After the 2018 MOPI games, already a success, those of 2019 have beautifully passed the test. They confirmed their place in the sun. In the heart of each one. Participating kids. In white. Organizers. In black. Accompanying adults. In blue. And all the panel of the young supervisors. Young organisers in yellow. Young coaches in red. Young reporters in pink. And in the heart of the parents, who welcomed the children, coming from everywhere. From all the countries. From all the regions. From all ethnic origins. All fitting in the range of friendship and sharing. Meaning, caring for the other. All confirming a common sense of commitment. All serving each other. And all serving others. In a fusional quest of exceeding. Wherever they came from. From here. From elsewhere. From another school. From another country. For the same thing, the same purpose. To win of course. But not only. Just to be part of it. Just to be where you needed to be during these three days before spring. In the race of the sun and the wind. On the rooftops of the Sorbonne and this other world that these three days represented. In the heart of the Louvre as an ultimate reward.
Of course, there were winners, and losers. Even if the magic of these games, coincidence or not, made sure they were not all on the same side. Of the same country. But the real winners, were not this or that team. This or that school. This or that country. The winners were all these kids, and all their borderless colors came to flirt with those of the achievement. To give all. To their own very limits. To start running again under the sun even when the strength was gone, when all was given. Accompanied by his coach. We did not come here to give up, just stay in the tents set-up on the second day. Not to melt. When, under the sun, distance running turns into cast running. When we have heavy legs. Breathless. Hot. Thirsty. Seeking for this shade cooled by the rising wind. In time to catch one’s breath, regain strength. And first of all, to forgive oneself. To others. When we gave everything yet did not win. Did worse than last year for those who came back.
Forget the results, let’s keep the memories. Us, reporters, have been careful to film each one, to photograph each one. Every day. For each activity. For each team. For each school. For each country. We were careful not to forget anyone. But inevitably, we must have missed some. As it climbed, ran, freesbeed, crouched, twirled and screamed on all sides. We did, like everyone else. We did our best. To the limits of what the smell of sweat can socially allow. With the same joy, the same pride. That of having been there. That of having been part of. We won our reward when we got back on the bus. When a kid who was singing with us to lose his voice, was asked if he liked it. When he answered. These simple words. Simple and beautiful, to cry. Words to put tears in your eyes. « It’s the most beautiful day of my life ». As if these three days had only been one. Like a tunnel in time. A tunnel in life. To preserve what was once again these games. The sweet athletic confrontation, probably, but joy and fun. Here to share. Without any other pride than that of having offered, each of us, at every moment and in every gesture what it was. What one knew. What one could. The best of oneself.
Young (and not so young) MOPI reporters of Louis Massignon High School in Abu Dhabi