Saturday night, I answered a call. Someone was crying, furious, and didn’t know what to do. He asked if it was the right thing to do. I didn’t know what he was talking about, I didn’t ask, I didn’t investigate. He explained that it was the right thing to do, that he didn’t see any other option. I started thinking he wanted to end his life, a good, lonely man with charisma and a warrior’s character. Why he wanted to do it, because of whom, why, I didn’t ask. I’ve been listening to this since I was a child, an innate, or rather learned, bias. A torrent of words, that it was their fault, that “how could they go unpunished?” I started with words because I couldn’t stand it anymore: who was talking about whom. I received no answer, a torrent of words, finally all I heard was that it was about women and children. He was begging—I don’t know how to describe this behavior, maybe he was pleading—but not only that someday the world would find out. I’ll write down the conversations later: he was prepared to die. He hung up with words. The next day, he ran into pedestrians in some country, and the British Security Services took over.
It concerned the exploitation of children and women in various countries. The matter was resolved this spring.