It’s been a while. I have even played with the idea of disappearing
until the New Year, inshallah, but that would seem impolite.
I have spent the last several weeks putting the finishing touches to
my End-of-Yeararticles and playlists, balancing that out
with other writing obligations and commissions that have trickled in.
Switching
to freelance has helped me regain some agency. I’m nonetheless
still in survival mode as I try and establish myself
in this self-employment lark. That causes a fair amount of stress. It is compounded by the onset of winter proper, which hits Belgium with frosty violence in early December. If it’s not bitterly cold,
it’s relentlessly wet and overcast. Not for the first time, it
feels as if my S.A.D is starting earlier and earlier. The
end of year lends to taking inventory of the
recent and distant past. I have been in the throes of a low spell
that has me revisiting my regrets, old and new. Add to that some
simmering family disagreements and it’s not the cheeriest cocktail.
I wonder how this all fits in with me working routinely on improving
my psycho-emotional health. And yet, when I recall how bereft I felt
at the end of 2022, I have cause to be grateful.
And
of course, there’s no stasis in my world; a saving grace in
itself. The last couple of months have naturally been taken up by
much activism around Israel’s criminal war in Gaza and the
general plight of the Palestinians. Brussels has not had the same weekly
mass demonstrations seen in London but there are groups faithfully
holding events on a regular, even daily, basis. I have attended a few.
Except
for a run-in with one unhinged character (in which others intervene
on my behalf), these marches are largely
peaceful. It’s
been wonderful meeting
new acquaintances from all walks of life, coming together for this
single humane cause.
In late November, I
joinIntal’s Palestine bloc for the march
to commemorate the International Day for the Elimination of Violence
Against Women. Early on in the event,
the police react aggressively to demonstrators
attaching solidarity stickers to lamp-posts and the like. At the end
of
the march,
I bump into Nathalie, a member of my church, Fresh Wine Ministries. I
can barely believe my eyes. I ask if she’s there for the demo or
just happens to be in the area. Nathalie has come with a group of single mother activists. We both share our
frustrations about the absence of a Christian presence at what are
meant to be manifestations of solidarity and calls for peace. None of her entourage are
from the Church. Whilst Nathalie is a little world-weary, I consider
it an encouragement to have met her in these circumstances. We might
be small in number but we’re somehow holding the fort.
Alongside
my political pursuits I try to maintain my spiritual practices, with
a special focus on Advent. It’s all the more necessary at a time
when I’m particularly disillusioned with the mainstream Church. I find social action to be a lifeline, like my shifts at the Red Cross or the Christmas lunch initiative, organised by the Compassion team at FWM.
For three weeks from early December, I rise before dawn for daily online prayers organised by the majority Francophone-African Elim International church. I find these sorts of communal prayer events invigorating to an extent that surprises me. At
the cusp of Advent I attend a half-day silent retreat. It’s held at
the same oasis of calm I discovered earlier in the year at a similar event. These activities are often a mix of serenity and
deep, painful introspection. It’s priceless. A busybody
like me would otherwise never find – or make – the space for this
uninterrupted quality time with the Almighty.
The following week I join the second part of a conference
on interreligious community life. I see a few familiar faces
including a former would-be employer. As well as stimulating
discourse there’s a live Gospel music interval. I won’t
stick around for the main event itself but get a taste during the
soundcheck. The quartet are easily the best such outfit I’ve come
across since relocating to Belgium three and a half years ago. Alas, I have a gripe with the
musical director, Jason. He neglects
to
invite me to participate, as he all but promised when we met in the summer.
Thankfully,
there are other musical outlets. A couple of the jams I’ve come to
appreciate in the past year have sadly, already fallen by the wayside. I still have my monthly Brazilian appointment at
Café Merlo for which I’m grateful. Urged
by a friend yet to hear me sing, I perform a rendition of Brazilian classic,
Insensatez,
at the Jazz Station’s Sunday night open mic/jam.
Agnès,
Clothilde and I continue to meet up when we can. Yet, even such
leisurely
activities can feel
pressuredwhen
squeezing them into a packed schedule. I
have a hard time with the idea of letting people down.
Our group has now expanded to four. I've invited Beverly, an affable young German lass, to join us after hearing her harmonise at another open mic.
