A First Time for Everything: Part II

 5 min. read

Part I

(c) Maddi Bazzocco

Each day of the conference, lunch is provided by the institution. A group of us gather daily to dine in the canteen. It's during one of these food-related gatherings that I discover, by chance, Brigitta is amongst the cohort's many smokers. Moreover, I have the distinct impression she'd rather I didn't know or catch her in the act.

The afternoon meal is far heavier than I’m used to eating at that time of day during the week. The ensuing drowsiness catches up with me on the first day of the conference. (To avoid a similar soporific effect the day of my presentation, I avoid a hot lunch altogether).

Meal times are an opportune moment to become acquainted with other guests. After seeing her name pop up in different contexts over the years, it'll be the first time I meet Maria-Teresa, the conference organiser, in person. Maria is a petite, feisty but good-humoured quinquagenarian, with a voice like gravel from years of chain-smoking. She gravitates towards African animism, pouring libations at the start and end of the conference. When she half-jokingly suggests we pray to the gods, I good-naturedly explain that I'm more of a Jesus girl. This elicits a smile.

Frederick – or Freddie – is a convivial Irishman with a waggish sense of humour and a longstanding affinity with the Spanish language. German Celia’s Spanish sounds so proficient, I initially mistake her for a native.

I get on well with Agneta, an academic whose interest in African studies evolved from her social work with East-African refugees re-settled in her native Nordic country. She is also the adoptive mother of black children. She’s the second European participant I’ve met who’s raising African children in a predominantly white environment. 

I’m conflicted. I’ve always been against the idea of white couples adopting non-white children, no matter how well-intentioned. There is a huge gap of lived experience and cultural transference, no matter how many books are read or online fora one joins.  It manifests even in something as (not-so) simple as hair; of great cultural significance to most Afrodescendants. I've seen black children growing up in a white family, with hair that's turned to locks through lack of care; most likely down to ignorance on their adopted parents' part. It's unintentional but infuriating.

In the case of my academic colleagues, I acknowledge this is not some Hollywood star’s fetishisation of brown babies (at least, I hope not). I don’t question these individuals’ genuine efforts to divest from white supremacy. I believe their solidarity with Afrodescendants is sincere. However, this particular kind of cross-cultural adoption seems to me one of the most flagrant examples of white saviourism; a massive blind spot. I dare not raise it lest I cause offence or I’m perceived as truculent. If the conversation must happen at all, it’ll take longer to build that kind of rapport than an auspicious few days at a conference in the Med.

(c) Patrick Tomasso

It’s one of the few times I’ll feel slightly at odds with the group. It’s somewhat indicative of my time in Continental Europe for the past seven years. Don't get me wrong, the conference is a largely positive experience and I’m thrilled to attend. Nevertheless occasionally, for reasons time doesn’t permit me to expound, I feel my perspective as an Afro-Brit sets me (involuntarily)  apart from an otherwise sympathetic cohort. Or maybe it’s just me and how I (over)think.

Ahead of my own presentation, I fit in several run-throughs.  It's scheduled on the penultimate day of the event, giving me lots of time to mentally-prepare. Brigitta isn’t keen on me being over-rehearsed. We squeeze in one practice before our combined intervention.

The Hispanophone presentations tend to be better-attended than those in English. The Spanish students clear the room when it’s mine and Brigitta’s turn, leaving behind mostly our academic peers. It’s a success all the same. I’m more relaxed during my intervention than I'd anticipated and the reception is enthusiastic. Colleagues take a bona fide interest in my project, surprised by how much has already been done in a few months. I’m both exuberant and relieved once it’s over. I can better enjoy the rest of the conference.

That same night, a delegation will arrive from the UK. The mostly non-Afrodescendant contingent is led by Charmaine; the daughter of South Asian parents with connections to East Africa and the British West Indies. She is blessed with a mellifluous, near-hypnotic speaking voice. Charmaine is the significant other of a renowned Black-British auteur. She doesn’t fail to divulge how many careers she’s helped to get off the ground, including some within my own social circles.

Charmaine and her entourage are a fascinating bunch. On the last night over dinner, for example, I have a lively conversation with a conservatoire-trained musician of African, Asian and French extraction. We swap war stories of our respective experiences living in France.

(c) Denise Jans

Charmaine and co have taken time out of hectic schedules to make the latter part of the conference. It’s therefore a shame that their session –a documentary and post-show Q&A - must be truncated owing to poor time-keeping. Charmaine keeps her sang-froid but she’s understandably miffed. All in attendance are regretful that we are denied the full experience.

