Zemmour weighs on me, by Emma RIverola

I will not face your name on the ballot papers. The chances of meeting a voter of yours are slim. I will not have to listen to your arguments in any debate that affects my vote. But still, Zemmour weighed me down. I regret that candidate for the French presidency, more to the right of Le Pen. His dramatic charge, his communication skills weigh on me, his provocation without any moral barrier. I am sorry for his vindication of the Vichy regime, assuring that he saved French Jews by deporting, alone, foreign Jews. And he is Jewish! His “we will keep pedagogism, pro-Islam and LGBT leftist ideologies out of the classrooms of our children” weighs on me. It weighs on me because, although I will not have his ballot in my hands, the breath of his hatred, of his contempt, it is capable of crossing borders. The stench of these summoned and displayed specters does poison our air. And gives breath to xenophobia, exclusive nationalism and the bitter debates that are already rampant on the land I step on.

Zemmour weighs on me because more and more Zemmour. And more uncomplexed. And more present. They weigh on me because one day we thought they were exiled, relegated to the museum of horror, and now they return. And they are still alive.

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