As well as ruffling feathers at conferences, I also find time to host two successful December dinner parties. The first ends up being an unintentional dry run for Christmas. I don’t plan for it to be so close to Yuletide; more just a case of finding a suitable space in my diary. I realise it’s the first time I have hosted more than one person for a good while. Maybe that’s why unconsciously, in terms of numbers, this soirée will be my most ambitious to date.
I invite a mix of recently made acquaintances, in addition to my long-time confidante Karin. Guests include Vision, my University colleague originally from Zimba; Mélanie, who recruited me for a migration rights consultancy in Spring 2024; Anne-Marie, a thoughtful and beautiful young woman of Congolese, Rwandan and Eritrean heritage that I met at a Palestine solidarity event; Romana, a straight-talking, multi-lingual I know from a monthly language event, also of mixed-Congolese heritage and Kathleen; a Brit I’ve met at various cultural events and who generously offered me a ticket to see Robert Glasper in autumn.
My choice of diverse and intergenerational guests turns out to be propitious. After the initial awkwardness, a natural kismet emerges. The ambiance is celebratory. Luxury-loving Romana brings a bottle of champagne that will remain untouched all evening. (I’ll eventually gift it to my mother during her Christmas visit.)
We have a number of candid conversations about race, misogynoir, culture shocks and interracial dating, amongst multiple themes. In particular, Vision opens up about life adjusting to Belgium and the scandalous not-so-micro-agressions she has encountered living in Flanders.
I couldn’t be more pleased about the amazing feedback over the coming days. Vision comments on how easy I make it look to find compatible friendships. Being in a committed relationship, mothering a young child, and as a full-time post-doc, she struggles to find the time to socialise. She presumes it's easier for me as an outgoing singleton.
If only you knew, I reply, proceeding to outline in brief how difficult it has been, and to some degree continues to be, finding solid community in Brussels.
Image: Juan Gomez
In reality, the only guest in attendance I’ve known for longer than a year is Karin. It’s also the first time I’ve hosted a group in years. Until late 2023, I had entertained a sole guest within the space of a year. Owing to the disposition of said invitee, it was a disaster. I needed to break out of this subconscious hosting moratorium.
My reluctance had a lot to do with the aforementioned bad experience and general relational disappointments, including the abrupt end to my friendship with Lorenzo.
Speaking of the devil, I happen to bump into my Italian former BFF en route to a shift at the Red Cross. That afternoon, I just about manage to board the close-to-full bus. I have little choice but to sit at the back. If I had sat in my usual spot, I’d have never seen Lorenzo. I don’t initially recognise him. He’s grown his fair locks to Rip Van Winkle lengths. I wonder whom this smiling hippy-like figure is. It’s not that he recognises me straight away either, he later admits. I'm differently coiffed to when we last saw each other, almost two years prior.
Lorenzo smiles not from recognition but because of the serene state of mind in which he’s currently in. I mention to him that, ironically, I have a long overdue call scheduled with our mutual friend, Melissa, the following day.
I am guarded at first. There is no apology or acknowledgement on Lorenzo's part for the way he torpedoed our friendship or the deep relational trauma caused by the insensitively-handled rupture. The bus ride is too short to address it, yet it’s something I’ll remain displeased about. Nevertheless, perhaps out of shock, the grace of God or both, we manage an organically cordial conversation before I have to rush off. If I could have anticipated our meeting, I wouldn't have responded with anything approaching magnanimity. As I alight the bus, I mutter to the Almighty that S/He has a wicked sense of humour...
Returning to the subject of my Christmas plans, I have no intentions to travel. I decide against it long before the PhD is even on the horizon, after the chaotic and stressful commute to the UK in 2023.
Image: Debby Hudson
Whilst sis will also stay put in Japan this time, it is agreed mum will join me for the second half of the Yuletide pause, as is now habitual. For Christmas Day itself, I resume my custom of hosting non-relatives who also remain in situ over the festive break.
