Off the Grid...kind of....Part II

 3 and 1/2 min. read

Part I

In addition to my health issues, 2025 has brought with it a body-snatcher style shift in my landlord, Kojo’s behaviour. Up until recently, we've had a decent rapport. Based in South-East Asia, he passes by every couple of years to check on the place, normally during the festive period. He seems pretty pleased after his Christmas 2024 visit, as he did when he popped by two years earlier. I inform Kojo that the cooker went on the blink temporarily on Christmas Day. Kojo casually suggests I have the hob replaced, since it must be getting on a bit. Seeing the modest size of the T.V. (which he bought himself), he offers to purchase a new one - practically insists. I decline. I never watch it, I explain, it’s for my guests. 

On the other side of the New Year, let’s just say things take a sudden and inexplicable turn for the worst. I know at some point over the festive period, Kojo has suffered a bereavement. It's not clear to me if this has happened before he passes by in December - and he was in a state of shock and/or denial during his visit - or if it's occurred shortly after. In my more charitable moments, I try to be understanding; albeit imperfectly. Kojo's sudden about-turn makes it very hard. The acrimonious exchanges and borderline harassment add a great deal of unneeded stress to my already anxiety-inducing health issues. Fortunately, Kojo and I have arrived at some kind of entente-cordiale, although both acknowledging that my occupancy of the flat is less and less tenable. I will need to find alternative accommodation by the time my lease is up in early Autumn.

Thank God, my studies have been an oasis of sorts. The first quarter of 2025 has brought some encouraging news in the form of several of my abstracts being accepted for various conferences. I nevertheless feel I’m always running behind time. It hasn't helped that my recent health problems have slowed me down. 

One afternoon in late February, I attend a session with a new therapist, Sirin.  I’ve started seeing her in parallel to my (now less frequent) appointments with Sandrine.  Walking-dead exhausted, I catch Sirin up on all the drama that’s been going on lately. She advises I speak to my GP about taking a brief period off university to recuperate. I’m initially reluctant. My studies help redirect my thoughts elsewhere. Plus, I don’t want to fall further behind. Sirin points out that it’s better to take a break now as a pre-emptive measure, than eventually suffer burnout and lose a lot more time in the long run.

I come to appreciate this timely wisdom. When I do eventually see my GP, the pressure at uni has started to increase - as has my anxiety - with various deadlines. I must also find a way to pay for all those conferences fees and related expenses. That begins to weigh on me.

I begin to feel a familiar existential anger about moving from one crisis to another. 

'Lord, Jesus. Can't I catch a break?'

My thoughts become very dark at times.

Meanwhile, my supervisor and my teammates are supportive when I inform ahead of my absence.

My sick leave overlaps in part with Lent, as well as my first 2025 trip to the UK. It's a low-key, bus(wo)man's affair; part study and work, and part meeting up with a select few friends whom I haven't seen in a good while. I’ve already sensed that God wants me to slow down during the Lenten period- and beyond. Stubborn as I can be, if life didn’t intervene, it would be harder for me to do it of my own accord.

(c) Elena Mozhvilo

Since my PhD began last summer, I’ve been struggling with fitting the rest of my life around it. I've known several folk who've juggled doctorates with marriage, children and/or full time jobs. I assumed that, as a single person with no dependents, a PhD would surely be adaptable to my schedule. Not quite.

I once heard a pastor from my UK church advise: 'Don't compare yourself to freaks of nature'.

It’s the opposite to what happened when doing my MA. I forewarned my acquaintances at the time that I’d probably go off the radar quite a bit. Instead, my activities continued pretty much as normal until the last six months. I presumed the same dynamic would apply to my PhD. I willed it to. I have so many commitments that are close to my heart, particularly in the activist space and social action.  Some of these open up incredible opportunities to meet and learn from those who have already made a difference. In February for example, I have a great conversation with one-time anti-Apartheid activist, vocal anti-Zionist Jew and Keir Starmer's constituency nemesis, Andrew Feinstein at Intal's annual political education weekend - or Campus.

 I also want to make quality time for friendships; established and embryonic alike, not to mention a glut of cultural events I'd like to attend. Alas, something has to give. When I mention at the start of the year that time management will be a priority in 2025, my sis warns, You can’t simply add your PhD on top of an already busy schedule. Her words echo in my head.

Recent circumstances have accelerated the re-evaluation of how I distribute my time; negotiating what to maintain, reduce or put on hold until further notice. I know that self-care is central to any plan to make the world a better place. If I burn out, I can't show up for anybody. However, it remains a tricky and, at times, painful process. I have outgoing inclinations. Yet, haunted by Sirin and my sister’s admonitions, I’m aware it’s a necessary process too. Notwithstanding the numerous medical appointments or a problem landlord, I have a busy year ahead; purely on the academic front. 

