Red, White, Black and Green

 8-9 min. read

(c) Farahgraphicz

I could not reflect on the past month without acknowledging the events of 7 October in Israel and the ensuing onslaught in Gaza. Much of my time, before, during and after my most recent UK trip has been consumed by it. 

The attacks by Hamas on Israeli civilians come shortly after a national day of action in Belgium to protest the government’s plans to restrict the very right to demonstrate. 

My comrades at Intal and others regroup again when the Israeli state responds to Hamas’ brutality with predictably gruesome and disproportionate reprisals. 

The night of Hamas’ assault, I sleep fitfully, terrified of Israel's retribution that is sure to come. The following morning at church, I open up briefly when asked how I'm doing by Roy, another regular. I’m hesitant to share. Whatever my church’s official position - assuming there is one - it is not rabidly Zionist. Still, there are members who are. Roy isn’t, even if he’s less enthused about Palestinian liberation than I’d hope. He advises me to be attentive to self-care. 

You can’t take on all the world's burdens, he admonishes, That’s God’s job. You’ll be far less useful if you’re burned out. 

True that.

What many of us fear comes to pass. As I write, the IDF’s offensive has seen the slaughter of over 11,000 Gazan civilians (some believing this to be a serious underestimate), roughly half of whom are children. I weep with others across the world when I hear or think of the horror taking place on the ground; not just in Gaza but throughout the Palestinian territories. Shortly after I put virtual pen to paper for this article, I learn of the arrest of well-known Palestinian activist, Ahed Tamimi under an apparent pretext; no doubt an act of provocation by the Israeli state. At the ripe-old age of 22, she's already spent significant periods of time in custody. That same week, IDF militia shoot dead a 13 year-old in the West Bank, on the way to hang out with his friends.

I channel my terror into prayers and making my voice heard where possible, mainly through collective action on both sides of the Channel. In Belgium I attend any pro-Palestine and ceasefire demonstration event for which I'm available. Many involve Intal, the peace-building, anti-imperialist initiative which I joined earlier this year.  They have long been active in campaigning and raising awareness around the Palestinian cause. I'm informed at a team meeting that the organisation has gained hundreds of new members in the weeks since the crisis spiralled.

I have the privilege of being part of the reportedly half a million who march through central London in late October. I become tearful at the display of solidarity amongst this reassuringly diverse crowd. I also well up at the thought of freedom for Palestinians, no matter how remote it appears at the moment. From the River to the Sea...- a chant so maligned and misrepresented by Zionists - moves me every time.

The following weekend, not long after I return to Belgium, my mother participates in one of many demonstrations at the local level throughout the UK. She has a similar emotional reaction. She's also touched enough to attend the enormous rally taking place in London on Armistice day. Despite the (now sacked) UK Home Secretary Suella Braverman's attempts to incite social unrest, she's defied by up to 800,000 -according to some estimates - mostly peaceful participants.

I seriously reflect on which companies to add to my BDS list. I don't patronise Starbucks in any case, and I can't remember when I last purchased anything from McDonalds. I'm more partial to Domino's Pizza and Burger King but these are rare treats and easily suspended. Boycotting French supermarket chain, Carrefour will be tougher. Alas, my knowledge of HP’s implication in the regime comes just after replacing my old laptop with one of their products.

I learn of celebrities I once respected writing inane letters to President Biden, effectively congratulating him for aiding and abetting Israel’s murderous campaign. I am baffled by African-Americans such as Chris Rock, Tyler Perry and Jordan Peele’s reaction. It’s one thing for a subset of black Christians who have swallowed vile Zionist indoctrination whole in the name of religion (that could explain Perry's stance). It’s another for those who don’t have that excuse. 

I am convinced more than ever that the modern Israeli state is just another iteration of white supremacist colonial ambition. The stratification of Israeli Jews along ethnic lines, with European Jews at the top of the food chain, is evidence of that. The Zionists have Judaised this variation of supremacy but it's not a specifically Jewish phenomenon. Anybody who chants Black Lives Matter and cannot stand up for the lives of Palestinians, is not serious about combatting racism. The hashtag trend-chasers are thus exposed. Those who would devalue Palestinian lives will likely do the same to Black lives behind closed doors. It’s of no benefit for once colonised people to support any imperial project. Our struggles are intertwined and always have been. But elites will usually close ranks, regardless of their ethnicity. I should probably add the oeuvre of a few of these celebrities to my boycott list, at least until they see some sense.