This year my guestlist is made up of my colleague Geraldine and Nadia; a Canadian-born, Italian-Libyan I know through my activism. She is unable to fly because of a health issue. Nadia is accompanied by her sister, Mariam- sleepy from jetlag. A good acquaintance from church, Wallace, makes a cameo. Originally from Uganda, she has a harrowing story that her ready smile belies. Living with a precarious migration status, travel isn't currently feasible.
If this once again ends up being an all-female affair, it’s not for lack of trying. My male guests are no-shows. (One doesn’t even do the courtesy of letting me know. Despite his earlier confirmation, my efforts to follow-up are met with radio silence. My experience in Belgium reminds me once again of the male species' unreliability.)
On Christmas day itself, my stove decides to go on strike. This thus entails some improvising with the oven and microwave. Fortunately, I begin most of my Christmas meal preparations days in advance. However, it does mean my mashed potatoes aren’t as fluffy as I’d like and the veg is a little too crunchy. My guests are very kind and complimentary nonetheless; whether from a genuine place of contentment, pity or politeness, I can’t tell.
The Equinox is behind us and Northern Hemisphere Autumn is well underway. Whilst I’ll miss the abundant light, longer days and
(snatches) of good weather, my memories of summer 2024 might not be as tinged with the usual nostalgia. The season has been
challenging for my morale; particularly at its height in August.
I return from my second excursion to Croatia exhausted.I-need-another-break-to-recover-from-my-holiday-cliché exhausted. The
excess scrutiny from certain yokels contributes to my mental fatigue. Compared
to my first, now almost mythic trip to Croatia, this one is less charmed.
The exhaustion continues well after my
return to Belgium. Post-birthday angst, about all the things I
haven’t achieved at my age, hits with a vengeance. I’ve also not recovered financially as quickly as I’d hoped after years of precarity. Perhaps I was naïve
to think it would be that easy. It isn't straightforward moving on without the cushion of savings. Several things I couldn’t afford to do
before, important but not urgent, now require my attention. Furthermore, due to a shift in contractual
T&Cs and energy companies’ overall greed, I suddenly have a hefty annual
electricity bill.
My anxiety is sky high, leading to a malaise that itself sets
off a vicious cycle. I’m too agitated for decent sleep, flooded by invasive thoughts. The lack of rest in
turn contributes to the malaise and so on. I’m bouncing
off the walls. I continue to go on campus so that I don’t feel too isolated at
home. I sense that generally fewer Bruxellois-e-s take lengthy breaks in
August. Nevertheless, at one point, there are only two of us in the sizeable open plan
workspace.
Despite my efforts to socialise and take advantage of several
attractive summer activities happening across Brussels, I still feel
intensely alienated. The malaise starts to affect my motivation. The plan is to
spend August on focused reading. I make the error of starting with some of the driest
and most technical aspects of my studies. In addition, the
University requires new PhD candidates to complete compulsory online courses. These are broadly soul-sapping administrative affairs.Although I power through, all this consumes
mental energy that I hardly have to spare.
(image courtesy of Buzzfeed)
It's an odd experience. The whole concept of summertime
sadness has largely been alien to me. I didn’t even know some folk dealt with vernal-related depression until fairly recently. Unlike the gloomy, dark and
wet hibernal seasons, how could anybody begrudge light and sunny summer? True, I’ve had the occasional emotionally difficult summer but that had more to do with insufficient social stimulation. This
feels like a different animal, more akin to what I've frequently experienced before spring
begins in earnest.
In any case, this isn’t related to the weather so much as my
current life season, notwithstanding the reprisal of my studies. I’m full of gratitude for my PhD adventure; a thick silver
lining in my otherwise ambiguously grey Belgian experience.
That’s another thing I’ve been coming to
terms with. My ambivalence towards Belgium isn’t just a passing phase. Nor is
it limited to one particular crisis such as a pandemic or job insecurity.
Whether it’s the bureaucracy, the unimpressive infrastructure (in
spite of very high taxes), how hard it is to create a community, or the
generalised discourteousness, it’s
just not my cup of tea. That's the verdict after four years of more or less giving it the benefit of the doubt. The
benchmark used to be whether I felt better in Belgium than when I left France.
