Solo Debut: Part II

 5 + a 1/2 min. read

Part I

(c) Brett Jordan

The morning of my presentation, I arrive later than I’d have wished after too little sleep and unrealistically attempting to complete some life admin first. Fortunately, my intervention isn’t until after lunch. I’ve finetuned my slides to make them as user-friendly as possible. I’ve rehearsed, rehearsed and rehearsed again the paper itself. My only concern is timekeeping. I warn the moderator I might go over the designated 20 minutes, despite my best efforts.

As I’m being introduced I notice slight panic amongst the tech team. They appear to have ‘misplaced’ the final presentation I sent a few days ahead. The delay is eating into precious presentation time. Not to worry. I have a Plan B. From the mixed experience I've already had with the organisation of the conference, a contingency plan is basic wisdom. I brought the latest version of my talk on a USB stick...

...Except a Plan B isn't enough. Someone seemingly neglected to download a PDF reader on the in-house device. I have a possible Plan C. My latest presentation is also ready to go on my own laptop. However, we can't switch devices, since one of the participants is joining us via Zoom from the US (Trump-Vance migration law antics).

Now I'm starting to worry. Times is of the essence. All these decisions are having to be made in split seconds. I also have a PowerPoint version of my paper on the USB. Alas, I realise part way through that it’s not the update. For a second, I think of stopping and recommencing but time constraints won’t allow. My paper doesn’t correspond with much of this now outdated version of my slides. I apologise profusely. I proceed as seamlessly as I can but I’m rattled and very annoyed. If anger is a secondary emotion then beneath it I’m crestfallen.

I poured my heart into making the visuals of my presentation as engaging as possible, only to be sabotaged by administrative incompetence. This hasn't happened with any of the other papers I've observed. I recognise mistakes happen but with more than one person on the case, this was wholly avoidable. The recovering perfectionist I am, it would have always bothered me but less so if I were more seasoned.

Raphs and others will later commend my paper (although I feel they're just being nice). The moderator allows me to complete my presentation and I only skip very little. After a slow start, with my co-panellists seeming to attract more questions, the Q&A becomes more favourable for me. The salient questions permit me to address things I was forced to jettison with earlier drafts because of time considerations.

In the scheme of things - war, inequality and climate breakdown - sure, a cock-up over slides is not a big deal. Still. To say I’m gutted about the mishap is an understatement. It’s coloured the experience.

I’ve learned a valuable lesson. I won’t leave it to chance that conference organisers have got their proverbial together. Even if I make a nuisance of myself, I’m going to double-check everything of importance.

The next morning I’m greeted by warmth and sunshine. I throw on some summer gear and head out for the final day of the conference. Unlike many fellow guests, I’m not in a rush. My return train to Brussels leaves the following day. That will also give me time to hit some of my favourite German general stores to purchase inexpensive toiletries, as usual.

To my surprise, the good weather and stimulating interventions that morning help lift me out of the hangover funk from the previous day’s debacle. Sally gives an unexpectedly memorable paper on how apiculture is emblematic of all that's wrong with late-stage capitalism. Her fellow speakers on the Plantation Capitalism panel - both Europeans whose scholarship concentrates on populations from the Global South - welcome my (by now) standard question about how not to replicate extractive dynamics in academia.

(c) Tamas Szabo

During the break before the last keynote speech, I converse with special guest, South African polymath, Uhuru Portia Phalafala. GAPS has invited her to do a reading from her new book, Mine Mine Mine; an epic poem about the deleterious socio-cultural effects of the South African mining industry past and present. It’s told from the perspective of one of her grandfathers. Phalafala is genuinely intrigued by my project, especially my research on the late and underappreciated anti-Apartheid activist and midwife, Blanche La Guma.

