Hope Springs Eternal

 

7 min. read

March turns out to be a funny old month (she says, euphemistically). Most notably, my job hunt stalls completely, not for lack of trying. Whilst they have not all made me jump for joy, I did have a spate of interviews in the preceding winter months that gave me cause for cautious optimism, perhaps unwisely. Nothing but tumbleweed and crickets in March. The only responses I receive are negative and, worse still, for roles with which I could really engage. 

One was personally recommended by an activist I've met more than once, at various events related to migration rights. He’s well connected to the recruitment team and offers to put in a good word for me. I’m initially hesitant, as I don’t want any special favours. I merely ask that he informs them I’ve applied. I also happen to have met a number of the organisation's board members in the recent past. I apparently made a positive impression and I hope this will stand me in good stead if/when my name pops up. 

None of this works to my advantage. My acquaintance is seemingly as surprised as I am that my application doesn’t go beyond the initial stage.

Clearly, this is all very demoralising. I’m due another existential crisis and it doesn’t fail to show up in the first month of spring. A planned trip to Blighty for Mothering Sunday weekend thus comes as a mercy. Pre and post-COVID, my trips to the UK have proved to be a solace when I’m going through a difficult season on the Continent. This is no exception. Without a herculean effort on my part, I’m able to suspend most of my malaise. The comfort of being ‘home’; mum’s welcome and quality time spent with her and old friends… A little goes a very long way.

 Continuing my resolve not to overload my London diary, I plan select few meet ups around Mother’s Day, which is completely set aside for mum. I accompany her to her own church that morning, where I’m treated like the guest of honour. Afterwards, it’s back home for an indulgent Continental brunch and siesta. We’re back out that evening for a screening in the Greenwich area of Broker; a beautiful and affecting film with, incidentally, a strong motherhood theme. I have booked a table for two at a new Turkish restaurant nearby, which turns out to have a fantastic menu and solid customer service. 

Any morose presentiments about going back to Belgium are mitigated by the knowledge mum will be joining me in a couple of weeks for Easter.

(image courtesy of The Bouqs. Co)

I return to Brussels a few days later. To help adjust to the grind, I have scheduled a life-coaching session with a new acquaintance, Rev. Pieter Vanderveld. We meet providentially during a visit from my good friend, Vinoth Ramachandra, who is booked as a guest speaker at the Anglican church where Rev. Pieter ministers. On hearing that I’m in transition, the clergyman reaches out to me of his own accord, offering his free life coaching service - or Christilience. I’m intrigued and assure him I’ll reflect on it. After a few of the aforementioned disappointments, it makes perfect sense to avail myself of the opportunity. It could be a potentially useful addition to my monthly therapy appointments.

 Rev. Pieter is a calm and reassuring presence. He wastes no time  putting me in touch with previous clients who have been in a similar situation in the past. To their credit, a number of them promptly reach out with support, encouragement and information about available posts.

Elsewhere, I continue to nurture my socio-cultural interests and pursue spiritual nourishment. Musical reprieve awaits me at the Afro Jam in Marolles and related events around town. The weekend of Palm Sunday, I attend a timely one-day silent retreat, organised by the same team responsible for the long weekend in Namur last summer. There is no extended retreat planned this year. All the more reason to seize this chance. To my pleasant surprise, the one day retreat is held not too far from my neighbourhood. The sprawling grounds are impressive enough not to be marred by the miserable weather. We marvel at how this rustic oasis remains hidden in a busy city. 

Quite a few familiar faces are present; past and current members of my church, FWM. 

Rather awkwardly, a former potential recruiter is also in attendance. She happens to be a parishioner of Rev. Vanderveld as well. It’s a small world. Too small. Nevertheless, the short retreat proves to be a safe place to be vulnerable and gently wrestle with God in peace and quiet. (Mis)perceptions of the Almighty are a thread that run throughout the day. It chimes well with the current season in which I find myself on my spiritual and emotional healing journey.

The following day, I attend the second part of a bilingual (French/Dutch) political education weekend organised by Intal. The conference is aimed at those interested and/or engaged in decolonisation activism and international solidarity. I have Lisa, another new acquaintance, to thank for that invitation. Lively and stimulating conversation abounds, as do the food provisions. I find myself having heated discussions about the role of China in Africa, with me holding a much more sceptical position than many other participants, including Lisa. Before, during and after the conference I connect with fellow political travellers. 

