Bernard-Henri Lévy

Bernard-Henri Levy seems to have a passion for fighting—at least when the fight is for freedom. That passion carries him, or perhaps propels him, from one cause to another. One day he’s on the front lines defending besieged Bosnians in Sarajevo; the next he’s with the Nuba of southern Sudan or with the denizens of Darfur. Then we find him in Georgia, Afghanistan, or Burundi. He travels the world observing, writing, dialoguing, critiquing, denouncing—in short, reminding us all of our simple human duty but with a singular flair and enthusiasm. Who cares what the critics say? He seems determined to follow his path, making sure never to settle for half or to try to please everybody, but always to insist on the truth and to shoulder his responsibility as a human being—and as a witness.

The duty to bear witness. It was in this connection, in Burundi, that I met Bernard and got to know him. At the time Burundi was a ruined field furrowed by hate, disfigured, ravaged by the outrageous violence of history. And the world went about its business as if nothing was happening. After all, what was Burundi for the international community? Nothing but a tiny plot in some lost corner of the world, a land of no strategic, economic, or military interest. The Burundis could continue to kill and be killed, to sink in the quicksand of violence, to cut each other’s throats—if that’s what they wanted to do. But Bernard had another idea: He had come to understand and to bear witness.

Witness. Is it our duty—is it the duty of the philosopher, to paraphrase Sartre—to get involved in what does not concern us? Without question, says Lévy. For beyond the borders that separate us, who are we? Are we self-contained nations isolated each from the other? A loosely aggregated mass of nations living in autarky and sharing only the planet that hosts us? No, we are yoked together, determined in some measure by each other’s convulsions, setbacks, ebbs and flows. To witness for the Burundis is simply to remember that mutual determination, to proclaim the idea of a shared humanity living in a global society.

But is that the job of the philosopher? Isn’t his or her job to contemplate the world, to “read” it, from far above the fray? Lévy’s answer is that between thought and action there is and should be interaction, simultaneity, and continuity. Although thinking is indeed a solitary act, the philosopher’s vocation, is not to remain shut up in an ivory tower while the folly of history unfolds below. Philosophers are called upon to throw themselves into the melee, to get down into the arena, to shout out yes or no, to stake their name, their fame, their credibility, their symbolic capital. For when barbarity thrives, when it roars like a monster, when hate explodes, when fanaticism and evil move in and take possession of people, terrifying and destroying them, when people are penned and slaughtered like cattle—at such times to remain silent, to look away, to refuse to take a position in the name of scientific objectivity, academic neutrality, or the need to take a long view or maintain critical distance, makes no sense at all. To strike such a pose is to scorn one’s fellow man. It is cowardly.

Bernard believes that it is the philosopher’s duty at such times of radical destruction to take the side of the victims, the exiles, the wretched, rejected, and crushed. It is the philospher’s duty to be their tribune, to use any and all means of communication—radio, television, newspapers, and the Web—to fully exercise the right to speak so as to draw attention to the fate of the damned, to amplify their stifled cries in the ruins of silence and oblivion, in the persecutions, purifications, and mass graves. It is the philosopher’s job to find the words that will reach the hearts, the minds, and the critical faculties of fellow citizens to rouse them from their daily routine. The philosopher’s free and sovereign word, his or her pen unfettered from any ideological bond, must be heard, read, and understood. Those words are the victims’ shield against the machinery of brutality.

What is philosophy, in the end? Is it talking or doing? It’s both, says Bernard-Henri Levy. To think, to pronounce, to theorize, to explain, to interpret the world in which we live, to encourage critical discourse about it, to give it meaning—yes, that is the first requirement of the philosopher. But thought cannot be confined, reduced to an exercise in speculation loosed from time, disembodied, unfolding somewhere in outer space. Thought takes place on earth, and the philospher must combine word and deed. There isn’t the faintest contradiction between studious intellectual work performed with eye on a far horizon and an equally strong commitment to the present, to our daily struggle in the fire of reality. For if the spirit enriches the real, the real, in turn, enriches the spirit.

Lévy’s work is a relentless questioning of accepted ideas, settled concepts, rigid thinking, and complacent notions of what is true. That thinking refuses to be hustled into convenient categories. It rejects the totalitarian temptation of grand schemes. It is philosophy in motion, philosophy in action. From Bernard’s visit to Burundi there quickly emerged a radio station devoted to citizenship, hope, and solidarity, a station financed by the foundation that bears the name of his father, André Levy. Since then that voice of citizenship has evolved into a radio and television voice that broadcasts with brio the courage of peace and pluralism throughout Burundi. Its tempo, timbre, and images are a bulwark against the return of barbarism to Burundi.

David Gakunzi

He is a writer and columnist from Burundi. He published various works about African personalities. Struggling for peace, he is the chairman of the International Center Martin Luther King in Kigali, Rwanda. He is also a member of the editorial board of La Règle du Jeu.

Translation by Steven Kennedy

Photo 1 : Burundi is emerging from 13 years of civil war between Hutu rebels and an army dominated by the Tutsi minority. The conflict has claimed nearly 300 000 deaths. (archives Reuters)