“Ravel, are you not writing anymore?” I have been asked this so many times, with that grave air usually reserved for news of a hospitalized loved one, that I ended up wondering if I was reported missing or simply playing hooky. Others, even more surprised, ask me: “Oh, are you still writing?” as if keeping a column were a youthful whim that one inevitably abandons, somewhere between nail polish and the bands we listened to at sixteen.
The truth, less funny than the question, is that I had many wounds (maux) and not a single word (mot) left. Fatigue, depression, lack of inspiration, and everything that the life of a woman and a mother knows how to pile onto a single pair of shoulders without ever asking for permission or the opinion of the person concerned. Between my words that dried up and my wounds that were doing just fine, thank you, I ended up confusing the two and stopped writing both.
It is often said that a columnist who falls silent simply has other things to do. No one says she is silent because she no longer has the strength to put down one more word, she who is already carrying a house, a child with special needs, three organizations, and the tacit obligation to smile while talking about all this at the market. You are asked to be a mother, to be strong, to be available, but never tired, never overwhelmed, never on pause. A mother’s depression, here, has no name. It just has a silence, and this silence is called modesty rather than what it is: an illness that one treats, or should.
The real turning point, I owe to a conversation with Dr. Ketakandriana Rafitoson, who slipped in, almost in passing, that one day books should be written about the ‘Textos de Ravel’, that it had marked an era. The compliment was sincere and generous, and I received it as a gift. But a gift that contained, hidden in its packaging, a small electroshock for which I obviously do not blame her: the word ‘era’ followed me long after our exchange. In my head, the ‘Textos de Ravel’ did not belong to any bygone past; they were still relevant, still being written somewhere between two emergencies. Discovering that for others, and probably for me too without wanting to admit it, time had already turned the page served as a mirror more than a reproach.
By digging deeper, I understood where my internal clock had stopped: at the death of Gabriel Rabearimanana, in the middle of Covid-19. I remained stuck there, convinced deep down that nothing had really moved since, while the world continued its race without asking for my permission. Time passes, things pass, whether we watch them move forward or remain frozen in front of a specific sorrow, refusing to see the calendar turn.
So if I return today, it is not because my wounds have packed their bags. It is because a sentence received with gratitude reminded me that silence, however justified it may be, ends up leaving us behind rather than keeping us safe. I decided, in my corner, that words could very well coexist with my wounds—that one can limp and move forward anyway, write while tired rather than not write at all. A decision that is made for oneself first, and that is just fine.
So the next time someone asks me if I still write, I will answer yes, with my wounds, between my wounds, and sometimes thanks to them. And to you who may be carrying the same fatigue without ever daring to name it: silence is not a fault. It is just that we hadn’t found the words yet. As for me, I have found them again.
Captured & Published at: 2026-07-22 06:41:39 (Madagascar Local Time EAT)
Original Source: https://www.lexpress.mg/2026/07/question-de-mots-question-de-maux.html