That’s not to presume we’re all exactly on the same page. One participant -a Caucasian from central America - seems to have a hard time accepting the existence of systemic racism in Belgium, despite racialised Belgians informing her otherwise. 

Later that month, Lisa will invite me to a team meeting in Ixelles where a core group strategises on the regular. Lisa and her comrades go to pains to include me. This is exactly the kind of fillip my activism and political organising needs; gradually moving from absorbing lots of theory to praxis. A similar opportunity has opened up elsewhere with a group of volunteers defending the rights of undocumented migrants targeted at MEPs. I pick up one of their flyers at a solidarity demo. After simply making an observation at one meeting, I am drafted (no pun intended) by one of the organisers into the redaction team for campaign materials.

Mum arrives for Easter break a few days after the Intal conference. Once again, I am surprised by my own relaxed attitude throughout her stay. Even if the results seem to manifest at the pace of an iceberg, my self-care and mental wellbeing routines must be having some positive effect.

It took two Corona-interrupted years for mum to visit me in my new-ish Belgium home but she’s made up for it in a relatively short period. It’s her fourth visit since the summer. That takes the pressure off. I don’t have to pack our itinerary with activities, desperate to show her the main Brussels’ landmarks. Mum therefore has plenty of rest time in between outings. She’s keen to accompany me to the Anglican church in town (Rev. Pieter again) for their special Passion week services. We make it bright and early to Maundy Thursday evening service but only catch the tail end of the Good Friday meditations. Mum takes her sweet time at the latter, immersing herself in the liturgy long after everyone else has vacated the sanctuary. I eventually leave her to it, retiring to the back of the church to collect my own thoughts. That evening mum will also accompany me to a vibrant prayer vigil at FWM. My usually reserved mother prays out loud with boldness. She’s also a hit at FWM on Easter/Resurrection Sunday when I introduce her to fellow congregants yet to meet her.

We head to Antwerp on a rainy Easter Monday for a tour by a knowledgeable and zealous city native. I have been underwhelmed by Antwerp on previous visits. Yet the tour helps me see one of Brussels’ main rivals in a fresh light. It’s well-paced and engaging. After the two-hour ramble, mum and I lunch at the House of Waffles, having had our plans to visit the Cathedral thwarted by a long queue and access only granted on payment. Den of Thieves.

It’s a very different experience the following day at Brussels’ Basilica of Koekelberg. Whilst visitors have to pay for access to the gallery and the panoramic rooftop view of the city, access to the main place of worship is free (as it should be). I first visited the Basilica merely weeks after relocating to Belgium, almost three years ago. Back then, the interior was out of bounds owing to COVID restrictions. It’s taken me too long to return. 

I don’t expect to be so impressed by the imposing structure.  A ‘new’ house of worship (early-mid 20^th Century) compared to more ancient orthodox edifices in Europe, I’m stunned by the Basilica’s internal beauty. It has a warm and inviting luminosity, with modern art flourishes and contemporary twists on stain glass windows. 

The Koekelberg Basilica, Brussels
(stock image)

I contrast this with the gothic grimness of the interior of Strasbourg's Notre Dame Cathedral, as magnificent as its exterior might be. The Koekelberg's dome section reminds me of the Cathedral Santa Maria de Fiore in Florence. It’s easy to while away an hour or two inside, even if you don’t make it to the top where a dizzying view of Brussels’ awaits. With age, I’ve inherited more of my mother’s vertigo. We still brave it all to capture some footage, keeping a safe distance from the (admittedly high-walled) edges. The heavens are kind enough not to rain that afternoon. 

It’s not the case on the final day of mum’s spring trip. It's fortunate that I haven’t planned anything beyond the local before her train departs in the early evening. It’s been a pleasant and restful week. Mum and I seriously play with the idea of extending her stay by a few days but it proves impractical. Not to worry. There’ll be other opportunities, inshallah. The year is still young.

Soundtrack: Agora by Cubo Caixo, Young Hearts and various other projects by Benny Sings, Masego by Masego.

