Navigating another winter of discontent

 

5 min. read

My cultural and political engagements continue to be some of the few positive aspects of my mixed (at best) experience so far in Belgium. As usual, there is no shortage of free or cheap cultural events.

I have a heated exchange at Full Circle with a cocky UK-based African-American academic. His address is noticeably androcentric and he carries a strong aroma of misogynoir. He minimises the distinct difficulties Afrodescendant women face at the intersection of race and gender discrimination. He doesn't have much truck with intersectional theories at all. It's thus not a surprise that he apparently has a vendetta for black feminists like Kimberlé Crenshaw, Audre Lorde and in particular, bell hooks. Time doesn’t allow me to go into my frustration with his all-or-nothing, cherry-picking method of argumentation, as well as the lack of intellectual rigour elsewhere in the room. Notwithstanding a few notable exceptions, the mostly white guests are too scared and/or ill-informed to challenge him or add anything constructive to the conversation. Similar for most of the Afrodescendant guests, a number of whom are Americans themselves. Some patriotic loyalty is at play, apparently. One attendee, with whom I’d previously had a cordial exchange, is particularly defensive that evening. Or maybe I've just caught her at a jaded low-point. She accuses me of interrupting (she's not wrong) whilst shamelessly hacking others off herself. She pounces on any comment she doesn’t like, whether or not directed at her. She serves as the academic’s personal bulldog if I so much as ask for a point of clarification. Worst of all, as someone who professes to be interested in the advancement of black women, she takes no issue with the very problematic statements made by the guest speaker. For someone as educated as she claims to be, it’s a disappointing display.

I have a more positive encounter at the celebrated Jazz venue, Archiduc, where I come across a couple I met over five years prior at the 2018 Afropean symposium. I recall a conversation with the fellow, of mixed Afro-Brazilian descent, about his being an advocate for Black Love. At the time, he proudly informs me of his relationship with a darker-skinned Afrodescendant woman. I am glad to observe he's kept his word.

I have long wondered what became of the two. Did they remain in Belgium and if so, why I had not bumped into them sooner, like other guests I met at the same symposium?

That is partially answered by the adorable tot accompanying them at Archiduc that afternoon. They’ve spent almost two years in hibernation, outside of work obligations, looking after the new addition to the family. We exchange numbers and a few text messages. I'm not expecting us to become BFFs. I'm just pleased to have scratched that curiosity itch.

On the political front, I am in charge of booking the entertainment for a special bring-and-share organised by Intal, to raise awareness about the deteriorating situation in Eastern DRC. A live performance and a DJ set are also envisaged, to add some well-needed levity to the event. I ask my mate, B-Sharp from the Afro Jam to help out with the former. He's on another level that evening, the enrapt audience hanging on his every melodious word. He ropes me into an impromptu performance, as I suspected he would.

 I am also invited to be on the organising committee of the association's annual political education conference, Campus Intal. Whilst the organisation itself is slightly on the chaotic side, it’s still incredibly rewarding to be involved in any activism of this sort. Many, if not all, of my Intal comrades are also members of the Belgian workers’ party, PTB. We cross paths once more at the party’s New Year’s gathering, at which delegates outline their political programme for 2024. It’ll be a significant period, with many forthcoming key elections, none for which I am eligible to vote. My support will have to be moral instead.

Campus Intal itself is equal-parts invigorating and exhausting. The team of volunteers is coordinated by Kelly, a boisterously loud New Zealander of Taiwanese origin. I’ve hitherto given her a wide berth, deterred by her presumed attention-seeking and a suspicion that any activism had more to do with her IG profile than The Cause. My attitude does thaw substantially whilst we work together to ensure the weekend runs as smoothly as possible.

I make several great connections that weekend in between the informative and interactive workshops. There’s Italian-Eritrean, Merlat working in the NGO sector. I meet Brian, an easy-on-the-eye Brit of mixed-Madagascan origin. He arrived in Brussels almost a year before I began my (mis)adventure here but is new to political engagement. I have longer conversations with vaguely familiar faces such as half-Egyptian, Yussef and Habiba; a bright, not to mention stunning, Lybian-Italian with Camel-like eyelashes born and raised in Vancouver. 

At the end of conference day one, I partake in my first guerilla, flash mob-style protest at the notorious supermarket chain, Carrefour. Heavily invested in Israeli settlements, the franchise is high on the list of companies to Boycott according to the BDS campaign. A sizable group of us descend on one of the largest branches in Brussels. I assume we’ll merely picket the entrance so I am surprised when we enter the megastore's premises themselves. At a strategic moment, Palestinian flags are unwrapped, and one of Intal’s leaders calls for a boycott of Carrefour and an immediate ceasefire in Gaza on a megaphone. The group proceeds through the shop chanting these demands, as bemused customers record the protest on their phones.

Those amongst us (like myself) with a more precarious, third-country national status serve as decoys. Habiba and I feign a genuine interest in the dairy or pasta products whilst we play lookout. We’re led by Lucien, born to Syrian-Christian parents near Damascus.