So far we’re yet to all meet as a quartet. We make do with gathering in various constellations, according to what our timetables allow. When
we’re not connecting online,we
attempt to meet for
other festive musical events, of which there are plenty. There are
outdoor performances at the Christmas market. Holy Trinity Brussels
have several carol concerts on their agenda. I
sing my little heart out to some of my favourite Christmas hymns at HTB's majestic annual traditional service.For all my post-colonial conflict about being born and raised in the heart of Empire, there's the odd British custom for which I have a soft spot, especially around Christmas.
I note a marked difference in Brussels festive atmosphere this year compared to
last December. The City has really showed up for Christmas 2023. It
seems most communes begin installing the still-tasteful
and enchanting decorations even earlier than usual. In 2022 there was a lot of
belt-tightening because of energy costs. Some fairy lights were
deliberately left dim, making the whole thing a bit shabby.
Not so this year, save for the odd blown fuse. I gladly indulge my new tradition of wandering the streets of Brussels, my inner child
leaping with delight at the Yuletide illuminations.
This
Christmas once again, I
will divide
the season between the UK and Belgium. I’d have preferred to stay
put, especially so soon after my last visit across the Channel. It
would also have been cheaper. I
wish so all the more when the coach company with which I’m supposed
to travel, postpones my departure date by two days. What should have
been roughly a week’s stay is truncated to a long weekend. Mum
insists that she would have been happy to join me in Belgium for the
first half of Christmas.
It would have alleviated the pressure of planning, she confesses.
Yet somehow, I have had the strong impression she and sis were not
keen on the idea. I hazily recollect being rebuffed when broaching the topic.
The
bus company offers no explanation for the timetable change. Fuming at first, I frantically
try to find an economical alternative to no avail. I eventually make my peace with it as I perceive the bright side. It means a lot of rescheduling but also allows
me to catch my breath
pre-travel.
I could not reflect
on the past month
without acknowledging the events of 7 October in Israel and the
ensuing onslaught in Gaza. Much of my time, before, during and after
my most recent UK trip has been consumed by it.
The attacks by Hamas on Israeli civilians come
shortly after a national day of action in Belgium to protest the government’s plans
to restrict the very right to demonstrate.
My comrades at Intal and others regroup again when the Israeli state responds to Hamas’
brutality with predictably gruesome and disproportionate reprisals.
The night of Hamas’ assault, I sleep fitfully, terrified of Israel's retribution that is sure to come. The following morning at church, I open up
briefly when asked how I'm doing by Roy, another regular. I’m hesitant
to share. Whatever my church’s official position - assuming there is one - it is not
rabidly Zionist. Still, there are members who are. Roy isn’t, even
if he’s less enthused about Palestinian liberation than I’d hope.
He advises me to be attentive to self-care.
You
can’t take on all the world's burdens, he admonishes, That’s God’s job.
You’ll be far less useful if you’re burned out.
True
that.
What
many of us fear comes to pass. As I write, the IDF’s offensive has
seen the slaughter of over 11,000 Gazan civilians (some believing this to be a serious underestimate), roughly half of
whom are children. I weep with others across the world when I hear or
think of the horror taking place on the ground; not
just in Gaza but throughout the Palestinian territories. Shortly after I put virtual pen to paper for this article, I learn of the arrest of well-known Palestinian activist, Ahed Tamimi under an apparent pretext; no doubt an act of provocation by the Israeli state. At the ripe-old age of 22, she's already spent significant periods of time in custody. That same week, IDF militia shoot dead a 13 year-old in the West Bank, on the way to hang out with his friends.
I channel my terror into prayers and making my voice
heard where possible, mainly through collective action on both sides
of the Channel. In Belgium I attend any pro-Palestine and
ceasefire demonstration event for which I'm available. Many involve Intal, the peace-building, anti-imperialist initiative which I joined earlier this year. They have long been active in campaigning and raising
awareness around the Palestinian cause. I'm informed at a team meeting that the organisation has gained hundreds of new members in the weeks since the crisis spiralled.
I have the privilege of being
part of the reportedly half a million who march through central
London in late October. I become tearful at the display of solidarity amongst this reassuringly diverse crowd. I also well up at the thought of freedom for Palestinians, no matter how
remote it appears at the moment. From
the River to the Sea...- a chant so maligned and misrepresented by Zionists - moves
me every time.
The
following weekend, not long after I return to Belgium, my mother
participates in one of many demonstrations at the local level
throughout the UK. She has a similar emotional reaction. She's also touched enough to attend the enormous rally taking place in London on Armistice day. Despite the (now sacked) UK Home Secretary Suella Braverman's attempts to incite social unrest, she's defied by up to 800,000 -according to some estimates - mostly peaceful participants.
