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. 

Blessings in Disguise

It’s been a while since the security situation around The Organisation became a bit hairy.  Back in late spring, some especially zealous demonstrators penetrated the grounds causing considerable damage to the façade. It took several months for it to be repaired.

On that occasion, HQ circulated messages putting everyone on high alert and advising staff to remain indoors. I happened to be on leave that day. I was apprised of the drama by colleagues on my return.

The first week of November, however, I catch the live show.  Just before my weekly French class, I pop across the road to return a library book at HQ, Le Chateau. On exiting my office building, The Magenta, I note the environs are crawling with heavily armed guards.

Yards away a sizeable crowd of Kurds have gathered. Someone is giving a rousing speech that is having the desired effect.

The usual missive warning us of possible disturbances is yet to be circulated.

‘Uh-oh’. Something tells me perhaps I should turn back. Not a chance. It’ll be my only opportunity to visit the library this week.

I receive a veiled reprimand from the elderly librarian about arriving so near to closing time.

She explains that it wouldn’t normally bother her except that news has spread of the demo.  Unfortunately, her rudimentary tech skills slow us down further when I try to check out a couple of new reads.  By the time I make it to the Chateau’s rear exit, it's crowded by colleagues. The security staff are panicky. They wave us away frantically. We’re effectively barricaded inside. A co-worker is having an agitated exchange with one of the security guards. There’s talk of an alternative exit that might still be available but I don’t know how to reach it. It’s taken me long enough to master only some of the Chateau’s labyrinthine structure.

Mince, alors!

I need to make this French class. It’s the first since the half-term break.

I notice that it’s hazy outside. I assume the morning mist has returned.

Someone mentions an explosion. We hear a loud noise. One of my interlocutors doesn’t seem fazed, perhaps assuming there’s a less ominous explanation.  That reassuring thought evaporates with the sight of a young man, face covered in a red bandana, throwing a volley of Lord-knows-what explosives outside the building.  

It’s just got real.

We uniformly give up on making a swift exit and disperse to other parts of the building. I see one of my fellow French students lunching nonchalantly with her colleagues. She kindly agrees to send a message on both mine and her behalf to the lesson organisers to inform them of our predicament. 

I still plan to make it for the last half-hour if I can.

I’m at a loss at what to do with myself when I come upon another former classmate, Agatha.  It’s been a while. We briefly reference the absurdity of the current situation before catching-up.  I barely notice her taciturn companion. She interrupts softly.

I’m your neighbour. I live directly opposite you.

It takes a few moments to register what she’s saying. I am trying to place her face.

I’ve passed you several times. I wanted to introduce myself before but…

I’m mortified. I know exactly who she is. I saw her only a few days ago with her husband and toddler.  I wouldn’t have trouble identifying her spouse and little one. There are precious few others familiar to me in my building. Yet she has always been a background figure.

I apologise profusely. She is gracious. She introduces herself.  Anna.  She relocated to France many moons ago from Croatia. 

The three of us pass an agreeable hour talking about our shared experience as Alsace-outsiders (Agatha is Austrian).  Anna listens sympathetically as I describe my rollercoaster experience with French.  I still struggle with small talk…

Don’t worry. It takes years. She admits.

I find it reassuring nonetheless. She obviously made enough progress to start a family with a Frenchman. There is hope.

Anna might have also solved the puzzle of the mystery neighbour who left the rather snide note in my post box about noise control.  I am surprised to learn it could be one of the few other neighbours I see on a regular basis and with whom I thought I otherwise had a good rapport.  Anna diplomatically references several complaints made since the couple first moved in.

It’s time to venture back outside. I bid farewell to my colleagues, pleased that by chaotic happenstance our paths crossed that afternoon.

I manage to make it for the last act of the class.  En route, I bump into my colleague and former office-mate, Claudia. I follow her back to the Magenta, via one of the less conspicuous entrances. The street is strewn with debris from the makeshift explosives. The protests are scheduled to take place all week. Thankfully, the next few days are notably calmer, notwithstanding the presence of armed police.

I have a busy schedule that weekend. On the Friday night I will be making my personal debut with the High Rock Gospel Singers at a charity gig. Neither of the choir directors are bothered that the newbies have scarcely had time to familiarise ourselves with the repertoire. I’ve been doing my best. Just as I seem to be getting handle on it, Kiasi or Evan will pluck something out of thin air.

Kiasi thinks it’ll be a good training for us. A baptism by fire.

I recall my first show with the choir. I hardly knew anything. It was quite an experience.

That morning, I wake up struggling with motivation. I wish I could say it was something less trivial than the latest emotional nadir regarding my stubborn infatuation for Bernard.  I saw him earlier in the week. He was flying out on holiday to Atlanta that evening. Midnight plane to Georgia. I don’t know why that should have made me maudlin.

