The Changing of the Seasons

One Sunday morning, mid-Spring I wake up sounding like Red from Us. Making myself understood at church is…fun. Try speaking a foreign language whilst sounding like a demoniac. My sis, bless her, tolerates a couple of hours of this vocal freak show via Skype before admonishing me to rest my voice.

Just the day before, I was singing sans problème Gospel standards in French and English with gusto on the streets of central Strasbourg, alongside the youth group from my church. Not to mention whiling a good couple of hours away with an acquaintance at my haunt Oh My Goodness!

 My voice starts to give way by that evening. Croaking down the phone to my mum, she asks 

What happened?

Beats me. I’ve been blasting my body with my trusty vitamin C supplement, which usually does the trick. I have however felt the sensations of an itchy cough and the onset of a sore throat.  I don’t doubt I’ve avoided the worst of it. Colleagues and friends have succumbed to sickness left, right and centre. I have been spared, thank God but there’s only so much my body can fight off.

I blame the drastic change in temperature. Spring is always a mixed-bag but it’s been particularly chilly of late. To think a couple of months ago, much of Northern Europe flirted with the idea of retiring their heavy coats until autumn. We had early summer in February and now winter in April. Climate change is messing with our mind and bodies like a fickle love interest. 

You’re too busy. Times like this you should rest. Mum mildly rebukes.

Homebody? Me? Never. Not when there are stimulating conferences to attend on the role of faith and religion in contemporary Europe; or my choir is preparing to go into the studio for a recording session that has already been put back months at a time. In my defence, I’m also preparing for her Easter visit. Bearing in mind that very little, if anything, opens during public holidays, I can’t rely on last minute shopping come Good Friday. Easter Saturday will be mayhem.

Despite my hoarseness, I refuse to cancel my promised meet up with new chum Gael for his belated birthday drink. His special day was late March. We’ve already postponed for a couple of weeks owing to schedule clashes.  

He’s a great listener and source of genuine mirth. Not bad for a native Strasbourgeois.

That’s not entirely fair. I’ve made some lovely acquaintances here of which he is one of the latest.  A particularly cultured one at that. He knows his way around Strasbourg's bars, restaurants and museums. He wants to take me out dancing. In his own words he's a "slut on the dancefloor". That, I have to see. As it turns out I got the wrong end of the stick during our conversation about “Cultural Appropriation”. He wasn’t doing a Kanye after all when he told me about the Congolese-culture loving ‘girlfriend’ whom he considers a true Afropean. The French word Copine is open to (mis)interpretation. She’s just a mate. Not that it should matter, but still…

I tell him about the latest drama at work, as I have spent the whole weekend talking about to anyone who is kind enough to listen. We don’t even get round to the details of his recent Iberian holiday.  That’s partly down to me monopolising the conversation- to my shame -as well as Gael’s enthusiasm for Jordan Peele’s aforementioned new feature.  What was to me a slick and entertaining if unremarkable horror parody is, according to Gael, laden with subtext that I missed the first time. I won’t divulge the alternative theories discussed for fear of unleashing a ‘spoiler’ backlash for those yet to see it. Let’s just say, to paraphrase KRS-1, ours is an edu-taining discussion.

Back in the real world, it’s not just the season that has taken a surprise turn. By mid-April protests in Algeria have forced ex-President Bouteflika to step-down from his tenaciously-held office. Omar al-Bashir has been toppled by the army in Sudan also following a popular uprising and Turkey’s strongman Erdogan isn’t sitting as comfortably as he once was.

Closer to home Boss Man announces his intention to move on to greener pastures (not that I'm making any comparison to long time dictators, you understand).

20 years in the same team, he shakes his head. It’s too long.

(courtesy of http://www.scphysiciangroup.com)

Elsewhere, THRO has formally announced it will be scrapping hundreds of jobs; a disproportionate amount of them in our department. Boss Man is amongst the privileged old guard who started at The Organisation during the halcyon days when permanent contracts were handed out to any who set foot in the building. Oui, j’abuse but you get the point. Long gone are the days they were easier to come by. The fortunate CDI so-and-sos are sheltered from the worst of the cull.  For the rest of us mortals with fixed term (CDD) or temporary contracts, even those working on well-funded projects aren’t necessarily safe. I’m brought to tears by stories of expat colleagues whose contracts are only renewed the evening of their expiry. 

To add to the sense of unease, there are of course my aforementioned issues with personnel.

Of all the many existential crises I’ve had thus far since moving to Alsace, this one might require more immediate pragmatism than the rest.

Another bell goes off when speaking to my errant guardian angel, Gordon, on the way home one evening. We've barely seen or spoken to each other this side of the New Year. After taunting him for abandoning his earthly mission (snowed-under with work over at The Chateau, he apologises in his good-natured fashion), he makes a passing comment that only serves to confirm my presentiment of a sea change.

