Busybody

The autumn leaves haven’t all fallen and already Strasbourg is in festive mode.  Tasteful decorations have gone up. The giant tree stands unlit in Place Kleber and the stalls are setting up for the world famous Christmas Market.

The month has got off to a promising start. Thanks to the canny intervention of my colleague Clara, I receive some good news in the form of a 90% reduction in what would have otherwise been a substantial Taxe D’habitation bill (the French equivalent to Council Tax). Thank God for small miracles.

Meanwhile my cultural calendar is full to bursting, as tends to be the case this time of year. The Jazzdor festival takes place each November. The event has a special place in my heart. It was a welcome distraction from flat hunting a mere few weeks into my arrival in Strasbourg. It’s also where I met Jeanne, the first friend I made here. It is thus fitting that almost a year to the day, we attend a Jazzdor performance once again featuring her flatmate Annalise. It’s an unofficial anniversary.

Annalise’ trio is preceded by the abstract sounds of pianist Matthieu Mazué. Clearly inspired by Thelonius Monk (throwing in a cover of Monk’s Dream for good measure), Mazué’s style is characterised by choppy syncopation and elongated melodies twisted out of shape. My initial excitement turns to confusion when he introduces his interpretation of one of my favourite jazz standards Stella by Starlight. Save for the opening bars serving as a leitmotif, I wouldn’t recognise it.  It’s a suspenseful performance; a tension never to be resolved. This talented and incredibly dexterous musician has taken a notably subversive approach to his art.  Thus Annalise’ soulfully-inflected, equally agile performance is a healthy counterbalance. During the break, I reconnect with Jeanne and her mum, who is in town for the week.

That weekend I have signed up via Internations for a ‘free’ walking tour of Petite France, my favourite neck of the Strasbourg woods.  These multi-lingual Happy Tours are carried out by volunteers whose only payment is a freewill donation.  I opt for the French version for the practice.  Despite the sharp drop in temperature and harsh wind, our congenial guide, Rémy, cheerily recounts the history of Little France and its environs; from the Roman conquest to some of the quirky street names. The area has a more insalubrious history than I was aware. La Grand Rue for instance wasn’t always the cosmopolitan social hub it is now. Up until the regeneration effort in the 1960s, it was the City's underbelly. Most shocking of all is the sordid origin of the otherwise romantic-sounding appellation Little France. It dates back to the 15^th century when the Alsace region was under German rule (well, the precursor to the unified Germany). French soldiers, ridden with syphilis after fighting and cavorting in Naples, were banished to the area to be treated at a dedicated hospice. It became an unofficial colony for what was facetiously nicknamed ‘The French Disease’ and thus referred to by the rest of the population as…Petite France. 

It’s an informative and enjoyable jaunt. It's also one more activity to keep future guests entertained.

On the way back from the tour, my tram is held up by solidarity protests taking place throughout France against fuel taxes and the rising cost of living.

It’s set to be a socially-conscious week ahead. The Organisation is hosting the World Forum for Democracy events.  The theme this year is gender equality. It’s surely no coincidence that the event overlaps with International Men’s Day as well as the World Day for the Prevention of Child Abuse; both on 19 November. 

My group, the High Rock Gospel Singers, have been asked to perform as part of the opening ceremony. I mention it a few weeks beforehand to choir director, Kiasi, having been surprised to see us listed in the WFD programme. He is completely unaware. It’s not feasible anyway, he shrugs It’s a Monday morning.

Something clearly changes between then and the chaotic rehearsal we have the following week. Kiasi makes an announcement post-practice, inviting anyone who is available to sign up. It turns out one of the sopranos is also an events’ organiser and volunteered the services of HRGS á notre insu.

Kiasi must have reasoned it was best not to piss off The Organisation by being a no-show.

The performance falls on my day off. True, it’ll be odd performing at work. Apart from that I don’t have a bona fide excuse not to. Besides, I was going to be in the vicinity anyway. Not only do I plan to attend some of the inaugural events but my manager, Sophie will also be making an appearance for the first time since she went on maternity leave. She is performing with her husband, Marcel's percussion band as part of the day’s proceedings. The couple will be accompanied by their bouncing baby boy, Augustin. The team have collected a very respectable sum for the family’s gift, as well as organising a little get together to mark the occasion. Given that it was a difficult pregnancy and both mummy and baby have come through the other side safe and well, there is even more reason to celebrate.

 

That morning, on the way out to Le Chateau to meet the rest of the choir, I check my post box for a long awaited package. I spot instead another copy of the building regulations. The part about noise has been highlighted in the same aggressive orange, this time with a note attached. Apparently, this mystery neighbour objects to me cleaning my flat. On a Saturday. At noon. Fuming, I crumple the note and toss it in the nearest bin.

