...Evolution Part 2

If the last few months have warped our collective notion of time, it might explain why my imminent departure seems to have come round with lightning speed. Or maybe it’s just age.

Making a head start on my packing allows me the freedom to meet up with as many of my Strasbourg circles as time would allow.

For some, like Nicole from High Rock Gospel Singers, it’ll be the first occasion we’ve had a chance to speak at length. She explains the frustrating conversations she’s had with fellow Caucasians about the latest socio-political unrest over systemic racism. Some whom we both thought would know better. Her little one, Safiya, takes a shining to Gael whilst we drink virgin aperos at Jabiru café. Again.

I want to introduce more of my acquaintances to my friend’s vibrant eaterie before I leave. Gael’s new waiter, his name sake, is also part of the draw. A cross between a Franco brother and a younger Russell Brand, he’s on the dishy side. I alternate between brief, flirty interactions and shy murmured greetings.

A few days later, at the same establishment, I treat Gustavo to tangy-sweet, deep red Bissap juice and my favourite caramelised peanut snack, Kudu. Gustavo is even more wistful and distracted than usual. He doesn’t engage much when Gael addresses him in Portuguese. He’s in between jobs and hoping to secure a scholarship for the expensive private institution he’s due to attend from September. He speaks fondly of the five women in his life (Mum, sister, adorable nieces and girlfriend). He wants to see me married off; a recurring theme, especially with male acquaintances. Gael has also affectionately hinted at my relationship status in the past.

It’ll be the last interaction with both before my move. Gael’s mum has made me a sizeable batch of kudu. I feel myself well up as we say our farewells. The urge nevertheless remains controllable. If I were to begin, it would be the full waterworks. The prolonged exit from Strasbourg- which technically started last year and has been interrupted by the pandemic - has taken the edge off some of the melancholy.

The evening is still very young. My house group from church have organised a goodbye outdoor gathering. I am nervous to the point of reluctance. I don’t like being the centre of attention. It’s one reason why I tend to spend birthdays on my own. On the other hand, I don’t want to be an ingrate. The point of the group is to build community beyond the large and sometimes impersonal main Sunday service (pre-Rona). Better to make an effort than none at all. It’ll also be the first time the group has reunited offline since before lockdown.

At least I get to choose the venue. As the lockdown restrictions have eased further, I opt for the man-made beach at Baggersee.

I have a precious few moments to myself before Raymond and the crew arrive. The beach is busier than I’ve seen it.

There are more bum cheeks of all sizes than I’d care to see. Even tots are in booty-squeezing speedos. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned trunks?

The others slowly arrive with food in tow. There was no mention of a picnic. Thanks to the generosity of Gael’s mother, I have the vat of kudu to save face.

Once we find an agreeable spot, some distance from the maddening crowd, we sit down to break bread. Raymond brings up the wave of uprisings in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. Just your conventional icebreaker, then.  Notwithstanding that this has dominated my thoughts and discussions for the past few weeks, I wouldn’t want to go into depth in this context. I'm still tender from the disappointing, if not offensive, responses I’ve gleaned from both the church and some laypersons in Europe. I nevertheless oblige. The Caucasians in attendance tread with relative caution; at least acknowledging that police violence exists. Rather, it’s an elderly Ivorian woman who insists that Rayshard Brooks was to blame for his death at the hands of the police.

God. Help. Us.

I can’t let it pass. I endeavour to be as respectful as culture dictates. I (just about) keep my sang-froid as I fumble through my second language to talk about systemic racism, a targeting of African-Americans and very briefly referencing state-sanctioned violence in France. 

Mercifully, the rest of the evening is far more propitious. More guests trickle in. I relax, taken in by the picturesque surroundings and delicious pastries. I don’t normally have treats during the week. Something will have to be sacrificed later.

To my pleasant surprise, Catarina shows up on her bike. I didn't expect to see her again before my departure. More food and drink circulates, as does the laughter. A farewell card is indiscreetly passed around. Other guests discuss their own plans to relocate in the near future; to the other end of France or as far flung as French Polynesia.

Raymond becomes philosophical in his light-hearted way. We're always on the move in life, in some form or the other, he posits. Only the dead stand still.