Hard Pressed but not Crushed

 

7 min. read

Capricious April first announces itself with a drop in temperature drastic enough for it to snow. A few weeks later, the consistent balmy weather will resume.  The blossoms are in full, extravagant, coral-coloured bloom. (I'm forever enchanted by nature's confetti).

After my auspicious short break in the UK, reality hits hard and quick on my return to Belgium. 

 After several weeks on the blink, my boiler is no closer to being fixed. The miraculous patience I had for the situation wears rapidly thin, especially as the temperature plummets. I grow tired of my landlord’s lack of urgency and even more frustrated with reluctant, unresponsive or unreliable plumbers. When we eventually do find someone willing to do the job, he takes longer than he suggests to supply a quote. After at last he does, the landlord decides on an extra feature that would prevent the build-up of limescale. It’s something for which he could have asked from the outset. This leads to further delays. To expedite the process, I make the appointment for installation before the new quote is even approved by the landlord. 

The technician, Nadeem, comes round with his assistant. I remain in the kitchen whilst they’re fiddling with the new boiler for a while. They prepare to leave as the sun sets, to break their fast.

That is, not before Nadeem demands payment. I assure him I'll make the transfer ASAP. He also chooses this moment to reveal that he misinformed me about the original quote, even after I double checked. They are unable to install the additional features that same day. So much the better. My landlord would otherwise be paying an arm and a leg. To cap it all, Nadeem tells me that they don’t have the van space to dispose of my old boiler. He’ll have to collect it later.

It’s only after Nadeem and co have left that I notice what a shoddy job has been done. A part of the boiler is hanging loose. There is still no hot water. It takes longer than it should to schedule a follow-up, with a lot of evasiveness and some dissembling on Nadeem’s part. He comes round again. Does some more fiddling. Still no warm water. The old boiler continues to be an obstruction in my hallway. I wonder if Nadeem is doing it on purpose. I’ve already decided no payment will be made until the task has been completed to a satisfactory standard. The saga continues well into Easter weekend, to my consternation. This time, to make sure, I conspicuously observe Nadeem whilst he works. Even when I finally feel the trickle of hot water between my fingers under the bathroom taps, I won’t dare inform the landlord until days later. I don’t want to tempt fate.

First world problems, perhaps but it’s additional stress. 

I’m doing my best to manage the things within my control. I have to make my peace with spending Easter on my own. Mum will not be fully vaccinated in time to benefit from relaxed travel rules. Em does not reply when I invite her round for Resurrection Sunday dinner.

I launch my job search after returning from the UK. Not much about which to be optimistic so far. 

I finally get hold of the trade union liaison once responsible for my file, following the discrimination and harassment I faced at TTUO. He’s never had the decency to directly communicate with me, ignoring my requests via the Delegation. I call and, as calmly as possible, explain where I feel there is room for improvement in the support he provides, for future reference. 

The liaison's response is arrogant and self-justifying. 

Typical of white fragility, he plays the victim, accusing me of aggression. He admits no culpability nor concedes that things could have been done better. He has no proper answer for a complete absence of direct communication. Instead he defends the process, the lacklustre attitude of the Delegation towards its conclusion and even the Belgian law that offers too little protection for fixed term workers. What about my interests, I ask, where’s his compassion for me? He’s not there to offer ‘psychological support’ he repeats, ad nauseum. He shows more hostility towards me than he does the Gen. Sec who wrangled and harassed me out of a job.

The heated discussion is conducted in my second language. I'm angry and haven't (yet) mastered French to the level of my first language. I'm therefore not as fluid as I would be in English. Still, I communicate my indignation well enough for him to be hyper-defensive. Talk about closing ranks. His outrage is misplaced. I’m the one who should be offended.

I still believe in the union movement, I inform him, but it’s individuals like you that make me – and others – doubt its efficacy.

Utrecht (GetYourGuide)

I’m frequenting fitness classes yet results seem sluggish, even weeks into a chastened Lenten regime. 

As Holy Week approaches, I tweak my routine further.