I
seriously reflect on which companies to add to my BDS list. I don't patronise Starbucks in any case, and I can't remember when I last purchased anything from McDonalds. I'm more partial to Domino's Pizza and Burger King but these are rare treats and easily suspended. Boycotting French supermarket chain, Carrefour will be tougher. Alas, my
knowledge
of HP’s implication in the regime comes just after replacing my
old laptop with one of their products.
I
learn of celebrities I once respected writing
inane letters to President Biden, effectively congratulating him
for aiding and abetting Israel’s murderous campaign. I am baffled
by African-Americans such as Chris Rock, Tyler Perry and
Jordan Peele’s reaction. It’s one thing for a subset of black
Christians who have swallowed vile
Zionist indoctrination
whole in the name of religion (that could explain Perry's stance). It’s another for those who don’t have that excuse.
I am convinced more than ever that the modern Israeli state is just another iteration of white supremacist colonial ambition. The stratification of Israeli Jews along ethnic lines, with European Jews at the top of the food chain, is evidence of that. The Zionists have Judaised this variation of supremacy but it's not a specifically Jewish phenomenon. Anybody
who chants Black Lives Matter and cannot stand up for the lives of
Palestinians, is not serious about combatting racism. The hashtag trend-chasers are thus exposed. Those who would devalue Palestinian lives
will likely do the same to Black lives behind closed doors. It’s
of no benefit for once colonised people to support any imperial
project. Our struggles are intertwined and always have been. But elites will usually
close ranks, regardless of their ethnicity. I should probably add
the oeuvre of a few of these celebrities to my boycott list, at least until they see some sense.
Earlier in the crisis, I encourage my mother to write to her local MP. No longer based in the UK, I don't have the same access to its parliamentary representatives. The MP's response is at times mealy-mouthed and overall lacking in moral courage. She gives a completely a-historical account of events, ignoring the 1948 Nakba and laying all the blame at Hamas' feet. As if they exist in a vacuum. As if successive Israeli administrations -including Netanyahu's- had not funded Hamas as part of a divide and rule tactic to split Palestinian political support. As if nothing preceded 7 October 2023.
* (This nonsensical notion of an humanitarian pause is like interrupting a man pummelling another, so that the victim can grab some lunch, take a shower and put on a few plasters, only to let the perpetrator continue to beat them to death after the break)
For every celebrity
motivated by self-interest, there are others insisting on an end to Israel’s collective punishment; seasoned activists who defy their privileged class to speak out against injustice, whether it's popular with their peers or not. I'm relieved to come across a video by a musical hero of mine condemning Western leaders' bellicosity.
For every Archbishop
of Canterbury giving
carte blanche to Israel, there’s a Pope Francis calling
for a ceasefire. And of course, there are the millions
across the world marching in solidarity with Palestine, many
of themJewish. I'm proud to count Jewish comrades, resisting racism in all its forms, amongst my friends. Within Israel and beyond, they do not abide by their ethnicity being hijacked for cynical colonial ends. I look on in admiration as the likes of Barnaby Raine and James Schneider make a potent and eloquent case for solidarity with the Palestinians, at the risk of being labelled self-hating Jews by unhinged critics. High profile Jewish voices speaking out against the possible genocide such as Judith Butler and Gabor Maté , are essential to discredit the mainstream narrative that conflates their ethnicity with the state of Israel. (It's telling however, that these come from the more rarefied world of academia and public thinkers, whereas certain Jewish entertainers prove themselves less 'progressive' than they claim.)
I become increasingly disillusioned with the capital-C Church. Whilst speaking to a friend in London, not especially well-versed in the history of Palestine-Israel, he expresses disbelief at the deafening omerta from Christians, both at his church and more widely. I share his bewilderment.
It's not
so much a crisis of faith but a crisis of belonging. Although my family were not activists, I grew up in a household that was sympathetic to the Palestinian cause. Whilst that instinct has been challenged, particularly when surrounded by Christian Zionists as an undergrad, it's so ingrained in me that I could never abandon it wholly. Maybe that's given me a head start and I need to be more patient with those slow to catch-up. But still...
On one end, I am angered bythe
Church’svirulent strain
of Zionism (especially amongst my evangelical/charismatic tribe) and on the other by the cowardly ‘it’s
complicated’ fence-sitting. The latter is worse in some ways.