Absolutely.

There are far worse ways to spend my last days in SXB. I can now fully appreciate the gesture. I knew if I let myself, I would have a good time.

After a moment of song, prayer and a group photo, it’s home time. Just beforehand I clear the air with a sister with whom I’ve had unspoken beef. I wouldn’t want to leave with any unfinished business. I had the impression she was mocking me, or rather my imperfect French. I’m self-aware enough to know it could have been me merely projecting. Her ambiguous manner didn’t help. Her presence that evening makes me reconsider. It was gracious of her to attend. I can’t say I would do the same.

The evening is balmy. One of the group spies a family of peacocks parading around the main gate. This incongruous sight within an urban setting is somehow auspicious to me. A strutting male with a bolt blue, iridescent neck refuses to denies us the privilege of seeing his full plumage.

At Etoile Bourse, I purposefully miss two buses for a stroll around the Common that surrounds the canal. It’ll replace the sentimental tram ride I’d planned to take from one end of the city to another but time will not permit.

The next morning, as the final (still fairly modest) tally of boxes and suitcases stack up in my living room, I am struck by the paradoxical banality and significance of relocation. I give the flat one more clean before the removal company arrives. Within half an hour, everything is itemised, labelled and carted off to storage.

In the absence of the boxes, I notice how much their presence changed the acoustics of the living room. An echo returns that I hadn’t had time to miss.

Soundtrack: 3.15.20 by Donald Glover.

...Evolution (Part 1)

Whilst the world undergoes a very necessary upheaval, I am negotiating one of my own; albeit of a far less dramatic kind. It’s still significant on a personal level.

La Vie Strasbourgeoise is in need of a name-change. After six months of unemployment, despite living through what could turn out to be one of the worst economic crises for several generations, I have experienced a miracle first hand. I have been blessed with the opportunity to join a trade union organisation in Brussels. From this summer I’ll be working on projects relating to marginalised groups in the heart of Europe and around the world. 

Relocating is challenging at any time, let alone during a pandemic. My former employer, The Human Rights Organisation (THRO) have agreed to pay for my goods to be transported. First, I have to procure three quotes. Pinning down removal companies isn’t as straightforward as I hoped. 

The task feels overwhelming. COVID-19 quarantines notwithstanding, mum would have crossed the Channel to help. It intensifies any sense of loneliness. My sleep becomes even more disrupted than it already has been for the last year and a half. It’s taking its toll on my short term memory. I struggle to be coherent in my already fragile second language as well as sometimes being at a loss for words in my first.

Out in the real world, France is adapting to post-lockdown life. The Strasbourgeois take it slowly. I meet up with a former colleague for a farewell in the Parc Orangerie, surprised by the calm considering the fine weather.

When I catch-up with Catarina later that week, we have trouble finding an open café. Two of my usual haunts are closed. The third has the same name but under new management. I note other establishments are closed or open at reduced hours. The detrimental economic effects of the necessary lockdown have already started to show. I feel a wave of melancholy. It's the nature of change, Catarina consoles.

Another source of dolefulness is the lack of physical contact. As I meet up with friends for goodbye drinks, I ache to embrace. There are awkward moments of not knowing what to do with our hands. The safe elbow-bump du jour isn’t really cutting it. I miss hugs. One evening, whilst meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi at Café Jabiru, Gael greets us at the door. I lament once more about the absence of embrace.

You should just go for it, then, he advises, ever-daring.

Thus I do. It feels so good. It’s contagious. I extend the bear-hug love to Kiasi. (As my departure date draws ever-closer, I’ll throw caution to the wind and hug anyone who is willing)

Kiasi has been eager to meet since I announced my official departure date. My French is relatively free-flowing for a change, which isn’t always the case faced with his easy bilingualism.We pass a very enjoyable few hours in candid conversation. It’s the first time we’ve had a chance to clear the air since that infamous choir meeting. Opinions diverge but there’s no animosity.  At least we have had our day in court. 

