require them, as in your case.

The Bilts with whom you now come to an agreement seem to regret what they have done. They are villains who regret having done what their work dictated to them, cowardly villains who, by repentance, try to preserve the dignity they lack. And you, by coming to an agreement like them, absolve them, that is, you deign miserably to abandon your reason—your duty having been performed by investigating what you suspected to exist, and, in the face of established certainty, you have published your findings.

I am also a journalist, I was also in prison until April 26, 1974, and I cannot forgive myself for not understanding and, therefore, forgiving what the same criminals did to me, and now it takes your attitude to understand that I was on the opposite side to my colleagues, to do what was necessary for me, to fulfill my civic and professional obligations, just as they considered their work necessary and accepted their respective rules, fulfilling these rules for me, and never forgave me until I thought, I could have taken revenge, but I didn’t.

I still think that when they offer you a release deal, you should declare that you have a clear conscience and are willing to pay whatever is necessary to avoid becoming like a gangster and taking a concessionary attitude.

Of course, I understand your weariness in your misfortune and the suffering of those you seek to alleviate, but I will never applaud you for taking blame you don’t have, even though I also know this and realize that the world is the way it is, only because it has been the site of battles between necessary and essential heroes for centuries.

*

Contemplate the affable face of the snake while listening to Walt Whitman’s longest poem, listening to the rancid wind of the barren plains humming in your ears. Note the wet sheen of its forked tongue, like the light of a nighttime car light, trembling as it points to your lips, open in surprise. The lovely shadow also flutters around your eyes, thanking the scent of your dreams. The diamond pupils of the great serpent measure you with delicate assessment, knowing how to greet you in its cold snake blood, drops of the tireless, eternal, moving sun. The dawn of anger is always like this. Because the war will not stop, countless people are on the verge of death.

*

Last night I washed my eyes with white wine because I remembered a morning in Geneva when I had to catch a train to Paris and because, in fact, I did not have to get up from my armchair, just as tragic things were at the end of the Portugal-Georgia match, an ignoble liquid with a few drops still remaining at the bottom of the glass within reach.

In the ancient days of Geneva, as far back as anyone can remember, when there were still very few Portuguese going to Switzerland for work, a taxi driver noticed my strange pronunciation, looked at my moustache and asked me if I was Georgian, the fact that I was not offended me, which would certainly have happened if I had been asked this question now or a few hours ago.

Mind you, this morning in the café I frequent, the atmosphere was sad. I saw only gloomy faces, and all conversations had an inherent sour taste. There was only beer in the glasses until a man I didn’t know walked up to the counter and asked for a glass of red wine.

The suddenly dishevelled man, after taking in the panoramic view of his surroundings, stood up and drank his abnormality. Alone, as there were no empty tables. If it had been white wine, I would probably have invited it to my table, but I didn’t want to risk having everyone’s eyes turned to me.

As some would say, red yes, but only at the right time.

*

Antonio Costa was chosen by the formal high powers in Brussels to succeed Charles Michel, the French-speaking neoliberal sacristan who was once Belgian prime minister, as president of the European Council.

The choice of either of these two athletes is a victory even before the game begins, because both of them possess the main asset of the game – a sense of belonging, due to their insignificance and the consequent disregard for the various jacks on deck, to a group of excellent powerless people, who are utilitarians in the environment and who do not even try to include their own interests in the decisions of the Council.

With the last São João wreath still shining in the Lusitania sky, it is foreseeable that the rockets of national pride and our tiny Homeric triumph may continue for another week or two, setting the tone for the day and night festivals of São João and the intoxicating agenda of politicians and the media.

Glory to the Most High, Costa, and peace to men of good will. We praise you. Thank you. We adore you. We glorify you. We thank you for your great glory, Costa.