For the first time, I must admit a similar disenchantment has set in. And yet the
Almighty clearly has plans for me in the Land of Waffles, Beer and Chocolate; at least, for the next few years. I therefore make my peace with it, like being
in a (privileged) state of exile. Similarly, the timely reading of A War of Loves by David Bennett helps me be better reconciled with my longer-than-anticipated single status.
Elsewhere, from late summer until well into autumn my diary will be replete with
meaningful activity. At the end of August, I attend a well-needed one-day silent retreat. These events are unsettling and emotionally demanding in the most beautiful and constructive ways. The following day, I attend a Pan-African cultural festival to support dance session en masse led by my most talented Afro-Zumba instructor. A number of other regulars from the class also show up. I feel like I'm in a musical. Without a doubt, it's one of the highlights of the summer.
Early September also marks my third trip to the socio-political and
cultural festival, Manifiesta. For the first time, I’m more directly involved in organising
events which demands a weekend long stay, as opposed to my usual day visit. I book a delightful en suite that alas, I’m too busy to properly enjoy beyond showers and bedtime. En route
to the festival on the first day, happenstance would have it that I stumble across Auntie J from the UK,
flanked by a couple of mates. Ever since I told her about the festival, she’s
been itching to attend. Her initial plan was to bring a sizeable posse but in
the end, it whittles down to a trio.
I’m co-moderating a Francophone event organised by peace and anti-colonial campaigners, Intal. The panel discussion covers resource sovereignty in Africa, ever-draconian European migration
policies concerning inflows from the Global South, and the success of popular uprisings in Senegal. It’s one of the first
events of the festival, so we’re not expecting a big turnout.
Yet the room is jam-packed and there’s not enough time to
take all the questions during the Q&A session.The team is left feeling exuberant.
Apart from the illustrious international roster of guest speakers – from UK economist Grace Blakeley to the dynamic Franco-African
domestic worker turned trade unionist and politician, Rachel Kéké – it’s like a Who’s Who from the world of
CSO’s and activism on the ground. I bump into many a comrade. Amongst them is Suki, whom I met when I
was working on the Equality Pact in Marseille, where she's normally based. She’s since quit
the project, disillusioned with management.
Whilst volunteering at one of
the pop-up bars, I serve an American pundit, with whom I’m
familiar from his occasional stints on Novara Media. He’s a lot
more obnoxious in real life. I meet a Dutch woman who studied Portuguese and happened to have taken lessons with one of my former bandmates from my Bossa Nova/MPB days. I bump into an amiable young Afro-Caribbean fellow whom I
recognise from a predominantly black church that I sometimes visit. I’m
ecstatic to meet another Christian in this context. I bound over to him,
effusive with encouraging words about how important it is for us to be there.
Social justice is Kingdom Business too.
Once again, I hang out with some of Jeremy Corbyn’s crew. JC
is back this year, promoting a book he’s co-written with one time anti-Apartheid campaigner, ex-ANC politician and vocal
anti-Zionist, Andrew Feinstein. Music is also an indispensable part of the Manifiesta programme, with both local and international guests performing. Tiken Jah Fakoly and the UK rapper-activist, Lowkey are amongst this year's high profile line-up. Intal have invited a musician acquaintance of mine, Diese Mbangue, to perform after he lit up one of our smaller events earlier in the year with a solo acoustic set. For Manifiesta, Diese returns with his full band for what turns out to be an electrifying performance.
A couple of weeks after the festival, I’m off to Strasbourg for the first
time since 2021.
En route by coach, I’m witness to a theft in plain sight. At
Brussels Midi station, a dubious looking fellow boards the bus shortly after I
get on. The inspector doesn't stop him, and yet he has too sketchy an air to go unnoticed. I can't tell if he's about to hold up the coach or have a funny turn. I eventually presume he's legit however, since none of the other passengers intervene when he takes a bag from
the luggage rack. Nevertheless, sensing something suspect, a few of them spring to action to check on their
own belongings.
