I wait more than three months before editing the singing – three minutes and twenty seconds of sound for images of the Algerian war. I shrivel, I graze myself, the singing of anonymous pain in my head.Īt the end of the day, looking at the crowd around the Gare Saint-Lazare, I find myself both weary and washed-out: I am a bombed city. I keep silent, I rush outside, I wait on a bench for the bus, near an old man carrying a bouquet of roses, talking about it. The Zerda or the Songs of Oblivion: while working on this film about the Maghreb memory of the first half of this century, I hear, for the first time, a singer’s lament in a deserted auditorium in Gennevilliers. Smarting eyes, the uneven grain of a voice dripping dry, a sliding hull letting in water right from the start, and freedom reappears as inexhaustible rebeginning.
Seized by the leaning lightness of a sweet drunkenness of space, I walk, I wander, I work. Pincers of time: fighting and the illusion of defeat, then of victory arrest of lamentation.
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