The reading overlaps with lunch, for which we’re provided with a tasty vegan ‘brown bag’ option. Sat next to me is a veteran attendee of the GAPS. He's a bit of a soft-left provocateur in this (supposedly) radical space, from what I’ve gathered of his interventions. Between the keynote speech and Uhuru’s reading, we have a thought-provoking conversation -or rather a good-natured debate - about the Kenyan literary giant Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s ideas on linguistic decolonisation. (Thiong’o passed away earlier that week.) Whilst I have a lot more time for some of Thiong’o’s more hardline views, my interlocutor finds them essentialist and over-romanticised; objections that are not without merit. He’s glad Thiong’o apparently softened his position in later years.

Phalafala’s reading - or rather performance - has the room enthralled. I’m not one to sit and read poetry on my own but I do enjoy it in spaces where it can be collectively appreciated. It’s a heavy text, as would be anticipated. Uhuru’s fully embodied delivery, including the use of sound effects, makes it all the more mesmerising.

Phalafala leans on a traditional spirituality. Whilst some of the animistic practices to which she refers are diametrically opposed to my own Christian worldview, part of decolonising my faith is to resist having an impulsive suspicion of every aspect of indigenous spirituality. It involves finely parsing what to keep and what to reject; discerning what reflects something of God’s truth sans baggage. The same can equally be applied to certain Christian traditions.

This event is one more example of how South Africa, particularly the past and present injustices of Apartheid, have come back into focus for me of late; academically, spiritually and politically. This resurfacing is accompanied by a familiar grief and anger that I’m hesitant to acknowledge fully, for fear it calcifies into bitterness. I ask also how much it is mine to entertain, not being South African myself. Yet, do I need to be from that part of the world for these sentiments to be legitimate? I share some of this with Uhuru during the Q&A after she is interviewed by one of the academics in attendance. 

Phalafala is scheduled to do a similar reading at my university, where I’ll have another opportunity to absorb the text and pick up things I missed the first time. I’m grateful to have caught the preview.

Solo Debut: Part I

 7 min. read

(c) Andrei Stratu

During the first days of my PhD - which does not seem long ago at all - my supervisor, Brigitta recommends I submit a paper for an annual postcolonial conference in Germany, known as GAPS.  Most of the research team is encouraged to do the same. My supervisor would not be in attendance, so if my abstract were accepted, it would be my first time flying solo at an academic conference. (I’ve previously co-presented a paper with Brigitta). The May 2025 iteration of the GAPS is about the challenges neoliberalism poses for the discipline(s) of Postcolonialism. I appreciate the overtly political angle. It would allow me to position my paper with unapologetic ideological frankness. However, I don’t feel confident enough to make a fully-fledged submission. To my mind, I’m the rookie of the research team; less seasoned than some of my colleagues. Or rather, I’ve been away from academia the longest. I therefore submit an abstract as part of the Under Construction panel.  Irony will have it that not only do the conference organisers ask me to present a full paper, mine is the only abstract from my research team that GAPS immediately accepts.

Beyond the significance of presenting a paper for the first time on my own, the GAPS conference will also coincide with the end of my first PhD year. It’s gone fast. Scarily so. My supervisor is already talking about ideal monograph submission deadlines. The months leading up to GAPS are fraught with pressures without and within; negotiating my own anxious tendencies as well as Brigitta’s high and often confusing expectations.

GAPS will be the first in a run of conferences for which I have successfully submitted abstracts. I’m surprised. I applied for several, not expecting to receive a positive response for all.  Between late spring and mid-autumn, preparing for conferences will preoccupy much of my time. The beauty of it is that this preparation allows me to work simultaneously on my thesis. In addition to the feedback from other academics in attendance, writing a paper helps me formulate my ideas in a sequence. I have been writing stray portions - or vignettes, as Brigitta calls them - but preparing my paper obligates me to be a lot more structured. Whatever isn’t used in my intervention can be repurposed for other papers as well as fleshed out into future chapters. 

The initial draft of my GAPS presentation is at least twice as long as the 20 minute allocated speaking time. With the help of Brigitta and my life coach, Pieter, I whittle it down but I’m still running over. I make my peace with the chance of being cut off part-way. Whatever remains is important. There’s only so much I can ‘kill my darlings’, as one of my colleagues would put it.

