New Year, Same Me?

 5 min. read

(image: ITVX)

The hectic Christmas period is already a somewhat distant memory. As usual, I don’t know whether to be melancholy or relieved.

The outbound journey to the UK for the first half of the festive period is more hectic than it should be. After a two-day postponement, the coach company with which I’m originally supposed to travel cancels my journey the day before departure. I miraculously book a last-minute replacement; by coincidence with the same Eastern European company with which I’m scheduled to return to Belgium. They arrive over an hour late, without an apology. The driver takes another one hour break. All the announcements are in Polish, catering to their main clientele, whilst ignoring that they are an international company with non-Poles on board. This is all the more disorientating given that we travel the same day that operators on the French side of the Eurotunnel call a wildcat strike. Desperate drivers re-route to Calais port to catch a ferry. We’re gridlocked for hours. We manage to secure places on a ship that will arrive in Dover by midnight. It’ll take another couple of hours to reach Victoria station. Mum calls on the regular for a sit-rep. She and sis – who has arrived a few days earlier – can’t really sleep knowing I’ll arrive in the wee small hours. Eventually, the coach reaches London eight hours behind schedule. We pass my mother’s neighbourhood en route. The driver refuses to stop. 

There are small mercies to make the inconveniences more bearable. A half-Polish, half-Belgian woman who sparks conversation. A Polish lass based in Lille who speaks excellent French and English and offers to translate announcements. Her French friend who attempts unsuccessfully to arrange a ride to my mum’s place. A Belgo-Congolese couple, one of whom spent a significant period of his formative years in the very same South-East London where I grew up. By some pleasant happenstance, we’re all heading towards South London after the coach drops us off. The couple and I travel on the same bus for part of what is, ironically, the most straightforward aspect of the trip home. I lose sight of them at New Cross. Ships passing in the night.

What is supposed to be a week’s stay is truncated into a long weekend. It’s nonetheless relatively serene, if intense. By some good fortune, I am able to rearrange all my appointments. I have my first check-in with the dentist in two years. I catch up with a few friends. Christmas with family is mercifully drama-free and there’s a fair bit of mirth. Sis prepares a sumptuous Yuletide feast, experimenting with new recipes. In between the festive elements, I work on my latest commission, from my old employers, TTUO, of all places.

A stain-glass window in the Koelgelberg Basilica

I head back to Belgium on 27 December. I have a couple of days before mum and sis visit. There’s little time to catch my breath. These days soon fill with activity and I find it difficult – as usual – to slow down.

Hosting mum and sis is a relative success, albeit less carefree than my time in the UK. The weather and normal festive closures limit our activity. There’s also something about the trio dynamic that becomes overwhelming at times. I feel, or am made to feel, like the odd one out. Negotiating my younger sibling’s moods means sometimes expending more mental and emotional energy than I’d like. Being where I am in my own wellness process, I’m all the more sensitive to certain behaviour. By the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, I am thoroughly miserable and disillusioned with life. I have little appetite to pray. Only timely wisdom by some Catholic clergy helps lift me out of my funk. I am recovered enough by the next morning to prepare New Year’s Day dinner.

Mum and sis stay for longer than the previous year and yet, I still regret all that we don’t have a chance to see. Sis’ visits are only annual. For now, she has no plans to visit before the following Christmas. When I suggest we gather at mine for Christmas Day 2024, sis vehemently refuses. Mum, much more open to the idea, is stunned into silence. Angered by sis' tirade, I protest but with less vigour than I would were it just us two. It'll irritate me for days to come.

 If sis can only visit once a year, the festive period is both the best and worst time. There’s an undoubted magic to the city during that season, yet other aspects are on hold for the holidays. 

On a more upbeat note, sis accompanies me to one of my favourite Zumba classes. Her natural dance skills shine through, attracting compliments. The penultimate day of mum and sis' stay, we pay a late visit to the Koekelberg Basilica followed by a leisurely stroll through central Brussels. My guests catch up on some chocolate shopping.

Any loneliness I’d feel on their departure the following day is staved off by being thrown back into activity. 

A week into the New Year, my church FWM launches 21 days of prayer and fasting which I embrace with zeal. 

I’m involved in organising some of Intal’s political education events this quarter, the planning of which involves successive meetings. There are more pro-Palestine demonstrations to support. The weekend of a Global Day of Action, Brussels holds a (belated) rally. There are cheers for South Africa’s decision to bring charges against the state of Israel for war crimes at the Hague (below). Palestinian journalist, Omar Abu Karem, a familiar face at these gatherings, is on hunger strike until a ceasefire is called. At the time of that demo, he's abstained from food for 15 days and counting. Abu-Karem joins other activists around the world, literally putting their bodies on the line. I can’t imagine that degree of self-denial. Whether or not he is a Christian, he exemplifies what Christ declared to be the ultimate demonstration of love. As much as I endeavour to live by the principles of my faith, I don’t know if I have that level of self-sacrifice in me. The actions of Abu-Karem and others inspire, challenge and put to shame. I once again reflect on the many Christians who remain complicit; either through actively supporting Zionism or worse still, by their silence. It’s all the more deafening after the viral success of Palestinian minister, Rev. Munther Isaac’s outstanding Christmas message, Christ Under the Rubble. It's the sound of crickets when I mention the sermon during an early morning prayer meeting at FWM one Sunday. I’ve never felt more on the fringes of the Church than at moments like these.

I reconnect with Pete, my life coach for a very candid reflection on the Christmas season. That weekend, I’ll welcome one of his friends, Lesley. We're now integrating into each other's circles following an introduction by Pete. It’s the first time I’ve hosted anybody since 2022. After being knocked off my perch for a while by the various relational mishaps that year, I am determined to resume my hospitality efforts. Glory be, dinner with Lesley goes well. We discover we’re both Stevie Wonder and Sade fans. Lesley recognises a portrait of the soulstress on my coffee table. Freshly recovered from COVID and with a reduced appetite, she nevertheless enjoys the fish pie I've prepared. She seems to like the company even more.

Soundtrack: My 2022 and 2023 End of Year Mixes.