I spend a couple of days in the lovely Dutch town of Utrecht, where I review an excellent set by British Funk/Soul outfit, Mamas Gun. The mixed-dorm that I accidentally booked is not an experience I’ll repeat again. At least the premises are clean and the staff are helpful. It’s a fly-by-night trip. There’s enough time before returning to Belgium to engage in lengthy conversation with a friendly Irish woman from the dorm and attend a city tour. The weather has been kind. It’s good to be away just for a bit from Brussels, a city increasingly associated in my mind with false starts and false hope.

Holy Week begins the day after my Holland excursion. I’ve felt somewhat out to sea this Lent. In 2021, for the first time in aeons, I didn’t abstain from anything for the 40 days. I missed that kind of observance. Nevertheless, this year Lent hasn’t been the transcendant or serene experience for which I’d hoped. 

For the final seven days, I immerse myself in Gospel music and endeavour to be more circumspect about what content I imbibe.

I’m not a hermit, however. I make time for friends and fellowship. I lead a bible study on Christ’s statement, I am the Resurrection and the Life. It's well received. I’m emotional by the end of the discussion. It certainly helps to get my head and heart in the right space. 

That weekend, I have the opportunity to become better acquainted over drinks with Elsa, a fellow congregant at my Belgian church, FWM. Of mixed heritage, originally from Cape Verde, she patiently encourages my efforts to practise Portuguese. She’s a remarkable woman; quite the maverick. Looking too youthful to have a daughter almost 30 years old, she married young and scandalised her old Catholic community by divorcing a few years later. She went on to forge a successful career as a Leftist politician in her adopted home in the Netherlands; blazing a trail as one of very few Afrodescendant women in the game. She faced down misogynoir on all sides, including horrific threats of sexual violence and death. Ours is a meeting of minds on several fronts. I'm always buoyed by encounters with politically-aware, socially-engaged Christians.

Réformé-Ch

A few days prior, I catch up with Gretchen, erstwhile member of FWM. I’m pleased to discover things are going better for her since we last met in the New Year. Gretchen mentions in passing that she saw Lorenzo at a one-day silent retreat in late March. It coincided with my trip to the UK. If I had been there, no doubt Lorenzo wouldn't have attended. It was I who informed him of the retreat, when we were still on regular speaking terms. I’m conflicted, glad that he availed himself of this spiritual exercise on one hand. On the other, not wanting a reminder of a friendship once so dear but appearing more moribund as each day passes. It puts me in a funk.

Seeing as FWM does not have any special programme for the season apart from Easter Sunday, starting from Maundy Thursday I attend services at Trinity; a High-Anglican church in the City Centre. It’s a lot more regimented than is my custom. There are rituals that are unfamiliar to me, such as being plunged in near darkness on Easter Saturday before the individual Paschal candles are lit. Yet, carving out this time over Passion Weekend is just what I need for personal reflection. There are pockets of silence during the extended Good Friday service that are close to bliss.

After a special Resurrection Sunday performance at FWM, part-endearing (the kids), part cringe-worthy (most of the rest), it’s back home for a post-Lent brunch and an epic Skype call with sis. I pop out in the evening to check out an open mic night in town. It has just restarted after two years in the pandemic wilderness. I’ve been slowly getting to know these establishments in recent weeks. At the beginning of the month, I try out a jazz jam. It’s dominated, as usual, by self-indulgent instrumentalists. I hope to make some musical connections but it's not to be that evening. The reaction to my sung rendition of Stella by Starlight – substantially drowned out by the musicians-is at best lukewarm.

(BigOven)

This Easter Sunday session, at a different bar, is more a guitar-based singer/songwriter affair. Except for a few punters on the terrace, the venue is empty when I arrive. The bartender assures me the jam is still going ahead. I do a circuit around the neighbourhood. It’s a fine Spring evening in Brussels city centre. There’s a solitary musician getting ready to play when I return to the bar. 

I spot he’s British from his heavily-accented French. I stay for one song out of politeness. After brief conversation, he hands me his business card, to stay abreast of future events.

It’s back home for Easter Dinner for one; a menu comprised of dishes from Greece and Lebanon (courtesy of a new cook book) and chocolate for dessert.

