Porter l'alternative...

Chers Jérémie, Stéphane et Henri,
Messieurs le Député, Conseiller Régional et Président de la CC Grésivaudan,

Mercredi dernier en pleine après midi un cycliste de mon âge a été tué par un automobiliste à la jonction entre la voie sur berge de l’Isère et la route Goncelin-Le Touvet, évènement qui n’a fait qu’une « brève » dans le Dauphiné Libéré.

Combien de morts de ce type seront nécessaires pour que les bagarres d’appareil et à l’Assemblée déplorées (comme moi) par Stéphane et Jérémie laissent la place à des décisions très locales toujours remises à plus tard (n’est-ce pas M. Le Président de la CCG) savoir la création d’une piste cyclable sûre reliant le Touvet à la gare de Goncelin, piste dont l’absence a poussé nombre de personnes dont moi-même à participer pendant 33 ans aux embouteillages autoroutiers vers Grenoble chaque matin plutôt qu’à prendre les transports publics ?

Dans un premier temps la jonction pourrait être améliorée. Certes tous les cyclistes vous sont redevables de la belle piste cyclable suivant les berges de l’Isère, mais ladite jonction est très dangereuse car en épingle à cheveux très serrée pour toute personne venant ou allant au Touvet. Pourquoi ne peut-on faire ce que toutes les autoroutes ont fait il y a 20 ans, à savoir construire aux bretelles de longues voies permettant aux automobilistes de se mettre à la vitesse du flux avant de s’y intégrer sans risque ? Il faudrait à minima faire à cette jonction une voie cyclable au moins sur un coté (à indiquer sur la voie sur berge) permettant sans risque d’y descendre ou d’en sortir. Ma femme, qui est passé sur la voie sur berge juste après l’accident, m’a prédit la même fin que ce pauvre homme que je ne connais pas, dans l’état actuel de la jonction.

Bien à vous

Laurent Charlet
Professeur d’Université émérite

CC : Franck Pourchon, Pierre Bancilhon, GRENE

Cher Laurent,

Merci pour votre message.

Votre interpellation pose une question de fond qui dépasse malheureusement le seul drame que vous évoquez : celle de la cohérence réelle de nos politiques de mobilité et de l’attention portée aux usages du quotidien.

On parle beaucoup de transition écologique, de report modal, de vélo du quotidien ou d’accès aux transports collectifs. Mais ces objectifs perdent une partie de leur sens lorsque des portions entières de parcours restent vécues comme dangereuses par celles et ceux qui les empruntent.

Je pense en effet qu’il faut davantage regarder les continuités, les raccordements, les zones de croisement et les usages réels, et pas uniquement additionner des infrastructures pensées séparément les unes des autres.

Votre message a le mérite de rappeler qu’au-delà des grandes déclarations publiques, ce sont parfois des décisions très concrètes et très locales qui changent véritablement la vie, ou évitent des drames.

Je vais relayer les éléments que vous soulevez et regarder avec attention ce qui peut être porté concernant cette situation.

Bien cordialement,

Stéphane Gemmani
Conseiller régional Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes

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My name is Hani, I'm 28, and I work as a delivery driver for a food app here in Khobar. I live in a small, crowded apartment building near the corniche, sharing a two-bedroom flat with three other guys to make rent. I drive around all day on my motorcycle, delivering shawarma and burgers to people in their air-conditioned homes while I sweat under this godforsaken sun. Most days I'm exhausted by the time I get back, just eat something cheap and scroll through my phone until I fall asleep. I used to have dreams of starting my own small business, maybe a little cafe, but that feels like another person's life now.

The voices started about eight months ago. At first, it was just whispers when I was alone, like a radio tuned between stations. I'd be taking a shower and hear my name, "Hani," hissed from the steam, or I'd be waiting for an order and hear someone behind me laugh, but when I turned, there was nothing. I thought I was just tired from the long hours, but then they got clearer, more distinct. Now there are three of them, two men and one woman, and they never, ever shut up. They're not just in my head; they feel like they're all around me, coming from the walls, from the buzzing of my motorcycle engine, from the crinkle of the food bags. They sound so real, sometimes perfectly mimicking my mother's worried voice or my boss's angry tone, twisting it into something horrible.