I detect one of the security guards making a furtive phone call. He doesn't attempt to handle the situation himself. I ring Lucien to warn him the police are on their way. They show up with a head-spinning quickness.

By that time we’re already at the tram stop, heading back to HQ. It is exhilarating. Despite being almost half my age (I assume), Habiba is a veteran of this kind of direct action. It’s more of a novelty for me.  The following morning, both of us will attend a popular workshop on activists’ rights in Belgium. The human rights lawyer leading the session is the same who advises on Intal's direct actions.

Following the supermarket protest, we let our hair down at the conference afterparty. Most of the crowd are baby Millennials or Gen-Zed, far more familiar than I with the Electro-Eastern fusion, Amapiano and commercial Hip-Hop playlist of Intal's very own DJ Mustafa. Despite the absence of any old school R&B, I still get my dance on. It's just as much fun watching the comrades throwing shapes to varying degrees of success. Kerry, intense even when sober, is literally bouncing off the walls after a beer or two. When she volunteers -unsuccessfully - to pole dance around the pillars, I double up in hysterics.

Slipping away to get some rest before the next day of activities, I am stopped en route by none other than B-Sharp’s amiable wife, Luna.

At such moments, I could believe that perhaps I am exactly where I need to be.

Soundtrack: Chet Baker Sings + The Legendary Riverside Albums

The Thrill is Gone

7 + 1/2 min. read

On an otherwise uneventful morning in late January, I receive a notification from the Belgian tax authority that I have some incoming correspondence. Unnerved, I log into the convoluted electronic system to see what awaits me. To my horror, I discover that according to the Kingdom of Belgium, I owe 1200 euros for the tax year 2022.

I search the document for any inconsistencies. (Even in English, it would be difficult wading through the jargon). Surely, there must be some mistake. I was unemployed for the whole of 2022, when I wasn’t on sick leave for suspected burnout. I’m thrown into a panic. I plan to call the tax office at the nearest convenience. In the meantime, I message the leader of my church home group to ask for some well needed corporate prayer and any practical advice. A few members contact me privately. Aussie Joe sends me information about a department that takes care of expat enquiries. Alana, originally from Germany, reassures me that this sort of thing has happened to her a number of times before. Don't worry, she says, it has always resolved in her favour.

Alas, I am not so fortunate. Apparently, even unemployment and incapacity benefits are taxable in Belgium beyond a certain threshold. The irony is, when I was employed, it was the state that consistently owed me. It’s perhaps an even bigger irony, or rather a flagrant contradiction, that only last year I was considered eligible for assistance with essentials like commuting costs, precisely because my income fell below a certain threshold. How can I be too poor for one but ‘comfortable’ enough to be taxed for the other? This bloody country. Its notoriously eye-watering tax rates would be tolerable if residents could see where the hell the funds were invested. Instead, basic infrastructure such as pavements are in a sorry condition (step out at your own peril), state departments are underfunded (as I have discovered, to my detriment) and Brussels has a chronic homelessness problem.  

I am so distraught, I burst into tears on the phone. I am told that even if I am able to pay in instalments, it’s still to be settled within a year. The timeframe could possibly be extended but not without filling out a lot of paperwork. In any case, it’s already been a struggle recently to stay on top of my most important bills.  How am I supposed to find the extra cash to settle this unjust debt? The customer service agents offer no consolation. At least they are professional and polite; not a given in Belgium.  

I am at a loss. For a variety of reasons, I don’t want to burden my family with this. (I do eventually open up to them. I'm not great at hiding things.)

I feel stifled by the pressure. I start to experience a violent resentment towards the country that has been my home for the last three and a half years. Before, when asked what I thought of life in Belgium, I would hesitate to answer. So much has been framed by relocating here during the early days of the pandemic and various other challenges. There were things that I felt were far more retrograde than the UK - for all its faults - as is the case for much of Continental Europe. And yet, nowhere is perfect, I would say. At least I don't have to live like a perennially broke student in Mainland Europe, with rent and commuter costs far more approachable than in the Big Smoke. There are also aspects of Brussels living that I have enjoyed and indeed, remind me of the best elements of London life.

After this tax debacle, my feelings move from ambiguity to ambivalence, if not outright animus. It feels like Belgium has taken from me more than I had to give. On almost every significant metric, be it personal, relational or professional, I have experienced more disappointment than I care to mention. Basta. At what point do I start to accept it’s been a failed experiment? That perhaps God's will has moved in a different direction and left me behind? Maybe the time has truly arrived to start planning an exit strategy, albeit with reluctance. At this juncture it would be a leap into the unknown and not in the optimistic sense.

To add to the growing list of ironies, an acquaintance who works for a local arts and entertainment channel finally uploads an interview he recorded of me a year ago. The timing of its release couldn't be more strange. Not only is much of the information now out-of-date, if not obsolete, it's edited to look like I'm having the time of my life in Brussels.

Unconsciously, I return to the melancholy œuvre of Chet Baker. As he croons The Thrill has Gone, I can’t help but think how apposite it is to my current life season. Likewise for Everything Happens to Me.