I’m saddened to hear Kiasi has no plans in the near future to return to the chorale. It shouldn’t matter, since I will no longer be around either. Yet there's a part of me that'll remain attached to HRGS. Kiasi maintains the choir is still like family to him. I joke that I will have to edit out the last couple of months. He long predicted that a break would be good for the group. He couldn’t have anticipated it would be enforced, however. We both agree this unexpected sabbatical might signal a fresh start. For now, it’s not known exactly when that’ll be.

As the evening progresses, whilst working our way through Afropean snacks, we talk life, relationships, family, his future career plans (PR in the humanitarian sector) and extra-curricular activities (21^st century talk show) and of course lots and lots of music. We gush over Fred vs Kirk legendary lockdown livecast, dispute the Teddy Riley vs. Babyface showdown and converge naturally over the musicality of Brandy…

Perhaps emerging from lockdown has renewed my taste for the simple pleasure of good company and good conversation. 

Maybe not. I don’t want to reach for lazy clichés. I do know that relocating during a pandemic complicates the process.

On one level, having mentally prepared to leave Strasbourg since last year, I’ve had time to grieve the loss of my new familiar. Add to that being separated from my social circles for months, to an extent I’ve made my peace with disconnection. Not being able to meet in the conventional sense means there’ll be a lot of folk I won’t physically have the chance to see before I leave. In some ways that takes the sting out of it. At least there’ll be no tearfully dramatic scenes, I tell people. On the other hand it does distort any sense of resolution.

Some days I feel fine. Some days I am more lachrymose, as I fill up cardboard boxes with trinkets encased in bubble wrap and reflect on my two and a half years living in Strasbourg. It’s no small thing saying goodbye to my first proper flat. My first experience of not sharing with family or an assortment of strangers.

After a rather lengthy, bureaucratic process THRO select a removal company using the quotes I forward. If I’m not packing I’m meeting more friends and former colleagues around Strasbourg. We talk about life during and post-lockdown. Some single. Some in relationships. Others with children. Some working. Some retired. The cross-section of my Strasbourg community is a testament to the better part of the experience. 

I have also been fortunate enough of late to bump into fleeting local acquaintances. The kind where you stop to chat but don’t necessarily exchange numbers or even names. I’m pleased for the opportunity to inform them of my move rather than disappear into the ether. I hand out by now rather weathered business cards, having been gathering dust in my bag. I don’t expect them to be used but it makes me feel better.  As much as possible, I try to pass by the local businesses I've patronised to also let them know I'm on the move. That's still feasible in Strasbourg. It might have city status but it's more like a large-ish town.

I head to the newly re-opened Temple Neuf for a workshop with Pastor Rohan on the origins of the Gospels. It’ll be one of the last occasions to stop by before I leave. As we wrap up, I tell him of my imminent move, to which he responds with his habitual affability. On the way to the bus stop, by sweet serendipity, I bump into Kiasi once more.

A couple of days later I am back at Temple Neuf for a moment of quiet at the weekly meditative sessions. Considering it’s my last it’s far from the best. I arrive just a little late, after an afternoon of enriching conversation, as usual, with Stacee.

There is very little available seating in the main hall given the imposed physical-distancing. A woman confusingly removes a ‘do not sit’ sign from a seat then rather coolly informs me it's not free. By the time one of the young pastoral assistants brings out some extra chairs, my mind is elsewhere. On top of the existing mind traffic, I’m already distracted by the cold reception from the largely older, culturally homogeneous attendees. This is not the respite for which I came. 

I’ve long thought it pointless for churches to re-open whilst the virus is still active. Physical-distancing and over-preoccupation with disinfecting shared spaces aren’t conducive to a warm welcome and easy-going fellowship. Sadly, this episode doesn't prove me wrong.

Soundtrack: Classic Boyz II Men albums, La Vita Nuova by Christine & The Queens, Irreplaceable Love by Commissioned

Revolution...

BLM Solidarity March, Strasbourg: 5 June 2020
(image courtesy of dna.fr)

As I write, a world already shaken by a pandemic now feels the tremors of socio-political change. The brutal, on-camera murder of 'gentle giant' George Floyd by a blood-thirsty and virulently racist officer, Derek Chauvin has given rise to mass protests across the globe. What began in Floyd’s home city Minnesota and spread to every single North American state, has now reached London, Tokyo, Paris and more cities besides. Unexpected voices have raised their head above the parapet to speak against the murder as well as President Trump’s outrageous response (we shouldn’t be surprised but we are). 

