Independence of Brittany and why Bretons will never be French: their values, and ours

Fighting for the Independence of Brittany is not only about politics, it is also and above all a clash of morals and values.

The essence of our action comes from this situation. By realizing it, you can understand us. A rejection. France would like to represent the Republic, and some sort of morals. But France is symbols, values, and above all, a reality.

The reality of France. France is Paris, exile of the youth-from-across-the-beltway, Parisians who visit every year their Hick reservation between June and September, fifty trains a day to Paris from Rennes, and two trains per month to Pontivy. France is “Get a job in Paris, it’s easier”, the word “province”, the harmless and simple-minded TV weatherman with a country accent and a poppy on his garment, and Paris region license plates in commercials. France is also the hangover from 1981, the Mitterrand years, champagne socialists, the baton right wing, the doobie left wing, corruption, their money years, our jail years, some “Frankiz evit Kabon” on the walls when we were kids, some “Freedom for Breton political prisoners” that we tag ourselves every fifteen years when shindigs resume. Hey, well, so a “44=BZH” graffiti meets a cop car, and it’s a night waiting outside the police station for those who are lucky, and inside for those who are not. But France is also our cousins who are small farmers eaten away by alcohol, the Agricultural Bank, and quotas convicted for “maladjustment” who will have never watched the Millennium fireworks. France is tractors in always bigger fields and always larger overdrafts at the bank. France is the reparcelling and neighbors who spit in each other’s face for a piece of land. France is also the word “dialect”, the word “prefect”, the word “petroleum”, the word “eco-tax”, and tollgates with 72 cameras.

Hey! France is also the “Amoco cormorant”, this famous bird trying to fly and eventually sinking into its sea of fuel oil. France is also hypermarkets and their huge parking lots, ugly housing estates and the ultimate joy of building the exact same house than your neighbor in the Ker Stuff subdivision. And then the shady Youth Clubs, the suburbs like in the “New Year’s Eve at Bob’s” 1984 movie. And then France is the upstart or the resident Parisian who owns a filthy “Costa Bella Residence” vacation condo in Port-Navalo that you hear about at every family reunion. France is the “Pays-de-la-Loire”, the same old “But what would you do without France? Huh, huh”; the same old “Now, I’m moving to Paris, it’s so lame here”; the same old “Breton? Gallo? It’s useless, learn English”. France is the abduction of the word “Republic”, the made-up history of Jules Michelet, the lies of the wars in Algeria, Indochina, Madagascar, and Chad, the spookeries, the weapons sold to one half of Africa to exterminate the other half, Charles Pasqua, Bettencourt, Franck Ribéry, Sarkozy, Tapie, Ayrault, but also Alain Minc, Sollers, Giesbert, BHL, Glucksmann, Alexandre Jardin, the old lady Françoise Morvan, Le Bris, Télérama, the old lady Le Pen, and the snobbish accent of Jack Lang and Nathalie Kosciusko-Morizet. Moreover, France is like Paris, it’s somewhat of a mix between NTM and NKM. Scum on one side, upper class on the other. France is Jean-Pierre Gaillard, Hubert Coudurier, François Régis Hutin and his editorials about boy scouts. France? Well, well, well… that’s careers counselors sending idiots and losers to technical high schools, because in France plumber is a good profession but it’s not a job for my son. France is fixed-term contracts, temporary work, or assisted, subsidized, state-aided, and other government sponsored contracts, the unemployment offices in the middle of Brittany where a few years ago, there were 30 job listings for turkey carvers and one for construction draughtsman. Now there are not even the turkey carvers! But France, France is also and especially the impunity of Sarko, the National School of Administration, the Regional Cultural Affairs Administration, Laurent Fabius’ son, the prefectures, sub-prefectures, and Kommandantur, the true-false status of Diwan, and the true-false “resumption of work” at Doux. France is “Céline the unconventional writer”, but “Roparz Hémon the despicable collaborator”. France is a nuclear power plant in Le Carnet every 15 years, and a pigsty with 25,000 sows in the Tregor every month. France is a megalopolis between Nantes and Rennes, airport included, and a desert between Saint-Méen and Châteaulin, France is the Gulf of Morbihan disfigured by “Pierre & Vacances Holidays” and Mérinel, France is menhirs in prison and tubs of yoghurt in Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier, France is the farmer whose herd was slaughtered because you don’t want “Libé” to run “Government ignores the precautionary principle” as a headline the next day, France is Spanish fishermen auctioning their catch in the port of Douarnenez, France is Saint-Cyr-Coëtquidan, France is a picture of Colonna in police stations and a picture of Hollande in city halls, France is “Long live free Québec” and “Long live French Algeria”, France is 90 minutes of Breton on France 3 since FR3, France is a stain on my identity and a mistake on my ID card. The French is a friend and a nice neighbor.

But France, the State and its government, is the enemy!

Mael Pellan
Traduction : Paotrig Sklaer

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