On the day of departure, Reggie kindly offers to drop Brigitta and I off close to the airport. My supervisor will stick around a little longer to enjoy some cultural events, before taking a late-ish flight back to Belgium. I, on the other hand, will return on an earlier plane (notwithstanding a one hour delay). 

On the drive towards the airport, all three of us converse in French about any and everything. That is, when I'm not passed out from fatigue, sleeping in a rather undignified pose.

Not long after dropping off Brigitta, Reggie complains of the lack of black contributors during the final sessions. He proceeds to speak candidly about his frustration over the general lack of representation. I counter that the conference has been more diverse than I expected. However, I eventually open up more about my own misgivings over academic spaces, in which Afrodescendants are the topic of discussion but usually not being the ones to lead it. 

I’m taken aback by Reggie’s frankness. With his half-Spanish children and going by some dubious comments he makes about a photo of Agneta’s blonde (naturally!) future daughter-in-law, I assumed he was assimilated enough into the mainland European cultural landscape not to notice and/or care. 

He speaks of opportunists, exploiting a niche because they know there are too few black academics to provide much competition. His candour comes as a relief, echoing several conversations I’ve had with sympathisers of diverse ethnicities since beginning my doctorate.

Reggie deposits me in front of my airport terminal, to which I’m indebted. As with most of the other participants, I intend to remain in touch.

It’s a warm day;  a far cry from the chilly Belgian climes for which I’m already sartorially prepared. As I go through the check-in motions, at security I’m asked to remove my boots. One of the agents then inspects my head wrap for what I presume are traces of drugs. My hair was also covered on the inward journey, and yet nobody at Brussels thought to touch up my head-gear.

It’s not the best lasting impression of Spain. Fortunately, at least for this trip, it will not be my only one.

A First Time for Everything: Part I

 5 + 1/2 minute read

(c) Dan Dimmock

Way back at the start of my PhD journey, my supervisor, Brigitta, suggests we make a joint intervention at a conference in Spain, in early Autumn. She doesn’t have to ask twice. 

The start of October marks four months since my doctoral studies began. In that time, I’ve gathered a wealth of information; enough to feel comfortable sharing the first fruits of my research, even if the overall project is still taking shape.  This will be my maiden voyage; the first academic paper I'm presenting for an external audience. (It feels very grown-up just to utter those words.) Plus, Spain in Autumn beats temperamental Belgian weather any day. It’ll only be my second trip to the Iberian giant, almost two full decades after my first.

The run-up to the conference has its fair share of twists and turns. There are several iterations of the programme, issues with funding, and sporadic - not to mention confusing - communication. Brigitta is concerned it might not go ahead. Fortunately, conference coordinator, Maria-Teresa confirms in time for us to be reassured.

Brigitta and I will be making the same outbound voyage. I worry that it might be over-exposure. Yet, thank goodness, these concerns are largely unfounded. It’s a pleasant, albeit exhausting trip by plane, train and -in the end – by foot to the hotel. 

Brigitta invites me to take the window seat on the train ride from the airport, to enjoy the pleasant landscape. She is an individual of select words but we’re not short on conversation. Knowing my own loquacious tendencies, I try to be conscious of not over-sharing. Nevertheless, during the course of the week, at times I question whether I’ve held true to this resolve.

The conference will take place in a small city with a large university population. The weather is even more propitious than has been forecast when we arrive. Sunset also occurs later than in Belgium, allowing us to enjoy the vestiges of summer that bit longer. Sunrise, on the other hand, is surprisingly late.

The majority of conference participants are staying in the same hotel, a stone’s throw from the Faculty, as recommended by Maria. 

Each room is a capacious studio-style en suite, with kitchenette (although one has to pay five euros a day for access to utensils). From my window, on a clear day, there’s a decent view of the distant Pyrenees. 

The programme begins late in the afternoon and continues well into the evening. I assume these are stereotypical Spanish siesta hours. Rather, it appears that it's been adapted so that the university’s own students can also attend. The beauty of these unconventional hours is it leaves the whole day to catch up on other tasks, as well as explore our surroundings. On the days where the programme is predominantly or exclusively in Spanish (no funds available for simultaneous interpretation), I skip these sessions for more downtime, often joining towards the end of the evening’s activities which almost always overrun.