The following day,  my voice having returned to some normality, I share such thoughts during elevenses with Safiyah, a kindly colleague. She's spent most of her 35 years in France working at The Organisation. She has a multifaceted artistic streak. I believe she is capable of better than what she’s doing now career-wise. She’s inclined to agree. It's not the first time she's done some serious soul-searching since she started working at THRO. She describes the comfort and stability as a Golden Cage.

She’s at an age where she feels liberated from the opinions of others but wary of starting afresh.

We speak about our differing views on faith and the spiritual. She’s asking herself the important ontological questions. It’s a good start, I say. 

Both of us sense it’s a season of great transition. The wind is blowing in a new direction although the details are still unclear.   For Safiyah, even the recent devastation of the Notre Dame signifies change, albeit tinted with sadness. A centuries old structure that has survived revolutions and wars will never be the same.

Both Safiyah and I are experiencing a shift in dynamic in our respective friendships; deciding what to hold on to and when to let go. Doing a life inventory, I call it.

In conversation with friends I detect similar restlessness and upheaval. It's necessary; even auspicious, if unsettling.

Soundtrack: Ziminino by Ziminino + The Back In Brazil Compilation by Gilles Peterson.

Dark Days of Christmas

(courtesy of the NY Post)

One Wednesday morning in mid-December, I’m up and out a bit earlier than usual. I have French grammar workshop to attend.

We’re thinner on the ground than expected. Apart from that, it goes well. Thanks to the session I have a firmer grasp on the French gerund and learn something new about grave and acute accents. It’s a positive atmosphere. Except the tutor keeps making reference to a suspect on the loose. Finally, I can no longer hide my ignorance.

Sorry, I don’t understand. What happened?

Patiently, she begins to explain. An assailant, already a ‘person of interest’ to the police, opened fire the previous night on revellers near the famous Christmas market. He managed to escape. She wonders why I’m not up to speed. I don’t have a TV nor a smartphone I reply. I haven’t listened to the news on the radio that morning either. Come to think of it, I haven’t checked either my English or French phones since the night before. Prepare to be bombarded with messages, she says with a knowing expression. I imagine my poor mum, frantic with worry. She’s probably filled my voicemail box. I return to my office to check the news online and my phones. On the way, I pass my colleagues in the café, huddled round a table looking concerned and deep in conversation. I sneak upstairs. The building is unusually quiet.

Over the course of the day, by way of emails from The Organisation, online news and titbits from colleagues, the picture becomes clearer. Career criminal Cherif Chekatt was said to be radicalised during a stint in prison. After killing and injuring 18 victims, rather implausibly he escapes in a taxi. Before asking to be dropped off in the middle of the Neudorf vicinity, he proceeds to confess -even exaggerate-his atrocity to the driver, claiming also to have stockpiled grenades. Incidentally, the police carry out a raid earlier that day on a flat in which said artillery is found. The taxi driver unwittingly corroborates Chekatt’s story, enabling the police to identify the suspect.

There are tales of unsuspecting tourists sequestered in the City Centre into the early hours of Wednesday morning, detained by security. My current manager, Rosa, (filling in for Sophie whilst she is on maternity leave) was supposed to fly out to Croatia on mission via Frankfurt. She lives in the town centre. There are no taxi services available after the attack. Security around the German border is leaving reported traffic backlogs of over four hours. Neudorf being a stone’s throw from France’s neighbour, the authorities fear Chekatt might have fled. Rosa has no choice but to cancel the trip, forewarning her colleagues in the Balkans by email.

I think of my movements the night before. I left my evening Portuguese class around the time the attack occurred. I was invited to a Christmas meal afterwards near the city centre by my church house group but decided to head home instead, since the next morning would be an early start.

I check my phones. I have two messages from concerned friends in the UK. A few more trickle in later that morning. Some other Brit friends text or email, evidently clueless about what has occurred. No word from mum. I email sis in Japan. She’s none the wiser. The attack isn’t as prominent on the BBC website as I’d expect. It’s been buried under the latest Brexit saga; a vote of no-confidence against Theresa May.

I’m starting to feel offended. My former office mate Claudia claims she’s had non-stop contact from concerned UK acquaintances. Are my friends that complacent or desensitised?

 I text a few of them back to know how well the news has been reported in the UK. I receive conflicting responses. From what I can gather, it’s been covered on the Tuesday night but dropped off the radar, possibly because of Brexit. My mum doesn’t find out until Wednesday evening. By chance she’s apprised when she walks past Reuters' scrolling news in Canary Wharf. (Her brother, my uncle, learns of the incident on the night itself but doesn’t know how to break it to mum). She said she’d have otherwise still been uninformed. A friend also admits that if I hadn’t mentioned the incident in my response email, she’d have never known. Sky News plays on loop in her office lobby but it’s been consumed with Brexit. This is the problem with the 24 hour news cycle, I bemoan. Breaking news becomes figurative fish-and-chip paper far more quickly. Don’t take it as a sign of neglect, she reassures. You are loved.

(courtesy of The Daily Wire)

Ironically, I receive more messages about my well-being from my Europe-based acquaintances. The news is far better covered on the Continent. I have often wondered if anything happened to me in Strasbourg, whether I had enough ties for anyone to notice. Sadly, it takes this incident for me to be able to answer in the affirmative.