Not for the first time, I weep hot tears in my therapist’s office. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to book an appointment because of my straitened circumstances, that I have a stockpile of grievances to work through.  Earlier that week, I also share my discontent with my life coach, Pieter. In a rare show of unguardedness, he intimates his own strong reservations about Belgium. Being a Dutchman, I assumed it would be less of a culture shock for him. I couldn’t be more wrong. The differences between Holland and its neighbour are as stark as night and day, Pieter explains. As we try to work out together how I move on from this life impasse, his suggestions give me much food for thought.

I wish I could say I find solace at church. The continued silence over, if not implicit support for the murderous campaign of the Israeli government in Palestine has become untenable.  I am even more selective about what church activities in which I participate at this sensitive juncture. I avoid anything that might provoke a strong reaction.

Still, the risk remains of exposure to some inanity about geopolitics. At the end of a prayer meeting in early February, we’re asked to pray for Israel, the ‘peace of Jerusalem’ and the release of Israeli hostages. Nary a word about the potential annihilation of Gaza. I am disgusted not only by the blatant bias of the request but the equally misguided response. Of course, I attempt to bring a corrective with my own prayers but it’s telling that I should have to. I hotstep it out of the meeting ASAP. I choose not to hang around for phatic conversation with those for whom I’m rapidly losing respect.

Even a basic Sunday service is a struggle to sit through, nowadays. Last year, Pastor Mike seemed to be turning a worthy corner. Lately, with the church growing exponentially, he's resorting to soundbites, oversimplification - or worse - thoughtless generalisations.

Meanwhile, as I participate in secular political events, I witness people who, whether they have a faith or not, are to my mind, doing God's work. Nobody is perfect. Yet, in these contexts I am surrounded by people who care deeply for justice, the way that Christians are called to do throughout scripture. These spaces seem more real to an extent than the churchy enclave on a Sunday.

I open my heart in a candid email to one of my spiritual mentors, Vinoth Ramachandra. He is also exasperated by the mainstream Church’s reaction to the injustices in Palestine…

"...I'm really struggling on an existential level with all of this" I write "particularly the complicity of the mainstream Church... Of course, there are exceptions and I'm blessed and comforted when I come across Christians showing solidarity with Palestinians. I respect Pope Francis for calling a spade a spade. However, as you know, it's shamefully rare, even amongst some Christians who'd otherwise consider themselves on the margins. Apparently, even the leader of the biggest Christian denomination speaking up isn't enough. I think of the double-standards regarding the reaction to Ukraine. I'm sickened and disillusioned. I feel more isolated from and disenchanted with the capital-C Church than ever. It's not so much a crisis of faith, as a crisis of belonging and community.

…I'm struggling to engage at all... My pastors are of mixed heritage from South Africa. Both grew up under Apartheid, so it's not unfamiliar to them, although they would have been very young. They are certainly old enough to remember the before and after. The husband won't even use the word Apartheid to describe the regime under which he lived; he tiptoes around it with euphemisms.

...[Neither of them] - to my knowledge - has openly commended the honorable actions of their native country nor spoken out in solidarity with the Palestinians and denounced Zionist ideology… There is also at least one member of my church of Palestinian origin. What about his people? His humanity?  Church feels like a charade; a bubble disconnected from the real world and real life concerns. When I'm on [Palestinian] solidarity demos or in similar spaces, there's hardly a Christian presence, if at all. Attending church these days feels like I'm an accomplice to the madness...It's not as simple as switching to a different fellowship. It's not as if I don't visit other churches for a change of scene. The mainstream Church seems to be so co-opted by Babylon, moving elsewhere won't change that. It's not a decision I take lightly but if I had a genuine alternative, I would seriously consider it.

My pastors are decent people with good hearts. Unfortunately, I've long detected a lack of courage, such as the rather restrained response to other valiant protests - if not tacit hostility. I'm highly frustrated by this apparent cowardice and hope for a time to speak to them about it tactfully.

All it takes for evil to prevail...

Anyway, thanks for being one of those refusing to keep silent or justify the unjustifiable. It truly helps keep me sane and hopeful…"

What small spiritual comfort I find is experienced in more intimate settings; my own personal prayer time or one-to-one with friends in the faith. If I'm disenchanted with the Church, my conviction that Christ is a loving Saviour who values the life of all people equally is stronger still. I pay a couple of visits to Alana, who is recovering from a nasty skiing injury she suffered over the festive period. I nevertheless studiously avoid talk of the Middle East. The German state’s historically complicated relationship with the Jewish people and Israel, as well as its disregard for Palestinian life, has had a noxious effect on the mindset of much of its population. Germans with otherwise ‘progressive’ views, leave a lot to be desired when it comes to Justice for Palestine. I’ve learned the hard way.

Returning to the tax scare, there is some reprieve when I receive a one-off commission courtesy of a good acquaintance of Pieter's; by sheer coincidence, or rather God-incidence. This client is unaware of my tax woes. He merely has a lot of money to spend before the funding deadline closes on his latest social entrepreneurial project. After some negotiation, we agree on a fee that just about relieves the tax debt, even if there's not much left over for anything else. Thank God for small mercies, and all that.

Soundtrack: Galatea by IkeN, Chet Baker Sings