If the history of the region is complex, the right for Palestinians not to be oppressed and dehumanised isn't hard to grasp. The aforementioned MP for my mother's constituency is supposedly a Christian. However, she seems more preoccupied with upholding her party leader's unjustifiable position than doing the honourable thing.
Of all
the folk I bump into at the rallies or demos, I count none of my immediate or wider church family amongst them.
Of course, there are exceptions. I have Christian family members attending protests in their corners of the world. My sister is
blessed enough
to attend a pro-Palestine church in Japan, led by a Jewish-Christian female pastor. Thank God for somebody like Cornel West, willing to stand up and be counted as he has done consistently over this issue, even to his detriment. This kind of solidarity should be
commonplace amongst the Body of Christ but is sadly- shamefully –
rare.
I
feel on the edges of my own church community in Belgium. Apart from a select few
events, I avoid extra-curricular activities. I make it to a surprise
birthday party for one of the senior pastors, safe in the knowledge that at such a celebration guests will want to avoid controversial themes.
I’m keeping a distance from prayer meetings until further notice, for
fear of being dysregulated by some insensitive comment about
Palestine. Or flat out losing it with anyone who tries to warp scripture to justify the massacre of fellow image bearers of God.
I
resist the arrogant, chronocentric framing of being on the 'right' or ‘wrong side of
History’. This is simply a case of living out the love, truth,
mercy and compassion we find embodied in our Lord and Saviour. It can't be a coincidence that Jesus speaks of Justice before He mentions Peace in the Sermon on the Mount. The former is a sina qua non of the latter, as we often hear.
That’s
why I consider it providential – an instance of Divine Mercy –
that I happen to meet a Christian at the October demonstration in London. Of
all the 500,000 in attendance I could have stood beside, I am next to Miranda; an older Christian woman, member of the Labour Party (still,
miraculously) and a fellow one-time supporter of Corbyn during his years as the party's leader. We remain in touch long after I return to Belgium. I
suppose we’re both pleasantly surprised, not to mention grateful,
to have found each other. God knows, I need the boost.
I am fresh from my annual
autumn visit to the UK. It’s a tradition that pre-dates COVID-19.
When I first moved to mainland Europe, I was delighted to discover
there were not one, but two, public holidays in early November; All
Saints and The Armistice commemoration day. It was an ideal time to get away without using up too much annual leave. Once post-lockdown travel
resumed, so did this autumnal habit.
The custom has
remained intact, although it has been almost two years since I had to
worry about booking annual leave. The stress of professional limbo
also warrants a change of scene, mind you. This year, I have as good a reason
as any for taking a break. Not long before I catch the Eurostar to
London, life shifts course in a way that has me doing a lot of rushing around.
Sometime back in early September, I meet with one of my
Brussels’ Day Ones, Sylvia. We catch each other up on our summer news and travels. She asks about how the job search is going. I
inform her of my most recent disappointment. Plus, at that moment, I’m in
the midst of a rather long and convoluted recruitment process for
another potential role. There’s still almost three months to go
before it concludes. Even if I were to be successful, I can’t wait
that long to start earning money. State assistance now only
covers the absolute basics.
I explain to Sylvia that I’ve looked
into teaching, to no avail. I don’t have the requisite
qualifications. No great loss. I wasn’t too keen on that option anyway. Another friend, Karin has suggested I think of au pair work in the
interim. According to the numerous parent-with-young-children
Facebook groups of which Karin’s a member, native Anglophones are in
short supply. No wonder. Most first-language English speakers in
Brussels already have good jobs. They don’t need to subject
themselves to skivvy’s work. Bar the sex industry, I would consider
most other things before doing something as potentially exploitative
as being an au pair. My mum agrees. As does Sylvia.
Why don’t
you try freelance editing and proofreading in the meantime?, she
proposes.
It’s
like the first time I’m hearing it. Why didn’t I think of that before? In fact, it’s not the first time someone has suggested it,
according to mum and Karin. It’s just I’d previously been averse
to the idea. In hindsight, a number of folk have encouraged me to
consider the independent/consultant route. It either seemed
inappropriate or unrealistic. I’ve heard enough nightmare stories
about how hard Belgian bureaucracy is on sole traders. If I did
entertain the notion, it was something to act on after accruing some savings during my next
salaried role, whenever that might be.
Life, Destiny, God had other
ideas.
I’m
immediately galvanised by Sylvia’s suggestion. She passes on
information about a Belgian cooperative that helps take the sting out of the admin, for a nominal annual
membership fee. As if by way of confirmation, during the coming weeks I’ll meet a number of individuals who have used the
scheme themselves or know somebody who has.