I arrive at Le Chateau a little flustered. Fastidious neighbours notwithstanding, Kiasi has taken his sweet time to confirm when and where we are meeting. I’ve already left the flat by the time I see his text. Thankfully I arrive long before show time. Being a Monday morning, there are a choice few of us. We have a surfeit of sopranos with just Élise holding the fort for the contraltos. Since we are only performing two numbers, one of which I actually know quite well, I alternate between soprano and alto to help balance the sound. Not that Élise really needs it. It’s a pretty slick affair if I must say so myself. Or so I think. When the video is made available, I note with anguish that I'm singing flat for most of the second number. The audience are more forgiving. Later that week, I am stopped by a guest during a lunch break to congratulate me on the group’s behalf.

HRGS @ the World Forum for Democracy
(c) Catherine Monflis

 I return home after the show to vent to sis on Skype about my implacable neighbour. That's followed by a whinge about the grammatical mistakes I made conversing to my fellow choristers. Perfectly bi-lingual Kiasi teases my London inflection. Evidently, too much of my self-worth is wrapped up on my linguistic progress. I hardly enjoy the learning process these days.

Sis shows me some well-needed tough love. 

I’m not going to indulge your pity-party. 

Amongst her usual nuggets of wisdom she implores me to be kind to myself. For the rest of the day, each time I think upon this simple statement, so difficult to practise, it reduces me to tears.

Back at Le Chateau several colleagues from my department and elsewhere have gathered in the freezing cold to watch Sophie and Marcel's group perform. Whistles are handed out and we are instructed to blow carnival style, in support of the launch of a campaign to tackle sexual abuse in sports.

I reunite with Sophie after the performance. I must confess that I am looking to angle my way out of Le Pot that has been organised back at the office. At least this way she knows I have come out to support her before I sneak off. It becomes apparent however, that I couldn’t execute my plan without it being perceived as anti-social.  It’s better to grin and bear it for Sophie’s sake. She seems genuinely pleased I came. Marcel is an urbane and cordial man. I would say charming but I believe he's more sincere than that. Little Augustin sleeps through the loud performance and most of the post-show festivities, despite being passed around. They make a lovely family.

 

The next couple of days are a whirlwind of WFD activities. As is often the case with these sorts of conferences, there are a number of overlapping sessions vying for my attention.  During the morning slot, one discussion stands out from the rest. I attend a stimulating roundtable about faith and feminism. The Abrahamic Three are well represented. I do wonder about the absence of other faith groups (as is vocalised by another attendee) and Protestant voices. But let me not be too sectarian.

The two Catholic speakers notably diverge. On one hand Hajnalka Juhász from the Hungarian Christian Democracy Party admits to a more conservative perspective; her essentialist views on ‘male’ and ‘female’ character traits for instance and not questioning male-dominated leadership.  Polish theologian Zuzanna Radzik on the other hand takes a thoroughly egalitarian approach. When asked if women can bring particular qualities to religious institutions, she replies that she doesn’t subscribe to the idea of inherently feminine attributes. It’s a matter of individual character and strengths. In that regards, she is a woman after my own heart. She reminds those in the church that the fight for equality has a biblical basis; not least in the Apostle Paul’s revolutionary (for the time) words in Galatians 3:28. This, she rightly asserts, is our starting point.

Buoyed by Radzik's comments, I add that the church in general needs to do more to reach men than offer them merely spiritualised male entitlement. In the end, it gives no respite from the inevitable disadvantages of the patriarchal system such as unrealistic masculine ideals.

 Later that afternoon I’m torn between interactive events about the fight against sexual exploitation and re-examining how masculinity is defined as a means of combatting violence against women. It’s a tough decision but I choose the latter. I have a presentiment that I’ll be riled up by one of the speakers at the sex trafficking discourse, who appears to belong to the school of thought that  propose solutions such as calling sexually-exploited women ‘sex workers’ and giving them ‘better working conditions’ as opposed to challenging and upending the skewed paradigm altogether. Phew. Mini-rant over. For now.

The Masculinities Re-examined discussion is a breath of fresh air, drawing speakers from within and beyond Europe’s borders, such as the UK’s Chris Green of the White Ribbon Campaign and India’s Harish Sadani from NGO Men Against Violence & Abuse (MAVA). (Alas, the French authorities denied Gambia’s Lamin S. Fatty a visa). Sadani is doing superb work in a country whose struggles with gender-based violence have caught the world’s attention in recent years.

I am heartened to meet other Christians at the event wholly committed to gender-equality and reconciliation of the sexes. When the moderator Simone Fillipini asks what a gender utopia would look like, one audacious interlocutor cries ‘Christian!’

Fillipini opens up to the floor for ideas on how to dissuade men from cashing in on the short term 'patriarchal dividend' as it is described by panellist Robert Franken. I suggest that the rate of suicide amongst men, with some recent high profile cases, makes this a public health issue. The immediate benefits of prescribed ideas of masculinity and patriarchy are oppressive in the long term.  I add that women also play a key role in dismantling the social conditioning we not only imbibe but perpetuate.

My contributions are apparently well received. Several men thank me post event. Thanks to this impromptu networking, my plans to rush back to the office fall by the wayside.