By the time the girlfriend/wife
of the unfortunate proprietor realises what’s happened, the culprit is too far and too
quick for the couple to chase him down. Her significant other alternates between expletive
rage and tearful distress. He exclaims that all his possessions - except his
passport - are in that rucksack. After screaming (understandably) at the driver
and inspector for their incompetence over security, the couple alight to make what will most likely be a futile police report. I offer to provide a
witness statement but the fellow is too distracted. I feel distraught for him,
as well as guilty. I was immediately suspicious but didn’t react
when none of the passengers seemed fazed.
Several hours later, an old friend,
Françoise, collects me from Strasbourg coach station in the wee small hours of the morning. Françoise has kindly invited me to stay with her and her bibliophile sister, Magritte. That not only takes care of accommodation but provides plenty of
opportunity for Françoise and I to
catch-up. (Ironically, although we do have a number of lengthy conversations
about the dire state of French politics, the siblings’ favourite 70s and 80s pop/rock bands and
Magritte’s enviably vast personal library, I
barely update Françoise on what’s been happening on my end.)
The aim is to squeeze in as many visits over a long weekend, as well as to hop across the French/German border for some (still) mouth-watering bargains in Kehl. It’s an overly-ambitious itinerary, which circumstances will curb in an ultimately helpful way. A number of friends happen to be out of town that weekend. Another acquaintance definitively quits Strasbourg
for the countryside mere weeks before my visit. The upshot is thatI spend quality time with those I do manage
to see. In the three years since my last trip there have been weddings, pregnancies, sicknesses,
recoveries, trials, tribulations and triumphs.
The weather is marvellous for this time of year; ideal for several wistful strolls through the city. I pass by Temple Neuf for its
ongoing weekly meditation session. I've missed it. In the absence of the main pastor, members of
the congregation step in to hold a special commemorative service marking the World Week for Peace in Palestine & Israel. I’m somewhat
impressed by how much Palestinian suffering is centred; something that is
shamefully absent from many mainstream church spaces.
That same evening,
Françoise generously offers to accompany me to the weekly rehearsal of HRGS; the choir to which we once belonged and where we first met. I plan to make an unannounced cameo. A few members are aware
I’m in town but I’ve made no official arrangements to drop by.
We are warmly
received. Whilst much of the choir is now unfamiliar, there’s enough of the old guard to bridge the gap between past and
present. I’m asked to reprise one of my old solos, which in itself shouldn’t
come as a surprise. I’m still more unprepared than I should be. Blame it on nerves, says Françoise. I'd rather not.
Meanwhile, after several
of the veterans demand where she’s been, she decides to rejoin the choir. (Privately, she will later divulge that she took an indefinite hiatus by being
reluctantly dragged into internal choral politics.)
My visit to my old Strasbourg church becomes fraught for
reasons too long to elaborate here. Once again, internal politics to which I’m
not otherwise privy are at play. The day is fortunately redeemed by plans to spend the
afternoon with erstwhile Strasbourg acquaintance, Sérafine, at her capacious flat in Kehl. She prepares a delicious pasta lunch and we while away hours
covering a gamut of weighty themes. Both of us have lived through substantial
changes in the intervening years.
I round off my Strasbourg trip by meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi. Dividing his time now between Paris and Alsace, he's obtained a set of wheels for the commute. We catch-up in his car, whilst Michael Jackson’s Dangerous album provides the nostalgic soundtrack to our overdue exchange.
Soundtrack: Timeless by Kaytranada, Milton + Esperanza by Milton Nascimento & Esperanza Spalding and Open Hearts by Joya Mooi.
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 ‘sexwork’, 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.
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
By the end of February, the murmurings of spring come around with a quickness that should no longer surprise or unnerve me. But it does.
My counsellor invites me, for free, to a Christian weekend retreat for singles on the Belgian coast. I assume God really wants me there. I wouldn’t have had the disposable income for the trip otherwise.
The only drawback is that I am obligated to share a room with a stranger. It’s a lottery. It’ll be hard to switch off completely not knowing the temperament of my roommate. On verra.
Despite the inauspicious weather forecast that weekend, it turns out to be mild enough to take walks along the sandy Ostend beach. To my pleasant surprise, the convention is booked at a lovely new-looking hotel, delectable meals included. The capacious shower facilities are almost the same size as the bedroom. There’s also a great view of the coast. The building is nevertheless so labyrinthine, that I never quite master the layout. It’s only at the end of my stay, for instance, that I discover I’ve been dining in the ‘wrong’ canteen.