Apart from an especially soggy day, the weather is favourable for whiling away time in the old mediaeval town, browsing some of the discount Spanish chains, or taking advantage of my student status for a free trip to one of the museums. I’d prefer to do a guided walking tour but alas, there are none available in English or French during my stay. A gulf has grown between me and the Spanish language since my school days, when I was a more zealous student. It’s been surpassed by my interest in Portuguese which, unfortunately, doesn’t get me anywhere this side of the frontier.

(c) Rut Miit

The colloquium itself is truly a bilingual and inter-disciplinary affair; literature, history, linguistics, gender and sexuality studies, and ethnography to name a few areas of expertise. The thematic common denominator is the African Diaspora in Europe. The conference also commemorates the anniversary of the founding network, one in which Brigitta is embedded.  I’ll discover that I’ve crossed paths with a number of participants back at the 2022 Afro-European conference in Brussels, long before my doctoral studies were on the horizon.

By now, I’m used to these spaces being dominated by Europeans speaking about African-Diaspora related themes. (Maria-Teresa herself jokes that when Caucasians study their own societies and cultures, it falls under Sociology. If they embark on African-related socio-cultural studies, it becomes Anthropology.)  I’m thus pleasantly surprised to discover a decent number of fellow Afrodescendants presenting papers. This is relative, considering the power imbalances ensconced within academia. For all its liberal ideals – or maybe because of them  - universities' teaching staff largely replicate the structural inequalities that pervade wider society.

Amongst the black contingent is Clémentine; originally from Cote d’Ivoire. She decided to do several interdisciplinary masters and a PhD in Spanish because she ‘liked the challenge’. She’s on her second doctorate. There’s Reginald, or Reggie. Originally from the DRC, he’s spent most of his adult life in the Catalonia region. Ngame is a handsome yet down-to-earth, Rwandan whose family fled to Spain in the early 1990s.

African-American Dr Louisa-Grace Brown specialises in African migrant communities based in the Mediterranean and has a solid command of the European-variety of Spanish. Yet, as she points out, even with a proficient knowledge of the language, Spaniards tend to question the Black presence in the country more so than other former empires (e.g. Portugal). 

Louisa-Grace will give the inaugural address at the conference; a dynamic intervention that sets the standard. Dr Brown throws in smatterings of Spanish, and even Gaelic (she’s also studied Scottish & Welsh independence movements).

  A few other black participants connect remotely, making it more or less 50/50 African/European representation.

The first night, I join Brigitta and her friend and fellow academic, Clarissa for tapas. (By then, I’ve already done some panic grocery-shopping, unaware that evening meals are covered by external funding). Clarissa is a polyglot from Sardinia who has lived all over Europe. Our conversation encompasses the Continent's staunch denial about its colonial past, racially insensitive books, Mainland Europe vs. the UK and misogynoir; the latter subjects introduced by yours truly. Despite my efforts to exercise restraint, these being such sensitive topics, I find myself getting carried away.

Part II

Back in Marseille: Part II

7 min. read

(image courtesy of Freepik)

(Part I)

The next morning, I have the opportunity to meet more of the advocates who have arrived intermittently during the weekend. I expect that many of them would be over-earnest middle class white kids, eager to prove their DEI credentials. To my pleasant surprise, the vast majority of advocates are of African, Middle Eastern or South Asian descent. All of us are migrants in the EU context. My heart swells with pride and tenderness to see my African brothers-in-activism looking especially dapper.

By contrast, most of the coordination team are Caucasian. During the plenary, I ask if there's a strategy to ensure that the baton is handed over to those who better represent the main beneficiaries of the Equality Pact. The project will otherwise be at risk of reproducing exploitative colonial practices, where brown folk do the heavy lifting and white people take the credit. On hearing my question, Suki makes an approving gesture, as does another moderator, Kellie, originally from Lebanon.

Advocates share stories of fleeing horrific circumstances, such as being a child soldier, only to be criminalised and imprisoned at European borders. One advocate was a successful reporter turned enemy of the state, after their country was plunged into war. There are heartbreaking stories of forced exile, individuals separated from loved ones for years that run into decades. They survive it all, navigating hostile bureaucracy in their adopted homes to set up CSO’s successfully campaigning on behalf of other racialised migrants. Moussa Bankare for instance (below), runs a boutique in Greece, alongside being a respected activist. I feel immensely humbled to share a platform with these advocates. My imposter syndrome kicks in. As challenging as my own migrant experience has been at times, it doesn’t compare. Within an unjust and stratified migration system, having a British passport has afforded me advantages others are cruelly denied. As I often say, only half-joking, it’s (borrowed) white privilege in document form.

