From one of the 'shithole' countries: Letter to Donald Trump, the cyclops-baby of United States
Dear Donald Trump,
I am writing to you from Kolkata, India, where I have been attending a writers-in-residence programme for the past 10 years. It is not what you would think: the noise of shackles or an electronic bracelet tied to a foreign national in some sort of surveillance structure in India. I take the liberty to bow down to you — not to send you arrows but to speak to you as one would speak to a troubled friend, or a difficult young brother, or maybe a baby who hasn’t been weaned yet.
Since your election as president, I can't help but see you as this tormented baby who throws tantrums, swings wildly in his cradle, and throws his bottle and toys around.
I could be wrong, but this thought has me preoccupied enough to feel profound compassion for you. It is indeed curious, my dear Donald, that I am spending thought on your situation, given that I am between the hustle and bustle of a city that is far from my home, and moreover, many personalities, voices have gone after you after having badly suffered, thanks to your blunders and your indigestible declarations. Your irresponsible statements should not have affected you at the least as you represent, according to me, the oldest and the most arrogant baby of the United States.
I don’t need to react to this umpteenth whim of yours. It so happens that I come from one of the countries that happen to be the subject of your insult. What would a poet have to say to a poor billionaire ready to launch his revolver on a spectrum that would have colour differences seen through his own prism?
These differences seem to play a lot of mind games with you: the moment you find something is not white, it seems suspicious to you. You go by every generality possible. The world’s complexity does not seem to indicate to you that you need to be discerning in your vision. When we look at your vision, it compels us to think it is tough and opaque.
Many people think you do not think at all, and prefer to keep shut hoping that the nightmare you have unleashed will pass. The issue is that you do think all right, but your very thoughts wreak havoc. You have succeeded in this unique feat of transforming the environment – it seems to suffocate with your bombardment of tweets, with your whimsical worldview.
You have this mania of being fussy, of being carried away, and of course, of contradicting yourself. One day, the earth is round, the next day, it is a smooth, flat slope like a golf course. You seem to perceive the world with one eye closed, for you believe you are aiming for the bull’s eye.
And then, you don’t miss a single opportunity to resort to these memory blackouts by saying, “Oh, I had not said that, I did not mean that”. You have been playing Russian roulette ever since you came to power, and your new insult is no more an attack on the people than on yourself.
To add to what’s niggling you, you deem anything that seems black, blue and Arab to your eye a “shithole country”. You are what we call in Haiti a wonderful catastrophe, Mr President.
Between inaccuracy and outrage, you managed to get yourself elected as the President of the United States of America by talking nonsense, by hurling expletives without self-attestation or simply with “bullshit”.
Hearing you say “shithole country” doesn’t really come as a surprise, since you are squelching around eternally in your scatological universe. Shit is your passion, one would say its your magic potion even. You are just at home with it.
Coming to speak of your wife or the First Lady, you told an interviewer that “Melania does not fart”. Indeed, a beautiful poetic retreat. We don’t know if you represent a constipated United States, but one thing is clear: if your predecessor was a bandage to heal the United States, you are a suppository.
You are no ugly duckling, you are Donald, a caricature on the canvas that represents the destiny of the people you have marinated in muck since you moved into the White House.
How would such a world power come to this, with a shipwrecked captain at the helm, given that the ship was already in great distress?
I am writing these words knowing that you most certainly won’t read them. I am still giving shape to them to erect a bridge and a new solidarity between countries that should not crumble under the simple idea of one man. After all, these countries are on your radar, and their citizens your potential targets. If your people let you be, particularly those who elected you, as emphasises Raoul Peck, they would be accomplices.
Under these circumstances, a little lullaby would not do the trick. The letter will be worth what it’s worth, a blink of attention at the end of the world, a small stone against the “trumped up tower” of deceit, a small fart in the cosmos.