Thus singing about the Good News of Jesus Christ to raise money for a children’s charity is just what I need to get things in perspective, as well as lighten my mood.

A respectable number of members have shown up for this performance, although I am yet to be in the same room with the choir in its entirety. Each Friday more unfamiliar faces emerge only to disappear again for weeks on end. The vast majority are long standing members. HRGS is blessed with several talented soloists. Rather dishearteningly, the attendance of the cream-of-the-crop has fallen off since their anniversary show in June. (In fairness, a few of them are heavily pregnant). Fellow soprano and Leona-Lewis lookalike, Claire has mentioned past schisms. A few strong soloists remain. Nevertheless, I observe that the honours have more frequently fallen to a shrill soprano with a over-generous helping of self-belief. It's all I can do not to wince through her solos.

Half the choir seems to be made up of jocular contralto defector Elisabeth (now soprano), her Haitian husband, Gilles and their unspecified number of children. I haven't bothered to count.  Each time I think I've seen them all, more appear.

Backstage, we pass the time before practice singing ABBA songs and. for those who dare, eating fruit and pastries. I’m happy to indulge in some Swedish pop but I’m not going to coat my larynx with sugar before a vocal performance.

I note several of the newcomers are missing. I can’t blame them. I might have ducked out myself save the part of me that wants to call Kiasi's bluff.

He goes through several numbers to warm-up.  He has a habit of stopping us mid-flow if we make a mistake, only to cry Next! in a melodramatic squeal for comic effect.

I would like to rehearse a song from start to finish, for a change.  I comment to a fellow soprano.

Don’t worry. Doing concerts is a good way to learn the material.

Come again? At this rate, it’s a miracle the rest of the group have memorised the entire multilingual repertoire.

Just before curtain call, we form a circle of prayer. Kiasi reminds us that the objective is to enjoy ourselves…and praise Jesus.

We mount the stage, dressed in signature black with purple (fellows) and puce (ladies) sashes. We have no idea of the precise set list or for how long we’ll be performing.  Never has the expression ‘flying by the seat of my trousers’ (if I wore them) been more apt.  Kiasi ditches some tunes for others that I didn’t even know were part of the repertoire. 

I have a couple of things working in my favour. Some of the material I have already sung in some form with previous groups or at church. Most of it is Anglophone and thus easier to blag if I don’t know. The original version of the finale Akhuna is a different kettle of fish, however. The melody is familiar. The Swahili lyrics and choreography not so much. Mais, ça va quand même.

We march triumphantly out in song, all the way backstage. A few of the veterans ask how I feel.

It was a mad, unpredictable adventure. I reply. 

 I am having the time of my life.

 I reflect on how much singing with a quality group makes a difference to the performing experience.  Whatever happens I know we sound good. I am more relaxed.  Most of the choir decide to hang around and listen to the talented ensemble of Jazz students that follow our act.  We have a whale of a time making up slinky choreography to their classy West Coast and Bossa Nova offerings. Giddy with post-show euphoria, Elise the contralto and I sing pop, disco and soul classics (some cheesier than others) on the commute home. We part company after a MJ medley.

How much sweeter are unexpected pleasures.

The same sentiments come to mind the next day when I volunteer to help out with my church’s iteration of Willow Creek’s Global Leadership Summit. It’s a staple of the calendar for my church back in London too. Not that I have ever attended. I have always been put off by the Forbes Magazine definition of success that seems to underpin the event. Fortune 500 meets Ted Talks with a bit of God thrown in. It doesn’t help that Willow’s Creek has not fared well in the light of the American church's own #MeToo awakening.

On the other hand, my Strasbourgeois church family appear to have a paucity of volunteers. I put myself forward. My loyalty is to them and not Bill Hybels. Besides, I can’t pretend I’m not a little curious to see what all the fuss is about. 

By the time my shift on the welcome team starts on the second day, the event is drawing to a close. The lobby heaves with activity during the breaks but there’s not much to do in between. I chat to colleagues, catch-up with Jeanne or read a current affairs magazine whilst half-listening to the talks. I shouldn’t be too closed-minded. Too bad I’ve missed most of what would have been of interest, such as a presentation by one of our very own female teaching pastors/therapist.

Towards the end of the shift, I strike up a bilingual conversation with fellow volunteer Stacee. She’s a baby-faced 23-year old who moved from California to Strasbourg with her Guadalupina mother and African-American father, not long before I arrived in the City. Amongst other topics we discuss culture shocks, improving our French, feeling excluded from the Alsatian clan, and being relationship novices. The event wraps up. Hundreds of guests disappear in a flash. The cleaning team take over. Stacee and I head downstairs to grab what’s left of the set lunch. Just before we part ways we swap numbers and have a long hug; something we’ve both missed living in these cheek-kissing parts.