September

On political activism and growing older.

It is noon on a college campus. It’s warm enough for the end of September, but there are clouds in the sky that assure me it will soon grow cold. Students are gathered in small groups here and there across the lawn, grabbing a bite to eat before their next lecture. I gather the fifty or so leaflets that my comrade is handing me and we start making the rounds. It’s something I’m used to doing by now. I’ve been doing it on and off whenever I have the time since 2020 when I first joined the party.

“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, do you have a couple minutes to talk about politics?”

This is the first year I have been doing it since leaving university though. I am still in the process of looking for my first job so I have some time to kill. I told my comrades I was free to hand out tracts and talk to students at least once a week and that’s what I’ve done all month.

“We’re a far-left party and we’re here around campus to talk with students about the topics that matter to them. Are you at least a little interested in politics? Have there been topics that have struck you lately?”

Some days are more successful than others. Sometimes people will stare at you uneasily – “I think politics are a private affair, you shouldn’t have to talk about it” – “I don’t really care about that stuff, I have other priorities”. And it’s fine, you just move on. And sometimes, you mention a topic, a word, and suddenly there is a flame in the gaze of the person in front of you, an urgency in the way they talk.

“Palestine, the new austerity measures here in France, the rise of the far right… What we’re trying to show is how all those elements are linked by a singular system, the capitalist system, and that without attacking it at its core, it’s like trying to cut a hydra’s head off without ever killing the beast.”

They’re young, those students in front of me. In general, five years younger than me, if not more. I see myself in some of them, the loners, the passionate. They’re enraged about the world around them without necessarily having the arguments to back their anger up. I’m barely coming out of that stage myself. The comrade next to me is barely 21 and he sounds steadier in his arguments than I feel. Who am I to talk to these kids that way? What do I truly have to offer? Organisation, information, activism. Revolution. Do I believe in it?

Of course, I do. This is the one meaning I don’t stray from, the one thing leading my steps. This isn’t about belief, this is about analysis. Methodical examination of economical and sociological phenomena and logical conclusions. Of course, I don’t. I’m a kid playing at being an adult and an adult playing at being a kid. I’m trapped in illusions and even more in the paralyzing nature of reality.

Fucking transition periods. Uni life is made for political activism. Those students I talk to, the ones with fire in their eyes? They’ll join us or another group. They’ll go to meetings and committees at five o’clock, right after their last lecture of the day. They’ll skip class to go to protests. They’ll do all those things I’ve done for the last few years. They have the time. The means. The resources.

But I’m done with this part of my life. As soon as I sign a contract, as soon as I start a full-time job, I won’t have time for this anymore. I chose a career that leads me far away from workers’ fights. This isn’t the type of job where there will be strikes, agitating, propaganda. And what then? What about this meaning I’m so sure of, this work that needs to be done? Do I just leave it to them for safekeeping? Do I take the fire out of my heart and build my sanity on the hopes of seeing it burn in others instead? How long until I grow cold?

The wind has picked up and the conversation has died down. The students are eager to go back inside now that it looks like it’s going to rain. My comrade managed to get the phone number of one of the girls who looked particularly interested in what we have to say. I draft a message inviting her to our next meeting. Soon I’ll go home. I’ll watch the rain fall from my bed as I draft yet another cover letter for a job I don’t particularly want. I’ll reply to a comrade to assure I’ll be there at the next committee meeting as long as I don’t have a job interview on the same day. I’ll wait for the cold to settle deep in my bones.