The conference is held in Bielefeld, a city so apparently non-descript that some German friends tell me of a running joke amongst compatriots: that the place doesn’t really exist. The gag is also mentioned at the conference, when one of the organisers reads an article about Bielefeld's bland reputation from a major US journal. Admittedly, I’d have never heard of the city but for GAPS.  I book my train ticket well in advance and initially regret it when the conference programme becomes available. Nothing of import really takes place well into the first day - Ascension Day - so I could have travelled that morning. However, on arriving I appreciate the wisdom of giving myself an extra day to settle in. My DeutschBahn trains run slightly behind time, although not as bad as what I’ve heard of late. That cliché of German clockwork efficiency has been severely called into question after years, if not decades, of infrastructural underinvestment.

Bielefeld, Germany (c) Tobias Bennett

For my outbound journey, I have no assigned seating which is trickier to negotiate than I could have anticipated. After having to shift seats several times, I end up sitting next to Marcus; an Anglo-Irishman. He is also on his way to a conference in Germany; the far more glamorous Berlin. It turns out to be a providential encounter. Marcus has a high position in a well-known left-of-centre publishing house. I spot him reading a collection of the writings of Amílcar Cabral and the approbation is out of my mouth before I can stop myself. It turns out that we’re taking the same connecting train from Cologne. We lose each other making the switch. Our paths cross again when Marcus is on the way to the onboard café and I’m left to improvise a seat in the wide passageway, after being turfed out of my temporarily occupied priority seat by a train guard to make room for an elderly couple.

It’s otherwise a stress free trip. Once I work out where to pick up my tram, it’s a straightforward ride to my slick and well-rated accommodation - the waiting time notwithstanding. To my surprise Bielefeld is a proper city; not the sleepy, quasi-rural set-up I expect from all the bad press. A few hours after arriving at my Airbnb, I meet the owner. He plays Lounge and smooth Bossa Nova music loudly on his speakers. It's getting late but it's not so bad. He has good taste.

Bizarrely enough, the conference is scheduled on a public holiday. I knew that France and Belgium acknowledged Ascension Day but I thought it was just a Catholic thing and that Germany, apart from the papist South, would treat it as a regular working day. Apparently, it’s a holiday for much of mainland Europe.

I arrive at the conference in time for registration and a light veggie lunch. I see at least one familiar face, Dr. Johann Larsberg who was a keynote speaker at a conference which I helped to co-organise at the University back in Brussels last December. I’m a conduit of salutations on Brigitta’s behalf for Johann and fellow professors and conference organisers, Penelope and Deedee, that I’m yet to meet offline.

At times like these, I’m grateful to be socially autonomous. Networking isn’t a chore. Damilola, one of only two other black women at the conference, makes a beeline for me during a break and doesn’t hide her motivation. That kind of solidarity is indispensable in these spaces. I extend it to the Black folk I see on the streets of Bielefeld. For a small city, where some locals still look at me with curiosity, I'm surprised how many Black families I see.

After hesitating to confirm my attendance at the conference dinner too far in advance, I gladly join the cohort that evening for the self-paid event at a restaurant in town.  The environs reverberate with EDM. Some techno festival in the area, apparently. Very stereotypical.

I meet some impressive young academics, Sally and Raphael - or Raphs - also engaged in the Palestine struggle. I identify them from their keffiyahs. I’ve decided to leave mine in my suitcase until the second day of the conference, when I’ll be presenting. I’ve heard anti-Palestine sentiment can be crazy in Germany. I don’t know if I’ll be half-choked by someone trying to snatch the keffiyah from my neck - although I should be willing to take the risk. 