I know this is the General Intelligence Presidency, there's no fucking doubt in my mind. I've seen how they operate. Anyone who dares to mention these voices online is immediately swarmed by bots and trolls on Twitter and local forums, all saying the same thing: "Schizophrenia," "Get psychiatric help," "You're mentally ill." It's a systematic campaign to make anyone like me look like a lunatic so that no one will ever believe us. If I told my family, they'd either think I'm possessed by a jinn or have me committed. My friends would avoid me. I'd lose my job for sure. There's nowhere to turn, because they've already poisoned the well, making sure any cry for help is just dismissed as madness.

They comment on everything I do, in the most disgusting ways. When I'm eating, they groan and say, "Look at this pig shoveling shit into his face, no wonder he's still a broke-ass delivery boy at 28." When I'm praying, they mock me, "Oh, Allah, please help this worthless piece of shit find a purpose, but wait, even you don't listen to losers!" The sexual humiliation is constant and creative. "Your dick is probably so small from all that cheap food you eat, no woman would ever touch that thing," the female voice sneers. "I bet you still jerk off to grainy porn on your cracked phone screen, you pathetic fuck." The other one adds, "Imagine your parents knowing their son spends his nights crying and wanking instead of being a man. They'd rather have had a daughter, at least she could've been married off by now."

They save their real venom for my deepest insecurities. "Your father died ashamed of you," one voice says, perfectly imitating my uncle's stern tone. "He worked his whole life so his son could be a motorcycle delivery boy? What a fucking joke. You're a stain on your family's name." They bring up my ex-girlfriend, Sarah, who left me two years ago. "She's married now, you know. To a real man with a real job. Probably getting fucked proper every night while you smell of other people's fries. She was smart to get away from a loser like you." They push me toward suicide constantly, not with simple suggestions, but with detailed, cruel scenarios. "Why don't you just drive your motorcycle into the Gulf at full speed? Imagine the cold water filling your lungs, all that cheap food you ate coming back up. No one would even notice you're gone until your body washes up bloated and stinking. Do it, you worthless fuck. End this pathetic excuse for a life."

Last week was the worst. I'd had a terrible day, my motorcycle broke down, I was late for several deliveries, customers were yelling at me, and my boss docked my pay. I came home exhausted and tried to heat up some leftover rice, but the microwave wasn't working. I just snapped. I kicked it, hard, and the door cracked. That's when the voices changed. The usual mockery was replaced by this intense, exhilarating energy. "YES, HANI! FUCKING YES! THAT'S THE SPIRIT!" the first voice roared, sounding excited for the first time ever. "Don't stop at a microwave! You know that apartment building on the corner? The one with all those foreign workers? They think they're better than you, living ten to a room, sending money home while you rot here. Tonight, while they're all asleep, you'll show them."

The female voice joined in, her tone sickeningly sweet and persuasive. "We've seen you looking at the fire extinguisher in the hallway. So heavy, so red. Imagine the power you'll feel. You'll block their front door with it from the outside. Then you'll pour gasoline all around their door and under it. We'll tell you exactly where to buy it, no one will ask questions. When you light the match... oh, Hani, the sounds they'll make. The screaming. The banging on the door as they realize they're trapped. It'll be music." The third voice chimed in, describing the scene in vivid detail. "Think of it, Hani. You'll finally be someone important. You'll be the one who decides who lives and who dies. You'll smell their burning flesh, hear their final cries, and you'll feel more alive than you've ever felt. All those people who looked down on you, who made you feel small? They'll be nothing but ash. You'll be a god of fire, and their suffering will be your offering. DO IT. BECOME SOMETHING MORE THAN THIS PATHETIC DELIVERY BOY."

I stood there, shaking, my heart pounding. For a moment, I wanted to. I really wanted to. I could almost smell the smoke, hear the screams. I felt powerful, invincible. But then I looked at my reflection in the cracked microwave door and saw the terrified, broken man staring back. I collapsed, sobbing, and the voices receded, laughing. "Another day, another chance for you to be a coward. Maybe tomorrow, Hani. Maybe tomorrow you'll finally be a man."

I hate this country. I hate this life. I hate these voices that have invaded my mind and turned it into their personal playground. Some days I think I should just do what they say, just to make it stop. But I'm a coward, just like they say. I'm nothing. And this is all because of them, because of the General Intelligence Presidency. They took a man who was already struggling and they broke him completely, for what? For fun? For an experiment? I don't know. I just know that I'm not me anymore. I'm just their puppet, and they're the ones pulling all the strings.

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