I’ll spend most of Easter Monday with friends in Schaerbeek. Karin has organised a Resurrection Weekend breakfast/brunch according to German tradition. When I arrive, it’s so busy they can barely hear the doorbell. I’m zealously welcomed by Karin and Felix’ son, Amos, one of his playmates in tow. As I converse with some guests, I feel a rustling of my skirt and a gentle pressure against my calves. I look down to see Evita, the couple’s toddler. I pick her up with delight, her simple, adorable gesture warming my heart beyond measure. Evita always plays coy with me, returning my cuddle before hastening to join her mum in the kitchen.

It’s good to get out. The alternative would be staying at home with my sombre thoughts. The Resurrection Breakfast is a blessing for several reasons. Good food and good company, yes. It’s also the occasion to make my peace with Miriam, a church sister to whom I have not been kind of late. As a recovering Pharisee, I’ve allowed a sanctimonious side to get the better of me. The Holy Spirit won’t allow it. I apologise unreservedly to Miriam and she graciously accepts.

Karin and Felix have more food left over than they know what to do with. I can’t bring myself to eat the boiled eggs beautifully decorated by Karin and the little ones.

As she prepares doggy bags, we discuss a forthcoming Italian excursion. 

TBC.

April in Lockdown

The end of April marks the first full month in lockdown for several parts of Europe; particularly those that were slower to react to the pandemic. This sombre milestone has brought with it much psychological drain and I am sure I am not the only one.

Holy Week provides a respite from the gloom. Christians find parallels of suffering in the life and Passion of Christ; God amongst us. I come across a number of positive reflections of faith in mainstream media. In the context of COVID-19, there’s not the same wariness and cynicism that might accompany these op-eds.

In the lead up to Easter, there’s an inevitable increase in demand for goods. I end up making two trips, not having had the presence of mind to bring forward my shopping schedule. The supermarket queues are intimidatingly long and stock runs out early. I am also still awaiting a package from the UK that has been re-routed. After a long and futile wait at La Poste (still yet to arrive), I head to the closest supermarket. It’s another long queue in the unusually warm spring sun.

Inside, I see my former boss Lucia from The Human Rights Organisation. She’s one of the last people I’d expect -or want- to come across. It doesn’t help that I’m still in professional limbo.

We don’t make direct eye contact. I decide that I’ll make polite conversation if we do. If nothing else, I'm genuinely concerned for her family in Italy under lockdown. At the same time, I’m too tired and dehydrated to go out of my way to talk. I don’t know whether it’s the ‘right’ Christian response. I can say that it’s sincere.

Easter/Resurrection Weekend is an oasis of hope and spiritual introspection. Having gone vegetarian for Lent, I treat myself to a mixed meat grill; still with a healthy portion of veg. Not long after the holiday, my choir HRGS release their video for the medley demo we recorded late last year. I forward it to family and friends. Sis comments on the timeliness of the upbeat message. None of us could have planned it.

Easter Monday evening, President Macron announces a provisional date to relax some of the lockdown measures; Monday 11 May. If that infamous curve is sufficiently flattened, resumption will still only be tentative. Schools might open but tertiary academic institutions would remain closed, as would cafés, restaurants, bars and clubs.

During the Easter season, I’ve given myself a rare weekend off. Ish. The real world hits the Tuesday morning after.  The return to some sort of routine brings with it fresh anxiety over what lies ahead. The carpet of pink around cherry blossom trees outside my flat signal the end of one of my favourite seasonal transitions. It adds to the melancholy. Sigh.

Later that week, I meet some church sisters online for a cyber aperitif. They rather glibly speak of the possibility that internal borders in Europe will remain closed until autumn. They are, for some reason, surprised at my horrified reaction. I was aware that southern European borders might be closed for that length of time. That's understandable given the severity of the crisis in Spain, Italy and yes France. I’d hoped there might eventually be freer circulation in North Western Europe. Both from a personal and professional perspective, the idea of not being able to move beyond the French frontier for most of the year fills me with some dread.

After the call I pray. I phone my mother, in need of her stoicism. My mood nevertheless goes on a downward spiral. I feel more cut off geographically and psychologically as weeks go by. Cleaning my guest bathroom has become an act of faith. I don’t know if and when I’ll next have someone round to stay before I have to move on from Strasbourg. Whenever that might be.

