N>DLR - Le Barreau de Montréal et la Centrale de l'enseignement du Québec présentaient en avril dernier la dixième édition du concours annuel de composition La justice a bonne mine. À l'intention des étudiants des niveaux primaire et secondaire de l'île de Montréal, le concours1 avait pour but cette année d'engager une réflexion sur la violence dans la société et plus particulièrement dans les écoles. Le thème : le témoin: silence ou combat?
La remise des prix avait lieu le 19 avril au Complexe Desjardins, dans le cadre de la Semaine du Barreau de Montréal. Les gagnants, Julie-Anne Chapleau (École Lalande), Jérémy Tétrault Farber (Collège de Montréal), Quéré Griselda (Collège Stanislas), Julia Konow (Priory School), Lauren Ross (John XXIII/Dorval High School) et Jen Mutch (Miss Edgar's and Miss Cramp's School (ECS), ont fait lecture de leur texte devant public à cette occasion. Le Journal du Barreau vous propose trois des six textes primés2.
Expliquez-nous pourquoi, si vous étiez témoin d'un événement (réel ou fictif) où une personne en situation d'infériorité se sentait menacée, vous auriez décidé d'intervenir ou de vous abstenir.
Lauren Ross
premier cycle du secondaire,
Jean XXIII/Dorval High School
- We are very sorry Christopher, please send our condolences to your family.
- Yes, I will be sure to do so.
- Your brother was a very good person, he did not deserve such a horrible death.
- That's how we all feel, I'm sure. Well if you'll excuse me I must be on my way now.
- Take care, and once again, we are very sorry.
- I know you are, goodbye.
That is how the conversation I had after my brother's funeral service a couple of months ago with Mr. and Mrs. Jameson went. They are such nice people, sincere and honest. They think so much of me. I wonder if they would feel the same way if they knew the horrible secret I'm obliging myself to keep. If I weren't so cowardly in nature, I would go forward with the information that I have.
You see my brother did not die accidentally. He did not shoot himself accidentally with his own gun. That is what most people think including my parents and the police. And who can blame them that is exactly how it was supposed to appear. My brother was killed and I witnessed it. I watched the whole horrible thing from my car. It was the evening of the 30th of October, only a little while ago. I had driven to my brother's office to pick him up because it was fairly late and cold. I saw two men following my brother from the office to the parking area where I was supposed to pick him up. He seemed unaware of the other two men. Then all I remember hearing was five consecutive gun shots. I was afraid and did not know what to do. Out of fear, I felt the need to get out of there quickly so I hit the accelerator which caused a lot of noise because I had forgotten to take the hand breaks off. This attracted the murderer's attention my way. I was able to escape but not for long. It took very little time for them to track me. When they found me they made it very clear in no uncertain terms that if I said anything to the authorities, I would end up like my brother. I feared them very much so I have kept silent up until now.
I've been telling myself that two dead sons would not do anything to help my parent's grief but I know that's only an excuse for my being a coward. I've almost been able to make myself believe that I was right for not telling, but the truth is always there nagging at me. I can't sleep at night for the guilt is just too much. I know what the right thing to do is, the issue now is to do it. Unless I do something my brother's murderers will go unpunished and I will not be able to live with myself. I must tell the truth, it is better to die doing what is right than running away from my own guilt for the rest of my life. I had better do it now before I lose my conviction.
Quéré Griselda
deuxième cycle du secondaire
Collège Stanislas
Être témoin! C'est aujourd'hui la pire chose qui puisse nous arriver. Plus personne ne sait quoi faire. Car cet acte de courage (car il en faut pour intervenir) doit être réfléchi. De nos jours les fauves (les agresseurs) n'attaquent plus qu'avec leurs simples griffes. Maintenant ils les ont aiguisées, telles des lames de rasoirs, de couteaux ou tout autre arme blanche. La proie se fait aussi de plus en plus méfiante et inquiète, ce qui la rend plus vulnérable et facile à attaquer. Alors que devons nous faire, nous spectateurs? Agir ou partir? Pour ma part la réaction est une solution, cependant, elle se doit d'être posée et réfléchie. Il ne faut jamais agir sur un coup de tête, n'a-t-on cessé de me répéter. Il faut donc intervenir avec adresse et finesse.