I set about gathering as much information about
becoming self-employed as possible. I attend information sessions at
the cooperative and meetings with my union to understand any other legal obligations I have. I inform my life coach and job mentor. Both are thrilled by my change of direction, offering invaluable support and practical tips. It’s especially good news
for my back-to-work mentor. Prior to this development, it hadn’t
seemed like quite the right fit; different ages and life stages. It turns out that hers is exactly the kind of skill set I require now that I’m
looking to launch solo.
There'll be things I'll miss about having a regular job; the stability and fringe benefits for a start. On the other hand, you can't beat the flexibility of working freelance. The main challenge is establishing a client base. I
reach out to acquaintances in a similar field, setting up
more virtual calls to glean some insight. With sis' help I design some eye-catching posters to be displayed in strategic locations. I do a few dry runs for
friends and family. For a mate’s rate, I agree to look over Karin’s
400 page PhD thesis ahead of its publication. My sister, now an
established businesswoman herself, sends some official documentation
to proofread and copy edit.
Meanwhile, I’m still producing my own
content and continuing in my role as editor-in-chief for
Afropean.com. Not to mention all my other preoccupations.
I’m
quite run off my feet once my London visit rolls around.
I once again
keep it low key, spacing out meet-ups. I attend a talk, organised by my Morphē Arts family, on the intersection of Art, Theology and AI technologies. It's an intellectually and spiritually invigorating evening.
It’s also a trip of reunions. I
catch-up with an old school friend I haven’t seen for a quarter
century. I reconnect with Uncle
Lenny; our first off-line encounter since COVID-19. I’m
especially nervous before that meeting. With his staunch anti-vaxxer stance earlier in the pandemic and our divergence over how to approach the problems at my former workplace, I haven’t
always seen eye-to-eye with Lenny. He still has his way but the
catch-up remains cordial, mainly because I do my best to avoid
controversial subjects.
The
summer is also not without cultural solace. I attend a free play
about domestic abuse, performed by a non-professional collective of
survivors and/or support workers. I sign up at the Beurs creative space for a free
screening of a documentary on the Afro-Brazilian political movement during the
1970s and 80s. The organisers are strict. Those of us who arrive even
a few minutes late are locked out. Some give up and return home. I go
to a nearby bar to wait for another opening and self-remonstrate in
the meantime. My patience eventually pays off. I sneak in for the closing
act of the film, which is followed by a flavoursome vegan supper.
It’s another great occasion for stimulating conversation with those
who have overlapping interests. One such is the elegantly beautiful event coordinator, Rahel, whose family relocated from Ethiopia to Flanders. In the coming weeks, we'll exchange a number of socio-cultural recommendations and groove at one of the many open-air concerts on Brussel's annual car-free Sunday.
I practise Portuguese with a patient
French national who spent many years in Brazil and has an excellent
command of the language. Such is their androgyny, that I’m highly
nervous about mis-gendering them. Short of asking for their preferred
pronoun - which I’m concerned might cause offence in case it’s
not as ambiguous to them as it is to me - I endeavour to stay on my
grammatical toes.
The
following week I attend the book launch of writer and researcher Hans
Kundnani’s EuroWhiteness; about the ethno-cultural construction of modern European identity.
It
is held at a culturehub (pictured above) that
I’ve only just come across. I
don’t know how it escaped my attention all this time. The venue
hosts
a cornucopia of intellectually-rich activities.
The
format of the launch is a mix of presentations by Kundnani and Asian-British journalist Mehreen Khan - who lived and worked in Belgium for five years - group discussions and
Q&A.It
becomes a moment of spontaneous networking. I am pleasantly
surprised to encounter more Black and Asian Brits at that one event
than I have the whole three years I’ve lived in Belgium so far.
In
other news, I meet up with old friend Melissa, in Liège.
Normally based in Southern Africa with her husband and gorgeous
children, it’s been over a decade since we last saw each other in the flesh.
Her eldest child, now
12,
was less than a year old. Melissa
and her husband, Pius,
do amazing work as activists for migrants’ rights. It was also Mel who introduced me to Lorenzo. Thank God, our own connection has
survived the dissolution of that friendship.
Mel
has a brilliant mind, is a gifted multi-linguist and one of the most culturally-aware Caucasians I’ve ever met. She’s also very
humble. Mel has been invited as the keynote speaker for a graduation
ceremony at
her
Alma Mater in the Netherlands. She
uses it as an opportunity to do a mini-tour of the Benelux region.