Earlier in the crisis, I encourage my mother to write to her local MP. No longer based in the UK, I don't have the same access to its parliamentary representatives. The MP's response is at times mealy-mouthed and overall lacking in moral courage. She gives a completely a-historical account of events, ignoring the 1948 Nakba and laying all the blame at Hamas' feet. As if they exist in a vacuum. As if successive Israeli administrations -including Netanyahu's- had not funded Hamas as part of a divide and rule tactic to split Palestinian political support. As if nothing preceded 7 October 2023.

 

 Yet for every spineless and morally derelict elected official, playing politics with people's lives, fomenting hatred or calling for mere ‘humanitarian pauses*’, there's an Ilhan Omar delivering an impassioned speech in favour of true humanitarianism, whether or not it 'benefits' her career. Or her courageous Palestinian-American colleague, Rashida Tlaib being censured for requesting that US Congress to do the humane thing. Or workers showing more integrity than their political representatives, refusing to handle Israeli goods and demanding a ceasefire. 

* (This nonsensical notion of an humanitarian pause is like interrupting a man pummelling another, so that the victim can grab some lunch, take a shower and put on a few plasters, only to let the perpetrator continue to beat them to death after the break)

For every celebrity motivated by self-interest, there are others insisting on an end to Israel’s collective punishment; seasoned activists who defy their privileged class to speak out against injustice, whether it's popular with their peers or not. I'm relieved to come across a video by a musical hero of mine condemning Western leaders' bellicosity.

For every Archbishop of Canterbury giving carte blanche to Israel, there’s a Pope Francis calling for a ceasefire. And of course, there are the millions across the world marching in solidarity with Palestine, many of them Jewish. I'm proud to count Jewish comrades, resisting racism in all its forms, amongst my friends. Within Israel and beyond, they do not abide by their ethnicity being hijacked for cynical colonial ends. I look on in admiration as the likes of Barnaby Raine and James Schneider make a potent and eloquent case for solidarity with the Palestinians, at the risk of being labelled self-hating Jews by unhinged critics. High profile Jewish voices speaking out against the possible genocide such as Judith Butler and Gabor Maté , are essential to discredit the mainstream narrative that conflates their ethnicity with the state of Israel. (It's telling however, that these come from the more rarefied world of academia and public thinkers, whereas certain Jewish entertainers prove themselves less 'progressive' than they claim.)

I once again tap into the knowledge and experience of Palestinian Christians. My faith-based activism is re-invigorated as I learn about the Palestinian take on Liberation Theology. At the same time, I force myself to listen to views with which I might not entirely agree, within reason.

I become increasingly disillusioned with the capital-C Church. Whilst speaking to a friend in London, not especially well-versed in the history of Palestine-Israel, he expresses disbelief at the deafening omerta from Christians, both at his church and more widely. I share his bewilderment. 

It's not so much a crisis of faith but a crisis of belonging. Although my family were not activists, I grew up in a household that was sympathetic to the Palestinian cause. Whilst that instinct has been challenged, particularly when surrounded by Christian Zionists as an undergrad, it's so ingrained in me that I could never abandon it wholly.  Maybe that's given me a head start and I need to be more patient with those slow to catch-up. But still...

On one end, I am angered by the Church’s virulent strain of Zionism (especially amongst my evangelical/charismatic tribe) and on the other by the cowardly ‘it’s complicated’ fence-sitting. The latter is worse in some ways. If the history of the region is complex, the right for Palestinians not to be oppressed and dehumanised isn't hard to grasp. The aforementioned MP for my mother's constituency is supposedly a Christian. However, she seems more preoccupied with upholding her party leader's unjustifiable position than doing the honourable thing.

Of all the folk I bump into at the rallies or demos, I count none of my immediate or wider church family amongst them. 