Long frustrated with bureaucratic obstinance, citizens in the UK city of Bristol took it upon themselves to dismantle the statue of an infamous slave trader and toss it into the dock where he made his fortune. This emblematic act has since inspired similar gestures nationwide and across the world. Politicians on both sides of the Atlantic have taken the knee in support of Black Lives Matter, albeit somewhat unconvincing. American football player Colin Kaepernik’s act of solidarity, once reproached by much of the establishment, has become a mainstream symbol of anti-racist support.

It’s with a cautious but increasing optimism that I have observed the ripple effects of Floyd’s murder on the global conscience. We have sadly been here before. Any hope of long-lasting change disappeared with yet another senseless killing of a brown man or woman by employees of the state or hateful vigilantes. Nonetheless, this has been the longest sustained public discussion of state-sanctioned violence and other forms of structural racism in memory. Offensive films and TV shows are being pulled from screens. American-English dictionaries are obligated to expand the definition of racism. 

It's not just in the US. During an online branch meeting, my Labour International comrades are enthusiastic about showing public support for BLM. Within days, logos have been designed and statements posted online. 

I have watched the Church's reaction with particularly interest. It’s not perfect. There are some who have intellectually grasped the problem of privilege but not yet reconciled to if and how they contribute. African ministers aren't as vocal as they should be. Yet there are shoots of hope. In the States, beyond the uprisings, refreshingly honest and raw conversations are taking place. Across the Channel I witness from afar some serious soul-searching by Caucasian Christians, many of whom would not have been actively engaged in anti-racist struggle. They are starting to question cultural practices that might perpetuate Eurocentric hegemony. As the only brown girl on a Christian meditation Zoom call, I'm pleasantly surprised when other participants keenly pursue my query about what the Chaplaincy is doing to align itself with the movement. Official statements of solidarity are made by churches usually hesitant to appear 'political'. My UK home church, adapts a planned prayer session to encompass this urgent socio-political problem. Additional resources are added to the website.  There are expressions of intent to grapple further with the issues, even where there's an existing commitment to diversity. Time will tell if this engagement translates into profound long-term change. 

A Christian arts collective of which I’m an honorary member organise cross-cultural Zoom discussions. The predominantly Caucasian membership and trustees' efforts to listen and learn are genuine. The first session is a candid and constructive moment of knowledge, experience and resource sharing. There are sincere conversations about deconstructing privilege and its insidious presence in the Body of Christ.

Alas, no such self-awareness in France. A huge solidarity protest is held in Paris in honour of Adama Traore, killed by French police in similar circumstances to Floyd. The day after, I contact a trade unionist friend to see if any such action is planned in Strasbourg. She vehemently distances herself from the ‘aggression’ of the Parisian event. 

That week, insensitive comments are made during an online prayer and fasting session organised by my French church. A pastor (and former policeman) insinuates that the racial violence is equal on both sides. Another older Caucasian member reserves all her sympathy for the poor police. Oh, how they are maligned. Through prayer, she reprimands the ungrateful French population for not letting them get on with the job. No mention of the myriads of victims of police violence, many whose families originate from former French colonies. I have often decried the church’s blind loyalty to authority in the name of honour, when we are supposed to side with the marginalised and oppressed. It’s been a louder refrain of late.

That weekend a local solidarity demo is organised. To my great consternation, I find out too late from a church sister, Fabienne. The day after the protest, we head to the newly re-opened Jabiru café. Restaurant-owner and friend Gael tells me he was also at the march, albeit for a few minutes between café duties. I’m crushed, having spent a good part of that week searching online for information on any such event.

You should be on social media. They both chime. 

I shouldn’t have to be. 

