“I have lived ten percent of my life at sea.”
Thus spoke the Breton, a lover of freedom, of solitary trials against the elements of nature and the vast open spaces. The rest of his life was dedicated to reading, friends, women, struggle, and politics—understood as the sum of all these, combined with the determination of someone who never gives up.
And who surprises. How many times had he been told, “It’s impossible,” only for him to prove that miracles were indeed achievable? But for that, one needs character and faith.
“Like English rugby players,” he used to say, “I don’t give up until the very last minute of the match.”
At first, I dismissed him
because, when I arrived in Paris, I was told he was “reactionary.”
Undoubtedly, his vision of the struggle was, for me, far too institutional. I was much closer to the MNR (the future Troisième Voie) and the programs of the Parti de Forces Nouvelles. I felt more aligned with the solidaristes than the nationalistes, although I respected both of the existing and competing political schools: that of Grèce and that of Action Française.
Later, thanks to his actions, I re-centered my perspective on the institutional struggle, which, in any case, I still consider insufficient. But that is my view.
I owe him much
Try living through the first years of being a fugitive, having only an indirect connection to your passions! My first seven years after 1980 were particularly cautious because, until the outcomes of the TP and NAR trials, I was risking twenty years in prison. It was only when I realized the sentence would be less than half that I took some steps toward greater visibility.
Thus, I lived my passions from afar, and I’ve always said I owe the great joys of daily life as an exile to Liedholm, Roma’s fantastic team of those years trainer, and to Le Pen, with the political successes of my world.
“Thank you, President, for the dream you gave us!”
That’s how I greeted him at his residence in Montretout in 2002, on the evening of the second round of the presidential election, which had placed him against Chirac.
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” he replied. It was then that we started seeing each other occasionally. He had seen me on various occasions, but I had never revealed myself. Being wanted until 2000, I didn’t want to risk causing him any problems.
He had probably caught a glimpse of me a few years earlier when three-quarters of the party’s apparatus left in the split with Mégret, and I stepped in to help the party survive the stab in the back. Many of our people, with their proverbial and incurable naivety, fell for it hook, line, and sinker. But it wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last time, that I wasn’t afraid to stand nearly alone to stay on the side of what was right. Over time, the others returned.
Twice, Le Pen left voluntarily
for his France, the second-one as a combat parachutist officer to Egypt, after resigning from his mandate—and salary—as a deputy (take note, people, take note!).
He was a tireless fighter, in the trenches and in the streets, where he lost an eye in one of many brawls.
We could rightly say, “Blessed are the one-eyed in the land of the blind!”
Indomitable and always ready to fight, never yielding, he constantly forgave the many betrayals he endured from followers, friends, and family. Petty minds might mistake such magnanimity for weakness, but it was a testament to a moral superiority that only few possess.
“Our father is wrong to support Saddam Hussein; our voters won’t understand it”
said his daughter Marine, then twenty-two, and her sister Yann, the future mother of Marion, during a five-person dinner at “Lutin’s” house in 1990. I had never seen them before.
“Listen,” I said, “the electorate is like a woman; it loves men with balls. And no one has more balls than your father, so keep quiet!”
They appreciated it, especially Marine. I don’t know if she would still appreciate it today.
Incidentally, Jean-Marie returned to France a few days later, bringing with him all the Europeans who had remained in Baghdad and were feared to be held there as hostages.
How many times was he told, “It’s impossible,” only for him to show that the miracle was achievable?
“Monsieur Le Pen, which side are you on?”
Thus, during a live television broadcast, the host asked him this question while showing images of the First Palestinian Intifada, taking for granted that any answer would alienate half of his electorate.
“Do you know what you’re showing me?” he replied. “Images of a multiracial society. I want France not to become like that.”
“Monsieur Le Pen, how does it feel to set foot in a nation built by immigrants?”
So asked an American journalist upon his arrival in the United States.
“Do you know who you’re talking to? I am Sitting Bull, the last of the Sioux,” he retorted.