That brings me full circle to my hiatus from this blog. Prior to recent crises, I would be content to meet my minimum of one post per month, all things considered. At the moment, I can’t guarantee that. My primary blog, I Was Just Thinking, as well as my editorial duties over at Afropean.com take precedence. That said, out of necessity, I'm also scaling back on those preoccupations to some degree. 

The recalibration is ongoing. It might be that some months I’m quite active on these pages followed by several weeks -if not longer - of radio silence.  Either way, it felt rude to proceed without any notice. 

So, until…whenever?

And It Came to Pass…

 8 min read.

(image of courtesy of Freepik)

June rolls around with little promise of sunnier climes. Still, I have reason for (nervous) excitement. At the start of the month, I begin my latest comeback to higher education. Days before I’m due to start, the administrative gremlins run amok within The University’s system. My supervisor, Brigitta, sends me a slightly panicked email that there’s an error with the start date of my contract. It’s been postponed by two weeks. Both Brigitta and I are keen that I begin ASAP. Apparently, one too many favours has been asked of the HR officer in charge of my file and she’s no longer inclined to oblige. Somehow, Brigitta manages to convince her otherwise.

I go on campus a day earlier than my agreed start date to sort out some more admin; collecting my staff badge and access gadgets. It’s a clever move, eliminating a needless layer of stress for my first official day. En route to the security lodge, I stumble across the student-led Palestine Solidarity encampments. Like many academic institutions across the Western world, students are embarking on a long occupation to convince The University to cut academic and commercial ties with Israel until it ends its policies of slaughter and oppression.

I make a mental note to pass by the encampment at a later stage for further enquiries. I don’t want to tarry in becoming active. At the same time, I’m circumspect as a new member of staff (PhD Fellows occupy a netherworld between student and personnel). I'm wary of discretion on account of my newness becoming an excuse for cowardice. Nonetheless, it’s important to understand the lay of the land first. Over the next few days, I note Palestine solidarity graffiti all over campus; scrawled on walls and across the tables in the large canteen, or large memorial murals visible from the main road. The University appears to be taking quite a relaxed attitude to the students exercising their freedom of expression. This is a stark contrast to the brute force unleashed by Belgian police during another peaceful, student-led protest in central Brussels earlier that month.

After collecting my staff badge and other essentials, I pass by Brigitta’s office to say a quick hello. We already have a more formal one-to-one arranged for the end of the week. I hear my name called. It’s one of my new colleagues, Geraldine. She has her own rendez-vous with Brigitta that afternoon. It’s the first time we’re meeting offline. Originally from Ghana, she’s relocated to Belgium after doing some further studies in Singapore. I ask how the flat hunting is coming along. Geraldine – or G, as she’s already affectionately known by the team – has joined forces with Elif, another member of our cohort, to look for somewhere to live in or close to Brussels. I’ve given them the best advice I can, which they receive with appreciation. In the end, for the sake of expediency, they settle for somewhere in Flanders; a bit of a commute from Brussels.

Brigitta finds us chatting away and gives us a brief tour of the Literature and Linguistics department  which we’re joining. Based on the sixth floor, our open plan office and kitchen spaces boast lovely views of The University’s verdant grounds.

Later that week, all four of our team of PhD fellows – Geraldine, Elif, myself and Janneke – originally from the Netherlands – will meet IRL for the first time at a department conference that Friday. The other three have already forged a good rapport. For various reasons, I initially feel a bit of an outsider; not least because of the unorthodox path that led to my acceptance on the programme. I’m pretty sure I’m also the oldest of the bunch. Nevertheless, everyone in the team is open and cordial. Over the course of the coming weeks, there will be various opportunities to share more about our diverse backgrounds. Elif, for example, already has familial connections to Belgium. Her mother, of Cypriot and Bulgarian heritage, is a Liegeoise born-and-bred. Geraldine is from the same part of Ghana as my maternal grandfather.

I meet colleagues from the wider department on an ad hoc basis. Things are already winding down ahead of summer, even if PhD fellows don’t strictly follow the usual academic year cycle.