Mel
meets me at the main station in Liège
which, bizarrely, is the venue for a very loud EDM festival that
weekend. We divide our time between her inviting Airbnb and a local
park. Naturally,
we talk
about everything under the sun and still run out of time. It’s been
so long and I enjoy her company so much, I wish I could extend it. Alas, Mel only has a few days left in town.
I
do not want for musical outlets. I continue to frequent any
jam or free concert still running throughout the holiday period. I
make a potentially fortuitous choral connection when I stumble across
an active Gospel outfit,
once finalists on Belgium’s
Got Talent.
It
never showed up on any of the lists I searched when I was
on the hunt for such singing opportunities.
There could be a
reason for that.
I reach out to the choir director, Jason, who
responds with keenness. We arrange an informal phone call which turns
into
an impromptu
audition. His feedback is positive. Jason warns that the choir members are very young. Not yet
ready to abandon the dream, with Jason’s blessing, I invite myself to a rehearsal. Indeed, the main demographic is under 18. Jason
explains the only adult members have grown up with the choir.
It’s not all a waste. He is involved in a number of occasional projects
for adult Gospel collectives. We agree to stay in touch.
Elsewhere,
Clothilde, Agnès and I revive our long dormant harmony sessions in
the park. I reach out
to
both in July to see if it could be a possibility, not especially
optimistic that it will materialise. There’s a lot to be said
about managing expectations. To my delight and slight shock, both
respond in the
affirmative. It’ll be the first time all three of us reunite in
almost a year. I bring along a few song selections with nothing
particular in mind. The girls show enthusiasm for one of my Gospel favourites: Strange
Land
by Commissioned. Our harmonising reunion goes better than anything I could have
planned.
As
I write, North-West Europe has been enjoying freakishly good late
summer weather. I’ve long been fond of September. It’s a month of
transition and fresh starts, straddling two seasons and often
accompanied by clement weather. Still, I can’t recall ever
experiencing sustained, heatwave-like temperatures at this time of
year. (Cue mixed feelings of cheer and climate change-related angst).
I
never like to complain when it’s hot. I’ll take bright sunshine
and sticky tropical climes
over the typical cold and damp, any time. Heck, we’re owed extra
heat and sunlight after the half-hearted, stop-start disappointment
of the core summer months. I need all that Vitamin D and brightness to brace myself for the
cooler and darker seasons.
Back in early August, returning
from my latest
excursion to Eastern Europe, I am greeted by mostly steel grey skies and weather cool
enough to tempt
me to
switch
on the heating. It does nothing at all to quell a resurging malaise,
soon to evolve into another bout of light depression.
On
the bright side, I
have another visit from mum to look forward to; her last before
Christmas. I’m not as buoyed by the idea as I should be. It’s
another fortnight stay and I worry about how to fill the time. Mum is
an easy-going
guest but I don’t want to take anything for granted. The state
of my finances also leaves me nervous. Mum has been self-sufficient
and even generous with her resources. Yet
it bothers me immensely that I’m still not in the position to treat
her. It’s what I’d want for any guest, let alone a relative.
In
the end, as usual, I upset myself mostly
over
nothing. Mum’s stay is smooth and more or less drama-free. The sun
makes a reappearance. She’s now familiar enough with my local area to
go out on autonomous trips to the gym and the park. We do one or two
cultural events, including an exhibition
on the connections between Belgium’s colonisation of the Congo and the rise of Art Nouveau. Understandably,
it
leaves mum feeling morose.
The
bitter-sweet runs throughout her
visit.
Difficult discussions about the past and an unruly dog dampen
an
otherwise pleasant picnic experience at my local park, for example.
Mum and I have a number of hard, revelatory conversations. Some bring
a sense of resolution, others need to be revisited at a more propitious
time.
The dread of being left to my
own devices stirs days before her departure. I try not to pay it too
much mind so it doesn’t take me out of the present.
It’s
scant solace when she does eventually return to
London.
The absence hits harder than on her previous trip. The month of
September, usually associated with some kind of renewal, stretches
before me like an inscrutable
void. I’m still feeling the aftershock of my most recent major
recruitmentlet-down.
I eventually press the pause button on applications, sensing that I’m
reaching a point of job hunting burnout. Mum’s visit is the ideal
excuse. I will resume towards the end of the trip, her presence
providing some kind of moral support. When I do get back on the
grind, I ease myself into the process as much as possible.