I arrive at the retreat not in the most sociable mood. Perhaps the thought of bunking with an unknown is playing too much on my mind. I’ve also not come with the intention to hardcore socialise. I see this as akin to my previous experience of silent retreats; a break from the norm in the hope of spending sustained quality time with God. Furthermore, I’m still negotiating my roller-coaster morale.
Between the seminars, I’m not interested in much chit-chat. Whilst I’ll somewhat regret being aloof at times, keeping to myself generally seems like the right call.
My counsellor, Sandrine serves as moderator. Having only recently married well into her 40s, she knows a thing or two about making the most of being single. I learn more about her in the first few minutes of the opening seminar than I have in the two years I’ve been her client. She’s a more confident and fluid public-speaker than I expect.
The attendees are also far more diverse than anticipated; in age, gender and ethnicity. (It’s not just a room full of black women over 35, then.) There’s one guest whom I can only suppose was coerced into coming. I notice him taking swigs of some unknown liquid stashed away in his pocket. I can’t blame him, if it’s not his scene. Maybe in order to endure, he feels the need for some Dutch Courage. A jocular character even when sober (from what I observe), he’s especially disruptive during seminars. More than once he abandons them altogether, escorted out of the hall by the woman I presume invited him.
Over the course of the weekend, I’ll spot a few people from my home church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). It’s a relief of sorts to see familiar faces. I’m friendly but maintain a polite distance.
The main sessions are led by an elderly Caucasian couple, Anne-Marie and Louis, both on their second go of this marriage business. Apart from Sandrine’s opening address, there’s an awful lot of focus on future marriage, rather than appreciating singleness in its own right. I wonder how this serves those who don’t want to or, for whatever reason, will not marry. I think of those in the room who might be LGBTQ+ and choose to be celibate; how this over-emphasis on being wed invisibilises their experiences.
Louis still has a noticeable Quebecois inflection, despite having left North America decades ago. Most French Canadians I come across in mainland Europe tend to soften their accent to be better understood. This speaker, not so much. I make a special effort to catch what he’s saying. Then again, ignorance is bliss. At least a decade older than his wife, Louis lives down to several clichés of the reactionary older white evangelical. He rails against the Big Bang theory, apparently not aware that it was first put forward by Georges Lemaître, a Catholic priest from Belgium, of all places. Already fed up, I retire to my room when he launches into an off-topic and vehement Zionist apologia that seems to indirectly justify current events in Gaza. On the way to my chambers, I hear strains of a pitchy rendition of The Macarena emanating from one of the bars, courtesy of the hired 'talent'.
Anne-Marie's interventions are much more pertinent than her husband's. She has a heartening backstory of finding a new lease of life when, after 20 years of marriage, her serially unfaithful ex abandons her and their four children. She does make a few stray comments that leave me uneasy, however; one of them being borderline heretical.
Whilst I am able to engage with some sessions more than others and there are a few insightful moments, it’s nothing that I hadn’t heard before. Louis' interventions irritate more than inspire. It’s hard to relax not knowing when my roommate will return. If she is around, she's amicable but meddlesome. And she snores. I request earplugs from reception after a fitful first night. When my roommate queries why I nap so much, it’s difficult to avoid mentioning her unconscious habit. She blames it on weight-gain, somehow making it all about herself. The second night is a lot less stertorous. I suspect she took my observations to heart and ends up not sleeping well herself.
Meal times are a highlight, not just for the variety but also the friendly (mostly male, Middle Eastern or African) staff. Alas, there is one karen lurking around and scrutinising my every movement. At the end of my stay, when she waves her finger at me for leaving the premises with a half-eaten apple, I snap at her in exasperation. She quickly backs off.
Overall, I’m not sure what to make of the retreat. Back in Brussels there were a number of places I could have been that weekend, including a solidarity demo for DRC. Whilst a change of scene and a bit of alone time with God in relatively plush surroundings has been welcome, there has not been -at least not yet - the life-transforming revelation I had in mind.
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