Sally is German and Raphs is Austro-Ecuadorian. I’m keen to hear what it’s like organising for Palestine in Germanic spaces. Both of them are eager to hear how serious GAPS are about their postcolonial commitments. Sally takes the opportunity to bring up Palestine after the first keynote speech - a controversial critique of postcolonial and decolonial theories that engenders lively discussion. The keynote speaker that afternoon joins us via Zoom. She's stuck in the US after being advised not to leave the country, in the wake of recent draconian migration policies; not the only participant at the conference in that position. She unequivocally supports Sally's argument that no serious discussion about postcolonialism can ignore the plight of Palestine.

(c) Jamie Lopes

Sally isn’t otherwise impressed by what she’s observed so far; biased public statements and an unwillingness to discuss Gaza at the hours’ long AGM (which I skipped) earlier that day. There’s a promise that the issue will be raised at the roundtable discussion at the end of the first official conference day. It’s not. Not really. Speakers tip-toe around the topic so much as to practically avoid the subject altogether. The chair of the discussion, Josie, is supportive of the Palestinian cause. She and I speak after one of the earlier sessions. Josie explains the painful journey she’s made as a German to uncouple the collective guilt over the Holocaust from Justice for Palestine.

As the roundtable moderator, Josie tries to diplomatically angle the conversation in that direction but to no avail. I’m debating about whether to address one of the speakers’ comments about Holocaust exceptionalism but in this context, I wonder if I’m the best person to take her up on it. Afterwards, in private, Raphs argues that it’s often left to racialised people to speak up in these spaces. We shouldn’t always feel the burden when there are others in the room who are perfectly capable of raising their voices. Sally leaves immediately after the roundtable, visibly irate. Disillusioned by the conference, Raphs says he doesn’t envisage coming again.  

On the day of my presentation, I’m tired but in good spirits. The talks I’ve attended have been stimulating, particularly the Q&A’s. They expose the gap (no pun intended) in my own knowledge of post and decolonial theories. I always say I’m in academia but I’m not an ‘innate’ academic. Some of my layperson framing of these ideas come from activist spaces. I’m a little confused, for example, when a keynote speaker accuses the post and de-colonial disciplines of ignoring Marxist analysis. That’s not the impression I get from the grassroots, where at least critiques of capitalism are implicit to anti-imperialist organising.

One recurring observation from various interventions is that these conversations can’t remain self-indulgent academic preoccupations. We need to translate these into real world change.

Part II

A Breathless Semester

 6 min. read

Image: Nathan Dumlao

The unplanned mini-hiatus since my previous posts is a reflection of how hectic the final quarter of 2024 has been; not least, December. The first two weeks of the month are consumed with preparation for and/or participation in two big conferences. The first of which is the major annual event of LILAC (Liminality in Literature Academic Centre); the University sub-department to which my team belongs. For this particular event, my colleague Elif has been recruited - or coerced - into joining the organisational team. She is balancing these responsibilities with her own research, as well as preparation for various other conference papers.

When applying for the PhD, my professor friend, Danny Dorling, advised that there would be a lot more event organisation and project coordination than one would gauge from the vacancy ad. 

Brigitta, our supervisor, is a gentle and emotionally-intelligent soul but also a woman of very high standards; be it strict adherence to grammatical rules or conference planning.

One week after the LILAC event, the EMW (English in a Multilingual World) gathering takes place. This time it’s my colleague Geraldine and I, alongside several other LILAC colleagues of varying seniority, who are roped into organising. The conference booklet becomes the bane of our existence. Subject to much proofreading, revisions and weeks and weeks of email exchanges, the booklet will still be riddled with mistakes after going to print. Most notably, the University’s in-house comms team manages to miss out a whole abstract page.  Their work generally leaves a lot to be desired. Despite the many exchanges and astute observations of colleagues, the oversight somehow escapes our collective attention. We resort to printing out inserts.

If that weren’t enough, there's a last minute cancellation by one of the EMW keynote speakers, who’s caught a strong bout of COVID. By then all the promotional materials, including the booklet, have long gone to print. Miraculously, Brigitta manages to find a hail-Mary replacement; one Dr. Johann Larsberg. Cue another page insert.