Even
with the job search break, I’m still very busy during what would
usually be a
summer lull. Brussels itself seems busier than usual for August.
Either the rising cost of travel has been a deterrent or folk have
taken shorter breaks earlier in the summer.
I
stay occupied with my freelance writing and copy editing exploits.
I’m also becoming ever-more integrated into anti-imperialist peace
initiative, Intal. I attend yet another meeting with the core team
mid-August, where we plan activities for the coming months. I also
sign up to volunteer with the group at this year’s Manifiesta
festival
in Ostende.
It’s a sweltering hot day; a pleasing contrast to the
wet and wind of the previous year. My shift at the pop-up Intal book
shop coincides with an enriching panel discussion about the troubles in Africa's Sahel region. The
panellists give interventions on
how African states should
resist
Western interference whilst facing down the domestic enemy. With
contributions
from
Guy Marius Sagna (Senegal) and Kambale Musavuli (Congo), I’m
reassured once again that the flame of African socialism wasn’t completely extinguished with the fall of so many
post-Independence struggles in the late 20th
Century.
Other highlights include interacting with South African
activist, Mikaela Nhondo Erskog, a rousing speech by US Amazon
collective action pioneer, Christian
Smalls and an address by the one and only Jeremy Corbyn. Compelled to
cancel his previous
Manifiesta invitation on
the news of Queen Elizabeth II’s death, he receives a hero’s welcome this
summer.
The Socialist Left in Belgium still has a lot of love for Mr Corbyn.
JC is due to make an appearance at the Intal camp but appears to be
delayed, probably mobbed by some fellow-travellers after his
intervention on the mainstage. As we wait around, I hear one of the
other Intal volunteers declare with mock-impatience, ‘F*** Jeremy
Corbyn!’ for which I pounce on him, only half-joking.
Mr Corbyn
finally makes an appearance. He resumes his previous thread not to
relent on campaign efforts for peaceful resolutions to global
conflicts. He looks rather sheepish as we launch into a spontaneous
rendition of ‘Ohhhhh, Jeremy Corbyn!’ but receives it graciously.
I’m hoping for just a quick selfie with the man himself. My modest expectations are exceeded. I wind up spending a good amount of time with the
Corbyn entourage including his unassuming wife, Laura – the
mastermind behind his post-Labour leadership Peace
& Justice Initiative. I enquire about her past life in banking. Laura explains that, as a means of discrediting her and her husband's politics, the press portrayed her as some bigwig financier when she her position was far more modest.
I meet various members of the Corbyn team and
their wider circles. Over the course of the day, I’ll bump into
Hannah, the sister of my former manager, Ama. We’ll swap Labour
party battle stories with Corbyn and his crew, many of us now having
been expelled for spurious reasons. I’ll listen to similar
frustrations from an Australian comrade about their own
right-of-centre Labour government.
These kind of serendipitous
encounters characterise the day.
Scenes from the Citadel, Budapest (image: TrustIndex)
A
lazy-ish day. In theory. I don’t find it easy – or especially
enjoyable - to lounge around all day in bed. Not least in a basement
flat with minimal natural light. I must get out into the elements. I
dodge the heavy rain, stepping out just as the sun is re-emerging. I
head to a nearby cliché hipster café (exposed brick, incomplete décor, etc.), for some
pastry. I bump – literally – into that old Germanophone creep, I
saw on the first night I arrived. He insists on following me, to the extent of stalking me inside a local supermarket. I shoo him away furiously,
mouthing an expletive, to my shame. The cashier regards the scene,
puzzled. I’m rattled for a good moment.
My
sole plan that evening, apart from supper, is to visit the old Citadel. It’s not the easiest part of the city to reach. Once I’m
in the vicinity, I only locate it by chance, nosily following other
stragglers. Unbeknownst to me, the citadel is temporarily closed for
restoration. That would explain the crossed out street signs en route. Brief
and melodramatic summaries of the citadel’s history surround what
is now a construction site. A sad-looking Hungarian flag blows
listlessly in the grounds. Fortunately, there are breathtaking vistas in the environs as well as an inviting park. I realise how high I am
when I come across the Lady Liberty statue up close; usually
appearing so far in the distance. I take the scenic route through
the park, back to public transport. I have no clear idea of where I’m
going but convinced I’ll muddle through. I appreciate this part of
a city break, normally around Day Two or Three, when I’m familiar
enough with the layout to be self-sufficient. No longer reliant on the often unhelpful Google Maps journey planner. I’m feeling immensely
grateful for the loveliness of the environment, the privilege of
travel and the joy of discovery.
