Driven, rushed, haunted… so much so that after what felt like an endless pursuit, I’ve finally found myself and the courage to speak as I’m closing in on my 50th birthday, on a tiny Pacific island.
About 10 years ago, I decided that I couldn’t run forever, and that I had to deal with my past. I started working on a tell-all book. The story of my life, which started in the steel heart of Europe. Set in the early 1970s in Luxembourg, in my ancestral town, where the ore ruled. This unlikely story is the tale of a working-class family.
When I began writing, it started as nothing more than a form of self-therapy. Too much had happened that I could never bring over my lips. But I can’t ignore that it happened. It started in the tiny town of Rodange, and what happened there followed me throughout my childhood, to Jean Asselborn’s municipality of Steinfort.
I’m not writing this to seek justice or condemn others. What’s in the past is in the past, and with all due respect I don’t care anymore. Everyone must live with themselves, and if I’m going to move on, I need the truth to be set free. This is about bringing my truth to light. I must tell my side of the story. In the age of #MeToo, Ikea and COVID-19, such monsters have no place.
It’s with this declaration that I am making my memoires public, because I know I’m not the only one. And it’s time to stop sweeping the past under the rug. I’m not running anymore.
I’m talking now!
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