By Pierre Péan
Depuis les débuts de los angeles Ve République, l'Afrique noire a été l'objet d'une cognizance très particulière des hauts dirigeants français qui l'ont incluse dans leur " domaine réservé ", sous le contrôle tutélaire et direct de l'Elysée: du Secrétariat aux Affaires africaines et malgaches de Jacques Foccart, sous de Gaulle, jusqu'à ses équivalents actuels.
Nombre d'" affaires " ont révélé, au fil des ans, le caractère difficulty, aventureux et parfois compromettant des relatives entre Paris et certains gouvernants de ses anciennes colonies. " Diamants ", barbouzes, mercenaires, putsches, safaris, sacres impériaux, votes des " Français de l'étranger ", affaires du S.A.C., financement des partis politiques, trafics d'influences, pots de vin et prébendes: l'accent fut alors souvent mis sur des cas de corruption, des excès de potentats locaux _ plus rarement sur les véritables intérêts en reason, les réseaux et groupes de pression, les jeux d'influences réciproques, l'intrication croissante de l. a. politique franco-africaine des gouvernements successifs et de leurs préoccupations de politique intérieure...
Un cas résume à lui seul toute l'ampleur et l'ambiguïté de ces kinfolk d'" interdépendance ": le Gabon, petit émirat équatorial gorgé de pétrole et d'autres ressources stratégiques. l. a. minutieuse enquête menée par Pierre Péan à partir de cette plaque-tournante des enjeux franco-africains révèle que definite néocolonialisme risque de n'être plus aujourd'hui à sens particular, et que l. a. politique de Paris n'est pas à l'abri des pressions de lobbies ou de chantages aux renversements d'alliances...
Chronique d'un quart de siècle de family franco-africaines, ce livre ne constitue pas un mince chapitre de l'histoire secrète de los angeles Ve République.
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Personally, I didn’t see much wrong with what was going on, and neither did a lot of the Africans I spoke to. It made pretty good sense. We were very different, culturally and economically. After all, this was Africa. The black African people lived over here, the white people lived on that side, and the Indians and Coloureds lived just behind that distant hill over there. It made sense to me. The world did not see things the same way as me and millions of other South Africans, however, and the world trade boycott that had been imposed on the country for years now was strangling the economy and making life difficult for both black and white.
One night my dad poured us each a whisky and we talked. He said that he loved me and that I should stop all the drug crap, that I should get on the right track and get on with my life and leave all that sort of stuff behind me. I agreed with him, as I was getting kind of tired of that scene anyway, and had been at it since I was fourteen. I cleaned up my act a bit, stopped hanging around with the downtown crowd and even started dressing a bit better. It was around this time that I started diddling the English teacher.
We ran it hundreds of times, as did every paratrooper who passed through 1 Parachute Battalion. And we hadn’t even started the basic training yet. Basic training—no sleep, inspections, running 35 kilometres to the shooting range, and sleeping overnight with ice-cold winter winds blowing down the huge, flat, stony shooting range. We were instructed on rifles, LMGs (light machine guns), radio procedure, patrol formation and—of course— drill. We drilled for a couple of hours daily, until we moved like a well-oiled machine—fast, tight and moving as one.