Over the course of the first day of discussions and sharing ideas, the exchanges become more heated. From the outset, I politely object to being obligated to state my preferred pronoun whilst introducing myself. I am relieved when Rolando, a LGBTQ+ activist himself, agrees.

 

I disagree with another advocate, Alex, on the use of the term ‘sex work’, at least without first acknowledging that it's a contested issue. Alex and Rolando clash with Pippa, another delegate of mixed Southern-African heritage. She uses ‘black’ in the political sense to refer to anybody racialised as non-white. Alex and Rolando take issue with this definition. These two in turn have an even more emotive exchange over Europe’s reputation as a so-called upholder of Human Rights. There are tears and walk-outs. Other masculine voices, seasoned in negotiating with EU policy makers, try to dominate the sessions. There are myriad philosophical and ideological divergences… For certain, it’s intense but there’s also something sincere and therapeutic about it. We have spoken without filters and, one would hope, cleared the air.

We disperse again to decompress before dinner. Mélanie selects an excellent Palestinian restaurant near heart of Marseille for the evening meal; great ambiance, sumptuous food and good customer service. Most of the advocates and coordinating team are present. The tension of the day has all but disappeared. Alex and Rolando are back on good terms. Meanwhile, Mélanie and I listen enrapt as Margot recounts harrowing stories of generational trauma and her family’s protracted experience with a merciless Belgian immigration system.

I expect the second and last full day of consultation to be simpler. It’s not. Not at the start, anyway. Alex’ insistence on monopolising the space and being needlessly contrarian jars even more. I’m left rattled after an intense conversation with a colleague and my laptop charger has decided to give up the ghost.

 I also come to the realisation that the work on the Pact hasn’t taken the form I expected. Or rather, my expectations were unrealistic. The sessions are fruitful and by the end, we have the core of what the Pact will eventually become. I just overestimate how much can be achieved in a couple of days.

We spend a good deal of time strategising for the upcoming elections. Given the tight timeframe, in a way, this feels even more productive.

That evening, Pippa and I engage in a frank and extensive discussion about life as racialised women in mainland Europe, having the Christian faith in common and the minefield of relationships, platonic and otherwise.  We’re back at the Palestinian restaurant that evening for dinner. En route, Shaista regales me with more humour-rich stories of her erstwhile life as a political insider. She has an enviable knack for British regional accents.

La Palestine restaurant, Marseille

After dinner, a few of us pass by a food court-cum-Karaoke bar. It's a last hurrah before we have to catch our respective modes of transport back to our corners of Europe.  We haggle over what song to sing, finally settling on Madonna’s late 80s hit, Like a Prayer. It is warmly received, although the MC ushers us off stage when he's had enough (it's a long track).  Later that evening, my rendition of Tina’s What’s Love Got to Do with It? will bring the house down.

We return to the hotel in triumphant mood. We say fond farewells to those catching early flights or trains. Whatever the outcome of the Pact, some amazing connections have been made. 

In the morning, I’ll bump into Shaista, Suki and a few of the African brothers before departing. As we gather in front of St. Charles train station, Fidelis and I are baptised in beer, standing too close to a few drunks in the midst of an altercation.

I have a decent chunk of time before my mid-afternoon train. I'll participate in the tail end of Marseille's May Day protests, part of which is disrupted by yet another errant addict.

Before then, I’ll join Margot in the hotel restaurant for breakfast ahead of check-out. Both based in Brussels, we’ll be returning on the same train.

You know, I’m not sure whether to be sad or pleased that it’s all over. Margot observes It’s been quite a mix. 

You can say that again.

(image courtesy of 123RTF)

On the train back to Brussels, I'm rudely awoken from semi-slumber by a Customs officer. I feel something between a poke and a shove on my shoulder. Seeing my shock and consternation, he affects a faux-friendliness that is more sinister than reassuring. It doesn't help that he looks like he stepped out of a Third Reich-era poster. There appears to be no rhyme or reason for selecting me. My only 'offence' appears to be sleeping whilst black. Having chosen me at random, he interrogates me about the trip, asks intrusive questions about my luggage and insists on searching my handbag. The officer riffles inexplicably through my wallet. Probably suspects me of credit card fraud. He's especially concerned that I have two (non-smart) mobiles. Maybe he'd like to add 'drug dealer' to my imaginary wrap sheet. To expedite the process, I offer to show my British passport and my Belgian ID. (Privilege in document form, remember?). He initially pays no mind. In the meantime, his colleague half-heartedly interrogates the pale-skinned passenger next to me, perhaps to make things look more balanced.

