Hippie

So you want to be a pilgrim on the pathway of the Light? Learn to roam the desert. Speak with your heart, because words are a question of mere chance—though you need them to communicate with others, do not be misled by meanings and explanations. People hear only what they want to hear, never seek to persuade anyone, only follow your destiny without fear—or even filled with fear, but follow your destiny.

Do you wish to reach Heaven and come to me? Learn to fly with two wings—discipline and mercy.

Temples, churches, and mosques are full of people afraid of what’s to be found outside—and end up indoctrinated by lifeless words. My temple is the world, do not leave it. Though it may be difficult, remain in the world—even should you be the target of others’ laughter.

Speak with others but do not seek to persuade them. Never allow others to believe in your words or become your disciples, for when this occurs, they no longer believe in what their hearts tell them, which in truth is the only source to which they must listen.

Walk hand in hand, drink and be merry with life, but keep your distance such that one never relies on the other—our fall is part of the journey and we all must learn to rise again on our own.

The minar

ets had gone silent. Paulo wasn’t sure how long he’d been speaking with the sun—its single ray lit a spot far from where he was seated. He turned around, and the man who’d come from a distant country merely to find what he could have found in the mountains of his own country had already left. Paulo was alone there.

It was time to leave, he was slowly relinquishing himself to the sacred flame of madness. He would have no need to explain to anyone where he’d been and hoped his eyes were still the same—he could feel them gleaming, and this could attract others’ attention.

He lit a stick of incense next to the chair and left. He closed the door but knew that, for those who seek to step beyond the threshold, the door is always open. You need only turn the knob.

The woman from the French news agency was visibly upset by the assignment she’d been given: to interview hippies—hippies!—in the middle of Turkey, as they made their way to Asia by bus like the many immigrants who came in the opposite direction in search of wealth and opportunity in Europe. She had no prejudice against either group, but now that conflicts had flared in the Middle East—the telex printer never ceased vomiting up news, there were rumors of battalions killing each other in Yugoslavia, Greece was on the edge of war with the Turks, the Kurds wanted autonomy and the president wasn’t sure what to do, Istanbul had become a nest of spies from the KGB and CIA, the King of Jordan had crushed a rebellion, and the Palestinians were promising revenge. What exactly was she doing in this third-class hotel?

Following orders. She’d receive the call from the driver of the so-called Magic Bus, an experienced and kind man who waited for her in the lobby of the hotel, and who also struggled to understand the interest of the foreign press in the subject but had decided to help however he could.

She scanned the lobby, there wasn’t a single hippie to be found, only a man who looked like Rasputin and another man about fifty years old, with no trace of hippie about him, seated next to a young woman.

“He’s the one who will answer your questions,” the driver said, gesturing to the fifty-year-old, who had traveled all this way in the company of his daughter. “He speaks your language.”

The advantage was they could converse in French; that would make the interview much quicker and easier. She began by placing them in time and space (Name: Jacques / Age: 47 / Birthplace: Amiens, France / Profession: Former director at a leading French cosmetics firm / Marital status: Divorced).

“As I’m sure they’ve told you, I’m here working on an article for Agence France-Presse about this culture that, from what I’ve read, has its origin with the Americans…”

She kept herself from saying the “rich little playboys without anything better to do.”

“…and has swept across the entire globe.”

Jacques nodded, while the journalist thought once again of adding “or actually, wherever rich people live.”

“What exactly do you want to know?” he asked, regretting having agreed to the interview because the rest of the group was out exploring the city and having a good time.

“So, we know that it’s a movement without prejudices, based on drugs, music, huge open-air concerts where anything goes, travel, absolute and total disregard for those who are fighting at the moment for an ideal, a free, a more just society…”

“For example…”

“For example, those trying to liberate the oppressed, denounce injustice, take part in the essential class struggle, in which people give their blood and their lives so that the only hope for humanity, socialism, might no longer be mere utopia and instead become a reality.”

Jacques nodded—it was useless to react to that sort of provocation, the only thing he’d do would be lose his precious first day in Istanbul.

“And who have a much freer, I would say more débauché, view of sex, where middle-aged men have no problem being seen next to girls young enough to be their daughters…”

Jacques was about to let this one pass, too, but then another voice cut in.

“The girl young enough to be his daughter—I’m guessing you’re referring to me—is, in fact, his daughter. We weren’t introduced; my name is Marie. I’m twenty years old, born in Lisieux. I study political science, admire Camus and Simone de Beauvoir. Musical tastes: Dave Brubeck, the Grateful Dead, and Ravi Shankar. At the moment, I’m writing a dissertation about how the socialist paradise people are laying down their lives for, also known as the Soviet Union, has become every bit as oppressive as the dictatorships imposed on the Third World by capitalist countries like the United States, England, Belgium, France. Anything else you want to know?”

The journalist thanked her for her response, swallowed hard, considered for a second whether the girl was lying, decided she was not, then sought to hide her surprise and concluded that this, perhaps, was the guts of her article: the story of a man, a former director at a French multinational, who in a moment of existential crisis decides to abandon everything, take his daughter with him, and set off around the world—without considering the risks this could entail for the girl, or, in this case, young woman. Or precociously wise old woman, judging by her way of speaking. She found herself at a disadvantage and needed to recover her initiative.

“Have you experimented with drugs?”

“Of course: marijuana, mushrooms, a few chemical drugs that made me sick, LSD. I’ve never touched heroin, or cocaine, or opium.”

The journalist looked over at her father, who listened calmly at his daughter’s side.