Donc: je me promène dans cette jungle que l'on appelle couramment ville; il fait nuit et pas trop chaud. Traversant un parc, j'aperçois une masse mouvante et étrange d'où sort un léger cri d'appel. Mon sang ne fait qu'un tour: que faire? Il ne s'agit pas d'un petit chat attaquant une souris mais plutôt, une de ces hyènes musclées et laides, qui au lieu de chercher du travail préfèrent « emprunter », à long terme, de l'argent à une pauvre femme-souris.
Plusieurs possibilités d'intervention s'offrent alors à moi. La première, la plus évidente, prend la forme d'une petite voix inconnue, décrétant que je dois lui sauter dessus et le frapper à la tête; après tout ce n'est qu'une bête, puisqu'il obéit à des instincts d'homme préhistorique du néandertal, qui ne côtoyait dès lors que des mammouths. Il ne sert donc à rien de prendre « des gants » avec ce genre d'animal. Seul problème au tableau, c'est que je ne suis pas Jane et encore moins Tarzan, je suis plutôt un ouistiti, qui ne ferait pas de mal à une mouche. De plus s'attaquer à un adversaire plus fort, ne serait que de l'inconscience. Il faut donc user de malice et de ruse. Je troque donc ma peau de singe pour celle d'un renard, car qui d'autre est plus rusé qu'un renard. Je commence donc à réfléchir: je pourrais me servir de mon cellulaire pour appeler la police ou plutôt lui faire croire, que je vais l'appeler. La possibilité d'inventer un mensonge est à ne pas négliger; je pourrais aussi aller demander du secours dans une maison proche. Ainsi peut-être que pris de panique notre jeune lion se transformerait en chaton fuyant, laissant sa pauvre victime agonisante de peur. La solution de le raisonner est à essayer, mais je pense que l'on risque de se faire prendre notre fortune du jour. Bref je vais arrêter net mes élucubrations et revenir à la vraie réalité. Je pense qu'il est de notre devoir d'intervenir sans pour autant devoir en pâtir. Nous, nous devons de secourir une personne en danger, d'une part pour nous, car se voiler les yeux ne sert à rien et d'autre part pour la victime qui a besoin d'aide.
Pour finir, je n'aurais qu'une chose à dire: je me suis faite attaquée, déjà trois fois, et je n'ai jamais eu la chance d'être aidée et je vous jure qu'à chaque agression je priais pour que quelqu'un intervienne ne serait ce qu'une fois. Il est donc de notre devoir de citoyen d'intervenir ou, au moins de réagir.
Jen Mutch
Secondary 3
Miss Edgar's and Miss Cramp's School (ECS)
The air smelled like strawberries but was dry from the dust that blew off the dirt road. I waved good bye to my dad in his mud speckled pick-up and turned to my school. The grass on either side of the pathway to entrance was brown and trampled. No matter how much I grew during harvest season the arched, gothic doorway which served as an entrance to the school, made me feel like a lowly, scared dwarf. I hadn't seen anybody for six months now, the teachers let us off early for summer to help with the harvest. I hurried in. Though it was long past sunrise, I was earlier than the rest of the students. Eight worn wooden desks were neatly lined up in two rows of three with two desks at the back of the room. At the front of the room was a large oak desk facing the others. Lonely and with nothing else to do, I took my habitual seat at the right desk at the back of the class.
A shadow on the dirty glass window at the top of the door stopped my restless feet. When Marty, my best friend, opened the door, I opened my mouth to shout hello but stopped because he didn't seem to notice me. He was looking at the teacher's desk. Marty had been my best buddy ever since we were babies. We don't get to see much of each other anymore, we were both busy with chores and "responsibilities". I slowly closed my jaw and watched my friend walk pigeon-toed to the desk, curious. I detected a fear in his legs for they wobbled as he was nervously drawing his hands in and out his pockets. When he arrived at the desk he stretched as far as he could on his tiptoes and snatched a ceramic sculpture of a cat and stuffed it down the front of his plaid, long-sleeved shirt. That was when, for the first time, he saw me at the back of the room, bearing witness to it all. He looked shocked and he had a look in his eye that I had only seen before in a Mustang who had been tricked into a cage and had just realised his mistake. I had never seen on my best friend like this and that confused and worried me. I was relieved when he shook his head and returned to his usual "slate of marble", as my mother jokingly called it. Marty managed a weak smile and strode past the desks to take his place next to me. "Don't worry, it's just a joke. I'm not actually stealing it", insisted Marty. I just nodded off-handedly and resumed kicking my feet. "Let him play his games", I would often say to myself. My indifference, however, didn't seem to quite satisfy Marty so he leaned close and drew in a breath but the words never came.