When Officer Blondie eventually checks my ID, seeing everything is in order he has no choice but to shuffle off. Margot discreetly phones me afterwards. Our seats are parallel but her view has been obscured by the officer and his colleague. 

I feel a mix of irritation and pity. The officer is likely convinced that he's simply carrying out his duty without partiality; one of the 'good guys'. Over the coming days, my anger will increase at the thought of the incident. Should I have been more assertive? Would I have had the presence of mind? Would it have been worth it, knowing the French state's proclivity for violence?

Once safely back at Brussels-Midi, Margot is collected by her husband with their adorable tot in tow. Just before we part ways, we'll reflect on the bitter irony of that unpleasant interaction with Customs, in light of what took us to Marseille in the first place.

Back in Marseille: Part I

7 min. read

Gare St. Charles, Marseille (courtesy of Marseille Tourisme) 

My spring becomes more intensely busy, for the right reasons, when I’m headhunted for a pro-bono advocacy role in early April. I’m approached on LinkedIn by Mélanie, a project coordinator from human rights organisation, Avocats sans Frontières or Lawyers without Borders (ASF). Mélanie finds me via my previous volunteering with a group focused on EU migration policy; specifically concerning the legal protection of undocumented migrants.

Mélanie and I set up a call, where she effectively gives a presentation about the EU-funded project. If my application is successful (since I still need to apply for formality’s sake), I will be amongst a group of activists drawn from across Europe, invited to finetune the draft of a campaign document ahead of the European elections in June. The focus of the Equality Pact, as it is known, would be to address discriminatory law and practice, particularly around migration and structural racism. Sounds worthy, no? The project bears the handy acronym, TACKLE and involves a consortium of civil society organisations.

Mélanie informs me that, if recruited, an all-expenses paid trip to Marseille awaits at the end of April. Prospective advocates will gather in the southern French city for a few days of training, team-building and to start work on the Pact. I clear my diary, just in case.

Beady-eyed readers might recall my mixed feelings about Marseille, following my first experience visiting almost six years ago. I like the idea of being in sunnier climes and close to water but wary of personal safety. At least this time I would be in a group.

Fortunately, my application is successful. It’s a frantic rush to make sure everything is in order before I leave for Provence.

With no direct trains to Marseille on the date of travel, the ASF team books a connecting train in Paris. I will be travelling most of the day. I arrive at Gare de Lyon in plenty of time for the onward journey. Alas, I’m distracted by an older Togolese gentleman selling Afrodescendant-focused books. By the time I realise, it’s too late to board. Thank God, I’m able to take the next train, free of charge. I notice whilst boarding that I’ve been upgraded to first class without asking (not that I would, given my egalitarian values).

At the hour that I arrive at my hotel, there’s only time to shower and prepare for bed. I’ve stayed in better Accor establishments but it’s clean (enough), reassuringly close to St. Charles train station and has a great breakfast spread. Plus, if I ignore the car park immediately below, there's a pleasing view of the distant hills from my window.

The following day, myself and the few other advocates who have already arrived are expected to participate in a workshop. It's part of a weekend-long event organised by lead TACKLE coordinators, the European Common Space for Alternatives- or - ECSA (I know, I know, a lot of acronyms to keep up with).

I finally meet organisers offline with whom I’ve only had remote contact such as Suki, a Marseille-based Brit of South Asian origin. There’s also Giacomo, one of the founders of ECSA; a tall, wire-thin man with a shock of thick greying hair and cornflower blue eyes. He explains how he and his family were hounded out of the UK by the right-wing media for his work on migration rights. (It’s only at the end of the trip, that I’ll discover that one of his colleagues is also his significant other).

I have more of opportunities to learn of Mélanie’s peripatetic upbringing, her career trajectory and why her own experience of being in an interracial marriage has informed her work on migration rights.

La Friche de la Belle de Mai (c) Caroline Dutrey

The project is only a few months' old. The general organisation therefore has a ‘flying by the seat of our trousers’ feel. It’s all very lastminute.com.