And I could recount many other such moments. How I hoped, preached, and even taught that people should take inspiration from his virile and striking way of responding!
Before publishing
Orchestre Rouge in 2013, I proposed the manuscript to him, aiming for the coup of obtaining a foreword from him. As I had anticipated, he declined, saying it would embarrass his daughter.
We’re talking about a book dealing with the intertwining of intelligence agencies and terrorism—a complex subject, considering it pertains to a foreign country for them and events almost unknown to the average reader, compounded by the French rationalist mindset. Yet he had grasped it all perfectly, even adding details and new analyses, such as about the changing of the guard in Israeli apparatuses in the early 1960s.
For seven years
until the Covid lockdowns, I visited him whenever possible, recording many of his memories, which may one day form the basis of a book.
He was always astonishing in his mental clarity and his foresight regarding scenarios.
Though elderly and frail, at the start of each meeting, he would often seem a bit foggy; but within a couple of minutes, the blood would rush to his brain, and he would unfailingly be the sharpest person in the room.
He never lost the reflexes of a seducer
Once, I brought a greek journalist from Golden Dawn to interview him, and he was so gallant and macho that he seemed like a young man.
Another time, at Rungis, near Orly, where he spoke at a Synthèse Nationale conference, an Italian woman who had come with Roberto Salvarani mustered her courage and darted toward him to shake his hand, despite the security detail surrounding him. He greeted her with a smile. She later told me she had said to him, “I’m a friend of Gabriele Adinolfi,” thinking it a magical phrase. Not at all. Besides, he was hard of hearing… I explained to her that he had warmly welcomed her simply as a woman, not as “Adinolfi’s friend”!
He was also a great conversationalist—never banal, never monotonous.
I dined with him twice. The first time was in a Corsican restaurant with other dear French comrades (Axel, Antoine, Fred), and the second time was at his home, along with other guests, in a scene straight out of a boulevard theater, near his wife Jeanine’s greyhounds. She kept telling me, “You absolutely must meet Alain Delon; he comes here often. You wouldn’t believe how handsome he still is!”
Meanwhile, Le Pen recounted seafaring adventures in Greece and explained to the guests that in France, it’s believed Italians play the mandolin, but they shouldn’t be provoked—because they shoot.
The last time I saw him was at his home
We had arranged a video interview for a Spanish YouTube channel, but he was hospitalized unexpectedly, and everything was canceled.
The evening he was discharged, his secretary called me to say he couldn’t receive anyone, but that he would make an exception for me the next day.
I went to his home, where he greeted me sitting at his desk, wearing a health shirt and with an IV drip in his arm. I brought him a gift from the Spanish people. “Where are they?” he asked. “Let them in!”
Juan Lopez Larrea, who was leading the Spanish delegation, was waiting outside in the car, so I called him in. Meanwhile, the household staff had left, so I found myself in the kitchen preparing drinks and coffee. Jean-Marie, with the IV in his arm, moved about, joking and laughing in an atmosphere of camaraderie, full of memories and witty remarks.
A Frenchman, an Italian, and a Spaniard: our Europe!
I always remembered his birthday
and would call him, something he appreciated. I never confessed to him how easy it was for me to remember, as he was born on June 20, the same date as my mother, albeit five years later. And the extraordinary thing is that he even managed to pass away on the same date as my mother—January 7.
A possible target for the hatred of the scum—the same scum that howled and whimpered their inferiority at the news of his death—he had no kind of protection, and anyone could have harmed him. But he didn’t care.
In his den
I was able to spend time with and appreciate the majesty of the lion in winter.
A glimpse of shared intimacy.
Much has been said and will be said about everything he did and represented, but never enough. I intend to contribute to this over time.
But here, I wanted to remember the Le Pen I knew and cared for.
Meanwhile, I can say with immense satisfaction that in my life, I had the chance to meet and spend time with a few giants.
The last ones? Who knows! But they have inspired me to sing an old South American song, “Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto!”
Merci Monsieur le Prés-id-ent!
May the heavens be kind to you above the sea!