Charlie, the son of the butcher, was the biggest and meanest kid in the class (he could even make 4th graders cry), opened the door and sat down in front of Marty. My amigo, his speech cut short, drew himself up and tried to bore a hole in the blackboard with the intensity of his stare. Gradually, the classroom was filled and Mrs. Porty walked in. She was surrounded by her usual air of power and kindness. Mrs. Porty always looked as if she was from a better place, like she was just a projected image that never touched the contents of the dirty classroom. Mrs. Porty was from a big city and she never looked or felt quite right in these drab surroundings. A cloud of silence formed above the room in her wake. Before she sat down, she made a circuit of her desk, searching. She sat down behind the desk in a high-backed wooden chair and a frown distorted her visage.
"Children", she addressed the class, "there was a statue of a cat on my desk. My late husband gave it to me on Valentine's day and I won't be angry if you took it. Just return it to me right now and we'll forget about the whole thing." She scanned the silent class and a look of disappointment marred her face. "Please", she began but was cut short by Marty's raised hand. "Well" I thought, "so much for the joke." But something about Marty's expression struck me as odd. He wore a smile like a badge of honour. Then, something in Charlie's back pocket caught my attention. I don't remember Marty ever getting up to place the statue but there it was, plain as day. Had I looked in a mirror, I would have seen a look of shock and surprise dawn upon my face. Respectful, Marty announced, "I think Charlie took it ma'am." Marvelling at my friend's genius, I smiled. It was about time we got that bully back.
"Well?" questioned Mrs. Porty.
"I swear I don't have no cat ma'am." Leaning back in her chair, Mrs. Porty indicated that she would like Charlie to come to the front of the class. Charlie rose from his seat but the statue, unnoticed in his back pocket, was dislodged and fell to the floor, shattering. Mrs. Porty jumped up from her chair and rushed past the desks to cradle the jagged pieces in her hands. Charlie, still standing, watched this confusions turn of events. Much to my dismay and wonder, Mrs. Porty began to weep. While everyone else stared silently, Charlie attempted, a little awkwardly, to console the hunched figure. At the touch of his hand, her sorrow turned to wrath and she spat through clenched teeth, "Get out of my sight." At this Charlie burst into tears and ran out of the class. I watched him depart, astonished. For the first time in my life, my heart reached out to the departed Charlie and I turned to Marty, expecting to find in him the same. Instead my friend's marble face was carved into an almost joyful sneer. With all these new thoughts flowing around in my head I forced myself to stare forwards, past the chaos and into the soothing black of the chalkboard. Had my friend changed so much in six months? How could he feel no remorse? I could understand his feelings concerning Charlie, but Mrs. Porty? How could he derive any satisfaction from her sorrow? All these thoughts were crammed in my head, giving me a headache. I couldn't even bear to look at him, at that mask that hid him so well. Though he was my best friend, my feelings were mixed and I felt sickened. After Mrs. Porty composed herself the class passed with a silence that was so thick it felt like breathing butter.
At the end of the class everyone was dismissed and Marty left without even a glance in my direction; he was a stranger to me. "Had he always been so?" I asked myself. It hardly mattered since he would never be my friend again. Not after what I did. He only got in a little trouble but I broke that most solemn of pacts. He called it betrayal but I called it the right thing to do. Every time I am unsure of my reasons for telling the truth I just conjure of the image of Mrs. Porty's face, torn with pain, burned into my memory. This will always remind me that, despite my losses, it was the right thing to do.
1 Le concours s'adressait à trois groupes pour chacun des secteurs francophone et anglophone: les élèves du deuxième cycle primaire, ceux du premier cycle secondaire et ceux du deuxième cycle secondaire. Un gagnant est choisi dans chacun des groupes par un jury formé de membres du Barreau de Montréal.
2 Les textes des trois autres gagnants du concours ont été présentés dans l'édition du 1er juillet 2000, en page 26.