ECSA decides to hold the workshop outside. As our activity gets underway, the weather is starting to cool and the wind is fierce. Not the typical Mediterranean climate we anticipated. Apart from competing with the chill and howling wind, there are a number of technical difficulties with which to contend.

Mishaps notwithstanding, the workshop is warmly received. I have the chance to meet other advocates like Margot, who relocated from Rwanda to Belgium as a toddler to escape the genocide 30 years ago. Rolando is a linguistic genius, originally from Chile and now based in France. Despite only having lived in the UK as a child for a couple of years and settling in the French capital a mere few years ago, he speaks excellent English and French with a close to native accent. Rolando grew up in a Right-wing family, going as far as to do a stint in the marines before becoming an activist in the LGBTQ+ movement. He fights back tears as he describes the homophobic violence he’s experienced in his adopted home. Rolando and I become fast conference friends. We have thought-provoking discussions about everything from Belief and spirituality to debates around pronoun etiquette and wearing an hijab. Whilst his views might have drifted left, it's a fool's game to assume he’ll hold certain positions just because of his sexual orientation and/or migration status. 

I’m also introduced to journalist, comedienne, former Labour councillor, veteran activist and all round powerhouse, Shaista Aziz. She was the first local Labour party official to resign over Keir Starmer’s appalling stance on Israel’s genocidal campaign in Gaza. Within a few minutes of chatting, I discover that she and another speaker are also mutual friends of one Prof. Danny Dorling.

Over the next few days, Shaista will take a no-nonsense yet affirming approach to sisterly solidarity. If she sniffs any self-doubt on my part, she assures me that I have earned my place in the room. 

Other workshop speakers include Ivorian activist, Solange Koné as well as interventions from myself, Margot, Rolando and his friend and fellow advocate, Amel; a painfully shy refugee from Iraq. 

I am glad to see that one of my new-ish Brussels-based friends, Brittany, has made it to the workshop. A fellow British passport holder and member of Belgium’s Worker Party (PTB), we met whilst volunteering at 2023’s Manifiesta festival . Over the course of the weekend, I’ll bump into other comrades from PTB.

Arriving the previous day, Brittany says our session is the best she’s attended so far of the ECSA programme. That helps to dispel any FOMO about the events I couldn't make.

In the evening, several of us reconnect for international-flavoured musical entertainment and a delicious two-course meal, courtesy of ECSA itself, at a converted factory. Rolando’s attempts to flirt with one of the waiters will eventually be thwarted when he turns out to be straight. 

On the following day, a Sunday, the main plan is to rest ahead of a full two day programme. A few of us nevertheless decide to participate in a pro-Palestine demo taking place mid-afternoon. We’re joined by newly-arrived delegate, Fidelis, a Nigerian based in Italy.

The weather is more propitious for the march than the morning rain would suggest. If the number of demonstrators is far less than I’m used to in London or even Brussels, Suki explains it’s because the protests are being held every Sunday afternoon. Participation varies from week to week. I’m surprised that Marseille’s local authorities permit the city centre to be shut down on a regular basis. They have no choice, says Shaista. It's Marseille. There’d be uprisings. Suki concurs.

Not for the only time, Shaista and I have a heated discussion about the current state of the British Labour party. She brings with her much insider knowledge, naturally.

As we approach the main destination of the City Hall near the Old Port, the protest is suddenly interrupted by fire engines. The crowd reluctantly parts, like the waves for Moses at the Red Sea. The other firefighters circumnavigate the demonstration altogether.

Just as we’re arriving at the Old Port, where we’ll encounter more comrades, we see billows of smoke emanating from one of the multi-storey buildings. Not a false alarm, then. Those leading the march point to the emergency as a sobering reminder of what is a daily reality for Gazans, except on a far greater magnitude.

I feel honoured to be partaking in yet another Palestinian solidarity demo in a fresh context. More widely, the city’s support for Gaza is immediately apparent; from graffiti to fly posters.

After the protest, we disperse to our corners in anticipation of an intense few days.

Dinner is some cheap-ish take-away in my room. I’m relieved not to fall ill with food poisoning, after ordering from an establishment whose hygiene practices leave room for doubt. By the time I start changing my mind, I’ve already placed my order. I politely ask the hotel staff to blast my food in the microwave en route to my room.

Soundtrack: Studies in a Dying Love by Aladean Kheroufi

(Part II)

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