Solo Debut: Part II

 5 + a 1/2 min. read

Part I

(c) Brett Jordan

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

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

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

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 My paper doesn’t correspond with much of this now outdated version of my slides.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(c) Tamas Szabo

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Year, Same Me?

 5 min. read

(image: ITVX)

The hectic Christmas period is already a somewhat distant memory. As usual, I don’t know whether to be melancholy or relieved.

The outbound journey to the UK for the first half of the festive period is more hectic than it should be. After a two-day postponement, the coach company with which I’m originally supposed to travel cancels my journey the day before departure. I miraculously book a last-minute replacement; by coincidence with the same Eastern European company with which I’m scheduled to return to Belgium. They arrive over an hour late, without an apology. The driver takes another one hour break. All the announcements are in Polish, catering to their main clientele, whilst ignoring that they are an international company with non-Poles on board. This is all the more disorientating given that we travel the same day that operators on the French side of the Eurotunnel call a wildcat strike. Desperate drivers re-route to Calais port to catch a ferry. We’re gridlocked for hours. We manage to secure places on a ship that will arrive in Dover by midnight. It’ll take another couple of hours to reach Victoria station. Mum calls on the regular for a sit-rep. She and sis – who has arrived a few days earlier – can’t really sleep knowing I’ll arrive in the wee small hours. Eventually, the coach reaches London eight hours behind schedule. We pass my mother’s neighbourhood en route. The driver refuses to stop. 

There are small mercies to make the inconveniences more bearable. A half-Polish, half-Belgian woman who sparks conversation. A Polish lass based in Lille who speaks excellent French and English and offers to translate announcements. Her French friend who attempts unsuccessfully to arrange a ride to my mum’s place. A Belgo-Congolese couple, one of whom spent a significant period of his formative years in the very same South-East London where I grew up. By some pleasant happenstance, we’re all heading towards South London after the coach drops us off. The couple and I travel on the same bus for part of what is, ironically, the most straightforward aspect of the trip home. I lose sight of them at New Cross. Ships passing in the night.

What is supposed to be a week’s stay is truncated into a long weekend. It’s nonetheless relatively serene, if intense. By some good fortune, I am able to rearrange all my appointments. I have my first check-in with the dentist in two years. I catch up with a few friends. Christmas with family is mercifully drama-free and there’s a fair bit of mirth. Sis prepares a sumptuous Yuletide feast, experimenting with new recipes. In between the festive elements, I work on my latest commission, from my old employers, TTUO, of all places.

A stain-glass window in the Koelgelberg Basilica

I head back to Belgium on 27 December. I have a couple of days before mum and sis visit. There’s little time to catch my breath. These days soon fill with activity and I find it difficult – as usual – to slow down.

Hosting mum and sis is a relative success, albeit less carefree than my time in the UK. The weather and normal festive closures limit our activity. There’s also something about the trio dynamic that becomes overwhelming at times. I feel, or am made to feel, like the odd one out. Negotiating my younger sibling’s moods means sometimes expending more mental and emotional energy than I’d like. Being where I am in my own wellness process, I’m all the more sensitive to certain behaviour. By the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, I am thoroughly miserable and disillusioned with life. I have little appetite to pray. Only timely wisdom by some Catholic clergy helps lift me out of my funk. I am recovered enough by the next morning to prepare New Year’s Day dinner.

Mum and sis stay for longer than the previous year and yet, I still regret all that we don’t have a chance to see. Sis’ visits are only annual. For now, she has no plans to visit before the following Christmas. When I suggest we gather at mine for Christmas Day 2024, sis vehemently refuses. Mum, much more open to the idea, is stunned into silence. Angered by sis' tirade, I protest but with less vigour than I would were it just us two. It'll irritate me for days to come.

 If sis can only visit once a year, the festive period is both the best and worst time. There’s an undoubted magic to the city during that season, yet other aspects are on hold for the holidays. 

On a more upbeat note, sis accompanies me to one of my favourite Zumba classes. Her natural dance skills shine through, attracting compliments. The penultimate day of mum and sis' stay, we pay a late visit to the Koekelberg Basilica followed by a leisurely stroll through central Brussels. My guests catch up on some chocolate shopping.

Any loneliness I’d feel on their departure the following day is staved off by being thrown back into activity. 

A week into the New Year, my church FWM launches 21 days of prayer and fasting which I embrace with zeal. 

I’m involved in organising some of Intal’s political education events this quarter, the planning of which involves successive meetings. There are more pro-Palestine demonstrations to support. The weekend of a Global Day of Action, Brussels holds a (belated) rally. There are cheers for South Africa’s decision to bring charges against the state of Israel for war crimes at the Hague (below). Palestinian journalist, Omar Abu Karem, a familiar face at these gatherings, is on hunger strike until a ceasefire is called. At the time of that demo, he's abstained from food for 15 days and counting. Abu-Karem joins other activists around the world, literally putting their bodies on the line. I can’t imagine that degree of self-denial. Whether or not he is a Christian, he exemplifies what Christ declared to be the ultimate demonstration of love. As much as I endeavour to live by the principles of my faith, I don’t know if I have that level of self-sacrifice in me. The actions of Abu-Karem and others inspire, challenge and put to shame. I once again reflect on the many Christians who remain complicit; either through actively supporting Zionism or worse still, by their silence. It’s all the more deafening after the viral success of Palestinian minister, Rev. Munther Isaac’s outstanding Christmas message, Christ Under the Rubble. It's the sound of crickets when I mention the sermon during an early morning prayer meeting at FWM one Sunday. I’ve never felt more on the fringes of the Church than at moments like these.

I reconnect with Pete, my life coach for a very candid reflection on the Christmas season. That weekend, I’ll welcome one of his friends, Lesley. We're now integrating into each other's circles following an introduction by Pete. It’s the first time I’ve hosted anybody since 2022. After being knocked off my perch for a while by the various relational mishaps that year, I am determined to resume my hospitality efforts. Glory be, dinner with Lesley goes well. We discover we’re both Stevie Wonder and Sade fans. Lesley recognises a portrait of the soulstress on my coffee table. Freshly recovered from COVID and with a reduced appetite, she nevertheless enjoys the fish pie I've prepared. She seems to like the company even more.

Soundtrack: My 2022 and 2023 End of Year Mixes.