Colleagues from work send texts. Acquaintances both old and new email me. I’m touched by the efforts of my fellow-choristers at the High Rock Gospel Singers, most of whom I have known for less than three months. I receive a number of texts and missed calls. I apologise for the radio silence, explaining I’ve only just learned of the tragedy. Later that week, musical director Kiasi tells me off for making him worry.

It’s a surreal day. I’m busy, working with a nervous and frankly distracted air. I take my mind off my own hurt feelings about the lack of contact from the UK to check on colleagues, church acquaintances, friends and find out more about those directly affected. A colleague recounts by email hearing gunshots and being stranded in the City Centre because of the security situation. Her friends are barricaded in a restaurant into the wee small hours. A body of one of the victims is apparently brought into the establishment.

I feel the urge to listen to my choir’s rendition of Kumbaya. I read about Chekatt’s victims. One  is left brain dead. Another was a Thai tourist. I imagine his wide-eyed curiosity and excitement at visiting one of the most famous Christmas markets in the world. I think of his family; how they would have received the unexpected news of their relative's demise during what should have been a simple winter break. Silently, as not to attract my colleagues' attention, I start to weep. A delayed reaction but one for which I am perversely relieved. I am glad that terrorism is not such a common occurrence that I stop feeling anything at all. By the end of the week, the number of dead climbs to five. I pray for the victims, their families and all those grieving at this time of year; a supposedly cheerful season that can nonetheless be punishing for those in pain.

I have an online meeting that evening with my branch of Labour International, most of whom are based in Paris. I'm in a stroppy mood. It seems they only remember when prompted. 

Whilst Chekatt is at large, Strasbourg is on edge. Schools close and colleagues with children stay home to look after them. All markets remain shut. Residents of the Neudorf area are encouraged to stay indoors except for essential trips. Members of Chekatt’s family are rounded up by the police for questioning. On the way home, a kindly colleague tells me to stay safe. He will be under self-imposed lockdown that night.

A few days later, I am pleasantly surprised to receive frantic texts from my aunt and her son. It seems the news is still filtering into the UK but not yet widely known. I check the BBC news page on Thursday night. According to the site Chekatt is still on the loose.

The following morning, I continue my annual tradition of distributing Christmas cards to my colleagues. A number of them thank me personally.

It’s especially important to remember the nativity at times like these, says Georgiana. Especially after what happened last night.

It is then I learn Chekatt has been killed in a shoot-out with police in Neudorf on a road not too far from my church. I know it quite well from when I was flat hunting during my stay with Javier.

Chekatt obviously didn’t stray far. I think I hear Claudia say Good when Georgiana recounts the latest turn of events.

(courtesy of MPRnews.org)

Later that afternoon, during the team’s Christmas lunch, my colleague Daphnia waxes furious at the vengeful response from local politicians, who appear to condone the police’s shoot-to-kill policy. I’ve never seen her so riled. She plans to write to the mayor. She’s worried about the effects on her teenage son, who has parroted their sentiments. Only God can judge, she inveighs. I agree. But people are scared and angry. It’s not good enough, Daphnia replies. Strasbourg prides itself on being a defender of human rights. Its humanitarian organisations campaign against the death penalty. Chekatt made some terrible choices but we don’t know what led him to that point. It’s hypocritical she says, to applaud his death.

I hear the same compassion from members of my choir that evening. The directors gently insist we go ahead with the fundraiser in the centre of town that we have planned. Security is even tighter and the army more present. Not just because of the attack but also because President Macron is paying a visit. 

Some of my musical comrades are shocked and appalled at the social media reaction to the killing of Chekatt. You should never rejoice over someone’s death, warns Leila, even the wicked.

We dedicate a couple of songs to the victims of Tuesday’s attack and their families, including the beautiful alternative arrangement of Kumbaya. Kiasi and Evan decide it should be done flash mob style. Choir members blend into the audience and we begin singing from our seats. At the right cue, we assemble on stage performing with all our hearts. The gorgeous harmonies echo around the church hall, thanks to the fantastic acoustics. It’s a transcendent moment; sublime even. Beauty from sadness.

The same thought comes to mind that weekend. Whilst strolling back from a rather disappointing and misleadingly advertised ‘jazz-gospel’ charity concert, I pass Rue des Orfévres and Place Kleber where Chekatt’s victims fell. Makeshift shrines glow with tea lights. I’m struck by their heartbreaking beauty and that such a stunning scene would not exist if not for sorrow. The tragic paradox of a broken world.

The City looks resplendent draped in Christmas décor, as if oblivious to the blood that has been spilled. The Christmas market and other festivities have resumed, albeit with an even stronger security presence.  Commuters, shoppers and tourists alike are all but stripped searched. Armed police spot check passengers' belongings on the bus.

On Sunday, prayers are offered up at church for all those directly affected by the tragedy. No doubt the same is done in places of worship throughout the country.

Life goes on.