During these intense weeks, Brigitta prefers the team to be on campus as much as possible. Furthermore, a number of administrative meetings are squeezed into this period; likely in an effort to grab folk before the Christmas holidays and campus closures. I’m also obligated to attend sessions during the once-a-year Ethics Week, in order to complete the compulsory online training for PhD researchers. It’s a mind-numbing, box-ticking exercise as well as a missed opportunity. This year’s theme is on the use of AI in academia and military research. The sessions are mostly didactic and non-interactive. In addition, the University’s Free Palestine campaign group, of which I’m a member, criticises the event for ignoring Israel’s use of technology to terrorise Palestinians, as well as the institution’s continued complicity through collaboration with Israeli academia. 

Apart from Ethics Week and/or conference planning, there are numerous other events - not all during office hours - abstracts to draft for more conferences, team workshops for which to prepare and our own reading and research with which to contend. I feel all the project management and admin is distracting me from the ‘real’ work of study. This is something with which I need to make my peace quickly. As the official team project coordinator, these duties fall on my shoulders even more than that of my colleagues. I share my concerns with my life coach, Pieter. He's gone through the PhD process himself, whilst working and raising a young family. Piet advises me to observe the rhythms of one full academic year to better understand effective time management for the future.

Image: Claudia Wolff

Once the conferences arrive, they are stimulating and even fun; in a frenetic way. The good grub is an added bonus. The second keynote speaker at the EMW conference is Prof. Dr. Kristophe Meyer; a specialist in the evolution of varieties of English in the former peripheries of Empire. I learn a lot during his session about the growing influence of Nigerian pidgin - already amongst the top 12 most spoken languages globally, according to the statistics cited by Prof. Meyer. He also has quite the handle on UK - particularly London - argot, influenced by various waves of Afrodescendant migration. I'm tickled by this elderly Swiss-German professor's use of slang during his keynote address, as well as our own one-to-one conversations. Prof. Meyer makes many references not only to Naija but the South-East London multicultural landscape in which I grew up. His interventions thus take on a rather nostalgic air for me.

As well as keeping an eye on catering, alongside our most affable colleague Jessica, Geraldine and I try to catch as many of our immediate team members’ presentations as possible. Frustratingly, there’s a scheduling clash between Elif’s paper and that of new colleague, Maddox. In Autumn she took over from our former teammate, Janneke for whom the PhD wasn’t a good fit. She subsequently returned to teaching. Maddox came personally recommended by Janneke. It’s so far been an auspicious transition. Also hailing from Flanders, you’d never know from Maddox' naturalistic English and clipped diction.

Alas, during the EMW conference I’m caught between her accomplished presentation on travel writing, checking on the caterers and following Elif’s intervention. Something has to give and thus, I don’t make it in time to catch the latter part of Elif’s paper, much to my regret.

For the sessions of the LILAC and EMW conferences I do attend, I pose challenging questions. Whilst attending one particular presentation, I find it especially hard to bite my tongue. All three participating academics speak on Afrodescendant literatures and contexts with which none have any direct experience. Two of the speakers are European, one is East Asian. This wouldn’t be an issue if academia didn’t already strongly reflect the racial and class inequalities of the real world. I am the only black face in the room. I debate on whether to say anything at all.

I reflect carefully on how to formulate my question in such a way that makes my point, whilst causing the least amount of offence. Many of those who’ve packed out the session also specialise in Afrodescendant literatures.

I affirm that I’m not advocating academic segregation. Neither would I claim to represent the entirety of the 'Black British Experience' - whatever that is. However, what might be merely source texts to my paler-skinned fellow academics aren't just abstract stories to me. They often reflect something of my lived experience. It bothers me that certain (neo)colonial practices are being inadvertently replicated. A group that is minoritised in the Western context are effectively being objectified by 'outsiders' for research purposes. It risks being extractive, as phrased by one of a number of black academics with whom I’ve discussed this sensitive issue. How to avoid it?