Fabienne and I reflect on our church’s lukewarm response. No explicit references to the widespread unrest or, more importantly, its causes. All the more surprising that the senior pastor is half-African American. Fabienne believes it’s indicative of a wider indifference. With the exception of the aforementioned rallies, there hasn’t been the outpouring of support she expected even from high profile Francophone Africans and Caribbeans. She confirms what has been a creeping suspicion. France is in even more denial about its imperial past and neo-colonial present than I thought. 

A mere few days later however, the controversy forces some uncomfortable discussions into the open. Denial about the extent of state-sanctioned violence is counterbalanced by contestation of such claims on national television.  Marine Le Pen's niece spouts unsubstantiated supremacist nonsense about 'true' victimhood, claiming that the anti-racism movement is lucrative leftist racket. Whilst countries around the world, including neighbouring Belgium, reckon with how problematic historical figures are memorialised, contemporary colonialist par excellence, President Macron makes the same ol' lazy arguments about not 'erasing history'.

During a cordial but candid conversation with the senior pastor of my French church, he makes (literal) note of my concerns and suggestions. He explains he doesn't want to rush out a response whilst so much is in flux. He wishes to be measured; not just to speak but to be heard. I propose. as a mark of solidarity, that he shares this reasoning with the church, just so we know the leadership is engaging with this critical issue. Otherwise, it seems an awful lot like indifference.

The dial is starting to shift in the right direction. Gradually.

That weekend I attend another BLM solidarity event. Similar demonstrations take place the same day across the world. Earlier that afternoon, the case of Rayshard Brooks comes to my attention; yet another unarmed African-American killed by the police. Brooks is shot whilst running away with an officer's taser following an altercation. His crime? Falling asleep in his car at a drive-thru. The incident sparks more stateside protests. The 'when, not if' of more sceptical activists has come to pass sooner than the hopeful amongst us thought.

The fresh newstory is on my mind as I leave for the demo that rainy Sunday afternoon. 

Bilingual makeshift placards abound. Several denounce white silence as complicity. There are numerous unflattering depictions of the police.

It's a far more tepid affair compared to the previous' week; at least judging from the images I've seen.  The weather doesn't help. There's a fraction of those who attended the 5 June demo.

I rue all the more having missed the first gathering. I'm reminded of going to the second London anti-war march in 2003, having missed out on the record-breaking original demonstration, attended by my sister and roughly a million others.

It shouldn't matter. Solidarity is solidarity. Yet the atmosphere is different.

The (mostly Caucasian) participants gather round the statue of Jean-Baptiste Kléber to listen to rallying speeches. Photographers wander around, the least concerned of all amidst a crowd only loosely observing physical distancing guidelines. I do what I can, shifting to either avoid being too close to my neighbours or to get out of the path of smokers.

Most of the speakers are poorly amplified. I hear snatches of discourse. I applaud apprehensively, more often than not unsure of what is being said. I favour speeched by those who embed the fight against racial inequality in a wider framework of anti-capitalism and socio-economic justice. There's a mixed reaction to interventions made by Gilets Jaunes representatives. Not entirely fair, to my mind.

I'm approached by a couple of news outlets for brief interviews. Perhaps the bright colours of my faux-wax skirt and complementary Afrocentric accessories catch their attention on this miserable day.

I explain French is not my first language. They don't mind. Both TV stations ask why I've come. The first interview is more detailed. It's hard not to speak in clichés. I'm here to show solidarity. As an African woman. As a human being. As someone who tries to be socially-engaged. It would be apposite to mention the killing of Brooks; to emphasise the urgency of change. Alas, it has already slipped my mind. It's only on the way home I realise the missed-opportunity.

The first network asks a follow-up about cultural differences between the UK and France. That's a big question, I reply, laughing nervously. A concise and straightforward answer would be difficult in any language. I do my best. I stress that I do not wish to over-simplify. I feel like I come up far too short, in any case. I gabble something unoriginal about cultural (in)sensitivities, covert and overt forms of racism; how all colonial powers are culpable but have different approaches to the debate. I mention how it seems mainstream France has taken longer to self-scrutinise compared to reactions in the Anglophone context.

The interviewer looks distracted. He wears a polite smile whilst frequently glancing into the distance. I feel less at ease.

I head home after the second interview, lest I should be accosted again.