The prolonged locked down is having contradictory effects on my psyche. On one hand, I feel the isolation more acutely and recognise my need for human contact in whatever form. And yet I find myself reluctant to speak on the phone.

When I do bump into people from my Strasbourg network, I feel caught off guard. One sunny Saturday afternoon, stepping out for my daily ramble before night fall, I run into a neighbour and then a member of my choir within the space of a short jaunt. It triggers a neurotic crisis over my French. I’m gabbling. I’m dressed in any old thing. I'm feeling less confident without make-up. Or rather, more exposed. I refuse to be a slave to cosmetics during lockdown. It seems pointless to apply make-up when my only trips are to the shops or a walk around the neighbourhood. I’ve all but abandoned it. However, judging from my (over)reaction on that particular occasion, I’m not as liberated as I thought.

(courtesy of Le Monde)

Out in the wider world, some are putting their faith in #11Mai. The population is growing restive, particularly in neighbourhoods where the majority don't have the luxury of working from home and/or live in cramped conditions. There are pockets of civil unrest, following an incident in which a policeman allegedly caused a motorcyclist to collide with his patrol car on purpose. Meanwhile, others scrutinise France’s own mismanagement of the crisis; namely the lack of responsiveness since at least the early January pandemic warnings. During his Easter Monday speech Macron positions himself with the public; somewhat indignant about the shortage of PPE. As if the country’s lack of preparedness for the crisis was a policy decision with which he had nothing to do with.

There are nonetheless those who are relieved to have a focal point on their calendar for deconfinement. On entering a newsagents, having gone through the meticulous social distancing requirements, I overhear presenters on a radio show prematurely celebrating an ‘end in sight’.  Guests interviewed on talk shows from their homes are already being asked what their post-11 May plans are.

They’re not the only ones counting their chickens. I note a number of non-essential businesses have re-opened. In France, wine shops and cheese makers might be considered 'essential'; a part of the national heritage. It's however more difficult to justify when such products can be acquired at the supermarket. I spot a (masked) optician, welcoming an (also masked) client into their empty and darkened premises. I note a café I used to visit on occasion has converted itself, rather dubiously, to get around current restrictions. Whether Turkish pastries count as indispensable at this time would be harder to defend, if some French patisseries weren't also circumventing the lockdown.  Other arguably essential services that opted to close up early on in the lockdown are cautiously opening their doors again, albeit for fewer hours.

(courtesy of HansLucas.com)

Whilst my French church are prudent in announcing a possible return to services offline in the summer, the main protestant church in my vicinity organises unofficial nightly services. I come across one such during an early evening walk. I plan to spend some time of quiet contemplation, alone in the pews. Should the urge to sing overtake me, as it has before, the acoustics are fantastic. To my slight dismay I see a handful of parishioners scattered around the premises. The vicar is in full regalia. I hover, wondering whether to enter. Curiosity gets the better of me. I slip into the back; half-expecting the authorities to shut down proceedings at any moment. A song is raised in Latin. Four-part acappella harmonies ricochet off the walls. In that blissful moment, my apprehension is suspended. I ask myself if this has been rehearsed. It’s rare in any setting to find that kind of spontaneous but accomplished musicality.

After grace, my quick exit is interrupted when the pastor gingerly heads towards the door. I can't resist asking him why he’s holding a service, considering the current prohibition.

After ironically making a great show of keeping a safe distance, he explains how he’s getting around the restrictions by way of a technicality.

Places of worship can still remain open, he reasons. There are of course people like yourself who might wander in. It’s an informal moment of prayer...

As much as I've benefited from this illicit gathering,  I won't take the risk of attending any more.

I hear some are growing weary of cyber-activity. I am not one of them. As I discover speaking to a few of my UK church family, some of us are welcoming the break from the usual, often hectic, Sunday routine.

Between the tears and mild panic attacks, there are plenty of informative webinars and online fellowship to keep my mind and soul occupied. I don’t mess with the daily devotionals, online prayer meetings or weekly socialist campaign updates. These are lifelines without which, I am convinced, soundness of mind would have gone out the window.

Soundtrack: Alewa by Santrofi, It Is What It Is by Thundercat.