One visiting professor comments about the power of literature to break down barriers and change perspectives, citing Richard Wright’s memoir Black Boy; one of my own personal favourites. She's not wrong. I don’t have to be an Englishwoman of the early 19th century to enjoy the work of the Brontë sisters, for instance.

Image: Shubham Sharam

Nevertheless, this appreciation does not redress existing macro/structural inequities being reproduced in academia. She further tries to find common ground by making a well-intentioned but tone deaf comparison to the prejudice her parents faced as Spanish migrants to Belgium. Once again, I diplomatically attempt to point out the limitations of such an analogy.

To my surprise, there are sympathetic nods and remarks during and after my intervention, by the likes of Prof. Meyer no less, for which I’m grateful. Still, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. One faculty member, about whom I’ve had reservations from the outset, approaches me with a feigned friendliness that drips with passive-aggression. When they ask for suggestions on how to address the quandary, I can almost hear a ‘wise guy’ left off the end of the sentence.

I remind them of my own endeavours to acknowledge the complexity of the issue, as well as remarks made by Dr. Larsberg during his own keynote speech. Referencing the work of a Polynesian poet, the main theme of his intervention is the decolonisation of literary analysis. Whilst Johann was not in the room when I raised my question, you’d think from his presentation that we’d previously consulted on the subject. He also uses terms like ‘objectification’ and ‘extraction’ to warn against colonial capture, all whilst recognising that there are no quick fixes.

Vindication.

As pointed out by my sweet and sympathetic Dutch colleague, Karolijn - also researching Black British literatures - awareness is the game. Or, as I like to call it, methodological humility. It’s incumbent on white or non-black academics in these spaces to acknowledge imbalances and colonial overhang.

A few days later, we will review this conversation as a team at our all-day Christmas outing in Flanders.  Maddox once again commends me for raising the issue. If not you, then who? Brigitta agrees that it's no bad thing for academics to be upfront about the motivation for their field of study. Particularly when it pertains to minoritised groups of which they are not part.

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.

Wind of Change Part I

5 min. read

Whilst I have indeed been quiet on these pages of late, life has been anything but.  In the weeks going on months that have elapsed, I’ve squeezed in a refreshing if hectic trip to the UK, visiting cities and people I hadn’t seen IRL since before the pandemic. As has become my post-lockdown tradition, I purposely schedule the break to coincide with Mothering Sunday in the UK. The day itself is lovely. I accompany mum to her church where I receive a guest-of-honour welcome, not to mention an unexpected gift. In the evening, on mum’s suggestion, we dine at a popular new-ish Turkish restaurant in the neighbourhood that comes with her hearty stamp of approval. Given that I’m usually more of a fan of Levantine cuisine than my mother, that says a lot. The establishment is heaving with activity. A lone vocalist plays inventive acoustic guitar covers, in between choice late 90s/early 2000s R&B being blasted through the speakers.

 A few weeks later, mum will spend a week and a half with me for the Easter period. It’s a relatively smooth trip but for a fairly heated set-to that is settled within an evening. Highlights include a moving Good Friday service at Holy Trinity Brussels that has us both in tears, and a visit to Ghent; mum’s first, my second. We continue our custom of signing up for a walking tour of the city, which gives me a renewed appreciation for it. I wasn’t all that impressed when I passed by for the first time in 2016. I realise that back then, I hadn’t really seen Ghent proper. If the guide seems a tad disconnected at the start, he becomes more committed as the tour progresses.

A major snag is the town's counter-intuitive layout. Getting from the main station to the city centre is fairly straightforward, the return journey not so much. We are amongst a number of day visitors, roaming around for an inordinate amount of time looking for the bus to take us back. Asking locals is mostly futile. Their English levels are not up to the task (surprisingly for Dutch-speakers) or they are none the wiser. I’m especially frazzled after a frustrating conversation with a hotel clerk who, rather than just admit she can’t assist, wastes my time with instructions of which she herself is not sure. We eventually make it back with the help of some kindly and better informed locals, one of whom explains that the recent modifications to the layout even confuse residents.