Following
a leisurely pre-sunset walk through Budapest’s shopping district,
I’m on the hunt for some traditional Hungarian food, with a decent
enough reputation. Not that easy a task. I walk the length and
breadth of the old Jewish district, crossing paths with one of the
Italians I met at Friday’s social. At last, just as I’m about to
give up, I spot a respectable-looking establishment with a TripAdvisor sticker. An elderly gent plays Jazz
interpretations on the house piano all evening. I order a budget friendly
starter, some Goulash (finally!) and another recommended traditional dish,
Flódni layered cake. The so-so customer service notwithstanding
(something of a recurring theme round these parts), it’s a
pleasurable experience. Good food and good music. Can’t go wrong.
A grumpy-looking bust near the Citadel, Budapest (c) me
Monday 31.07:
The
last full day of my first trip to Budapest. A wave of familiar melancholy washes over me. I acknowledge it, with the aim
of being more present. Let tomorrow take care of itself.
I
have an evening boat tour reservation. Before then, I make two
important stops. I drop by the landmark indoor Central Market. It pops up as a must-see on most Budapest bucket lists. Plus, I’m on
the lookout for souvenirs. Although overwhelming, I feel compelled to traverse as much of
the market as I can withstand. Too many stalls, too
many people, too compact a space. The so-called street food is
pricier than an average restaurant. Tourist bait. I’m not biting.
I
escape the Hall with some trinkets and make my way to Margaret
Island, named after one of Budapest’s saints. It’s another scenic and semi-isolated spot, replete with thermal baths and a vast
park including the ruins of old holy sites, an open-air theatre,
a singing fountain and a Japanese garden, where I’ll while away
most of my visit.
Surrounded by the Danube, on a sunny day it’s
worth the bus ride to the Island just for the wonderful views in transit. I return to
my accommodation with plenty of time to spare before my evening
cruise. So much so, that I lose track and find myself hurrying to the bus stop. I plan to reach the dock 20 minutes ahead of setting sail.
I miss my initial connection and only arrive 10 minutes in advance.
This wouldn’t be so bad if, in a sliding doors moment, I didn't resist my
instinct and set off in the wrong direction. The docks' numbering system is
not intuitive. I arrive at the correct dock just in time to see the
boat moving off. I have to wait for the next cruise (thank goodness
that’s an option), and pay six extra euros for the privilege.
Still, one advantage is that this tour takes place closer to sunset.
The weather is ideal. We receive a complementary drink. Being
tee-total, I’m given a low quality mango squash that apparently
doesn’t agree with me. I’ll partly attribute to it the gastric
discomfort that afflicts me on and off for the rest of the evening.
A Park on Margaret Island, Budapest (image: Expedia)
As
usual, it appears I’m the lone solo traveller on board. Classic West Coast
Jazz streams through the speakers. I note the main Budapest
landmarks take on a crepuscular loveliness as dusk approaches.
Apart from tactile couples and an overweight chick who insists on
sitting in an ill-advised short dress with her legs agape, it's picture perfect.
For
my last evening in the Hungarian capital, I opt to dine somewhere
I’ve spotted en route to the indoor market. I expect a lot, given
all the visible accolades. I order another flavoursome Goulash
starter and a traditional paprika chicken dish. I don’t know if
it’s the quality of the cooking, Hungarian cuisine itself or my
dodgy tummy but I’m fairly underwhelmed by the main. More broadly,
I’ve not been amazed by the customary savoury dishes I’ve tasted,
although I’m partial to the desserts.
The
initial missed-cruise drama has put my schedule back. I
hurry to Deác Fenanc to ride the giant Ferris Wheel before it shuts
for the evening. To my surprise, it’s still teeming long after
10pm. Couples, groups of adolescents, families with small children...
Despite
my mild vertigo, I covet a bird’s eye view of the city by night. It
seems a fitting conclusion to my five-day échappée
belle. I
contemplate one last romantic ramble through the city centre but time
and my contorting belly won’t allow. Instead, I’ll briefly join other
starry-eyed loafers gathered round the pool-like water feature at
Elizabeth square.
Soundtrack: After Dinner We Talk Dreams + Side Dishes by MICHELLE
LVC is now on a break for the rest of summer 2023.
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