Colleagues are kindly and ready to help, as I become accustomed to new ways of working and various other particularities. Whilst most of us are studying in English, Dutch is the administrative language of the institution. I have neither the time nor inclination to take Dutch lessons. What I cannot translate with Deep L, I ask my Flemish colleagues. I’m especially reliant on the help of the department’s (unofficial) Comms liaison, Karolijn. One of my roles as project coordinator is to help make our team’s research projects more visible online. We're part of - although still somewhat independent from - the wider research group, LILAC (Liminality in Literature Academic Centre). Karolijn patiently shows me the ropes during our shared office days. I try as much to be self-sufficient but am prudent enough to ask questions – of her, Brigitta or anybody else – if in doubt or fully at sea. 

 The month is busy with activities; interventions by world-renowned scholars, seminars, the first of many thoroughly stimulating book club-style theory and methodology workshops and an extravagant University-wide barbeque. There are also more spontaneous occasions to fraternise, like a lively discussion about contemporary Black women writers over lunch with Karolijn and others.

By the grace of God, I’m off to an upbeat start. If there is one thing that nags at me is the lack of diversity in the department. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, even in a context when so many are specialising in studies related to the African continent and its diaspora. Still, it’s one thing to grasp a fact only intellectually and another to be confronted by it. The department is 90% Caucasian, with a significant minority of Chinese students. Simply by recruiting Geraldine and me, Brigitta has pretty much doubled the presence of black fellows in the department.

Brussels is supposedly the second most multicultural city in the world (although I'd contend its cosmopolitanism seems more shallow than somewhere like London). Whilst this might be better represented in other parts of The University, it's not the case on our floor.  It only takes a cursory glance at the members’ section of the LILAC website to gauge that. The few times I cross paths in the corridor with other black women, it’s all I can do not pounce on them with gratitude. Thankfully, the response has been warm.

Palestine Solidarity encampments

I’m trying to be careful that my curiosity over other colleagues’ motivations for studying iterations of Black literature doesn’t turn into scepticism, if not cynicism. It's one thing if most of the fellows grew up in multicultural contexts, regularly exposed to literature from across the world. Instead, many have come from monocultural villages or small towns in Flanders or the Netherlands.

I don’t want to assume bad faith. It's possible that most take a genuine interest in these themes. Why shouldn’t indigenous Europeans care about cultures beyond their own? It's not just for Afrodescendants to study subjects related to our cultures. Neither should we be limited to that. And yet, academia is still a highly elite and colonial space that reflects – if not reinforces – many of the existing inequalities outside of its walls. How much is this literary fetishism, if not (unconscious) orientalism, I wonder? How much is it a case of some more affluent non-European students wanting to study in the West and exactly what they study is of less important?

I’m left questioning the general commitment to solidarity with the historically marginalised all the more following a discussion with another colleague, Trudi. She spots the Palestine badge on my raincoat and asks if I’m interested in joining the activities of staff sympathetic to the cause. I respond with enthusiasm. Trudi explains how staff hold their own weekly assemblies - in addition to the nightly ones organised by students. Trudi also disabuses me of any notion that The University is especially supportive of the cause. Rumour has it that they're engaging in a tactic of exhaustion, ignoring the students until they wear themselves out.

I also meet Benedict; an associate professor of Anthropology, who is public about his support for the encampments (he also happens to co-organise LILAC events with Brigitta). I am informed by both Trudi and Benedict that an open letter has been circulated just before my arrival. It was signed by hundreds of staff, including PhD fellows. However, to my disappointment -one that I readily share with Trudi - it is signed by very few within our faculty. I’m heartened to see Karolijn’s name amongst them, as well as that of Vision (originally from Zimbabwe, she’s one of the few black faces I’ve come across so far).

Outside of work, I share my reservations with loved ones. My friend Sylvia both challenges some of my assumptions and concurs with my questioning of motives. We can't rule out career advancement, she ventures. It’s possible some subjects are perceived as ‘sexy’ and du jour, especially post-2020 BLM uprisings.

Diversifying the department is not your particular fight, Sylvia admonishes, You have other avenues of activism. 

Give it time, she reassures, you have four years to see how the faculty evolves.

Towards the end of the month, I also have the opportunity to converse with one of the visiting professors; a respected UK-based academic of Afro-Caribbean heritage. Without me having to probe, she's candid about how isolating it can be as a black female academic working in Literary Studies. More often than not, she's the only brown face in the room. Whilst this in itself isn't reassuring, it's a great comfort to be able to speak to her candidly. Neither is she despondent. Notwithstanding structural barriers, she gently urges me to use my position in future to encourage young black students to consider a career in Literature. A commissioning of sorts.

Soundtrack: Happy by Yinkah, Matthew 4:19 by Lynn Nsongo, Surrender the Day by Jimetta Rose & the Voices of Creation, Tawk Tamahawk, Choose Your Weapon and Mood Valiant by Hiatus Kaiyote.