Ghent City Centre (courtesy of Visit Gent)

In other news, my activism is infusing my time in Belgium with meaning that I would have otherwise struggled to find. The Intal coordinating teams have entrusted me with increasing responsibility. In March, there are demos for Palestine and against structural racism more widely. I’m also part of the working groups for a forthcoming European election related-event, as well as Intal’s programme for the annual Manifiesta festival in September.

Elsewhere, I have a difficult but necessary conversation with one of my pastors about the church's silence over Israel’s barbaric assault on Gaza. I am given an impetus on meeting Lys, a young woman whom I spot wearing a Keffiyeh at a Sunday service. I’m so heartened and relieved to meet someone at Fresh Wine Ministries openly showing their support for the Palestinian cause, I give her a warm hug.

We both lament the general lack of engagement at FWM. Whenever I do hear the crisis mentioned, say at prayer meetings (which I have been frequenting less for this reason), it’s usually someone with Zionist leanings, whitewashing Israel’s oppression and ignoring the Palestinian plight altogether. (Of course, I don't allow that to pass without a corrective).

Lys intends to speak to Pastor Mike about the church’s lack of response. So do I. Let’s talk to him together. I suggest with enthusiasm...

...Except she means straight after that Sunday service. With all the post-service buzz, it's not the ideal time to have such a heavy discussion, to my mind. I only find out from Lys later by text that she’s already had a word with Pastor Mike. She seems too easily pleased with what sounds like cop-out reasoning. Perhaps Lys doesn’t feel comfortable probing the pastor further. An age difference and linguistic limitations could be a factor.

I feel I have no choice but to meet with Pastor Mike myself. I would like us to speak online but he prefers we convene at church.

In the lead up to the meeting, I am incredibly nervous. I shouldn’t be. Pastor Mike is effusive and easy-going. And yet, it is a highly sensitive subject. On the day itself, in a wonderful show of solidarity, my good friend Karin calls me to bounce off ideas. She credits me for helping her evolve her own understanding around the Palestine issue. I am profoundly grateful for her support.

I also consider it providence that Elodie, a member of my house-group, happens to be hanging around church that afternoon. She’s sympathetic to the Palestinian cause herself, although not the most vocal about it.

Pastor Mike is relaxed and receptive, at least at first. Whilst he remains convivial throughout, there are tell-tale signs that he’s not all that comfortable with the conversation. He insists he needs to collect his children from school, for instance. I assume the meeting is over, only for Pastor Mike not to be in a hurry to leave after all.

At one point, he tells me to ‘climb down off my soapbox’. It’s said in a jovial tone but I don’t think it’s wholly meant in jest.

I like to believe nevertheless, that it's an instructive conversation for both of us.

Pastor Mike’s views in private on any number of issues are comparatively more radical than he lets on in public. Our discussion is too extensive to go into detail here but it does cover a lot of themes beyond the Middle East to encompass the DRC, double-standards over Ukraine and anti-migrant sentiments. We converge on a number of topics, even if our approaches are significantly different. Some of our conversation takes place in Elodie’s presence. I’m mildly irritated by what seems to be an inconsistency in what she says when Pastor Mike is in the room and when he’s not.

I encourage Pastor Mike to be more explicit about social justice matters as well as other delicate issues that affect congregants, especially those on the margins. He says that it shouldn’t all come down to him. I agree. However, he does have a platform and it contributes to church culture.

I don't attend service at FWM the following Sunday but I'm told that Pastor Mike's sermon reflects some of what we've discussed. Several weeks later, a day after Iran responds militarily to Israel bombing one of their consulates, Pastor Mike begins his sermon with intercessory prayers for the nations including Palestine, Congo and Sudan; a direct application of a suggestion made during our meeting.

Soundtrack: Ye Ankasa|We Ourselves by Jembaa Groove, Grupo Ébano by Grupo Ébano