Of course, there are exceptions. I have Christian family members attending protests in their corners of the world. My sister is blessed enough to attend a pro-Palestine church in Japan, led by a Jewish-Christian female pastor. Thank God for somebody like Cornel West, willing to stand up and be counted as he has done consistently over this issue, even to his detriment. This kind of solidarity should be commonplace amongst the Body of Christ but is sadly- shamefully – rare.

I feel on the edges of my own church community in Belgium. Apart from a select few events, I avoid extra-curricular activities. I make it to a surprise birthday party for one of the senior pastors, safe in the knowledge that at such a celebration guests will want to avoid controversial themes.

 

I’m keeping a distance from prayer meetings until further notice, for fear of being dysregulated by some insensitive comment about Palestine. Or flat out losing it with anyone who tries to warp scripture to justify the massacre of fellow image bearers of God. 

The hypocrisy is stifling. 

Where is the outrage? Where is the lament for Palestinian sisters and brothers whose places of worship and very lives are being destroyed and have been for decades? What kind of Zionist cognitive dissonance conveniently ignores scripture's admonition for any retribution to be proportionate or to show compassion to the 'stranger in the land'? How can one so callously neglect what Christ declared to be one of the two greatest commandments; to love your neighbour as yourself? Any theology that leads you to devalue the humanity of another is not worthy of the name. It's heresy, and should be ditched accordingly.

I resist the arrogant, chronocentric framing of being on the 'right' or ‘wrong side of History’. This is simply a case of living out the love, truth, mercy and compassion we find embodied in our Lord and Saviour. It can't be a coincidence that Jesus speaks of Justice before He mentions Peace in the Sermon on the Mount. The former is a sina qua non of the latter, as we often hear.

That’s why I consider it providential – an instance of Divine Mercy – that I happen to meet a Christian at the October demonstration in London. Of all the 500,000 in attendance I could have stood beside, I am next to Miranda; an older Christian woman, member of the Labour Party (still, miraculously) and a fellow one-time supporter of Corbyn during his years as the party's leader. We remain in touch long after I return to Belgium. I suppose we’re both pleasantly surprised, not to mention grateful, to have found each other. God knows, I need the boost.

A Jazzed-Up Spring

 7 min. read

Two years on from the last lockdown, there are things I am still discovering about life in Brussels. It’s been nearly three years since my relocation but it feels that I’ve only properly started to get a measure of the socio-cultural calendar as of 2022. One thing I’m coming to understand is how much the brighter, warmer seasons are accompanied by music. Beyond what have become my regular haunts, there are numerous festivals. These include the Brussels Jazz Weekend at the end of May, as well as the Fête de la Musique in late June. Jazz appears to have pride of place during this seasonal shift. Well-known establishments like L'Archiduc launch a programme of weekly (mostly free) concerts featuring artists from all over the world, for instance. I take advantage of this gratis entertainment; whether flying solo or with acquaintances. 

One weekend at the end of April, I drop in on a live competition for young, up-and-coming artists at Le Senghor cultural hub. I recognise most of the Jazz contingent from my relatively brief exposure to the scene so far.

Whilst I’d always have been keen on such artistic indulgences, they have been a lifeline as I navigate the limbo that is currently my life.

As I write, I’m still waiting for the outcome of an interview I had on Good Friday. It’s been well over a month. At this point, that’s just plain rude. 

The interview itself seemed to go well enough and the panel appeared eager to fill the role quickly. I suspect they’ve gone with another candidate and simply forgotten to inform me. It's unprofessional, not to mention inauspicious. Seen in that light, it might turn out to be a blessing in disguise that they didn't recruit me. 

Still, the lack of clarity is unsettling. I wasn’t over-invested in the job but neither was I indifferent. I thought I’d struck a good balance. 

A few days after mum returns to the UK following her Easter visit, I realise that the uncertainty has affected me more than I thought. I increasingly struggle with gut-churning angst at the start of the week, to the point of having physical symptoms. The Monday after mum’s departure, and a few days past the deadline given by the potential employer, my psycho-emotional state takes a slow but noticeable dive. This depressive episode takes longer to lift, despite my efforts. There’s not much that can be done but to ride it out as best as I can.

And so I return as always to music as a solace. It can be as much a means for me to connect with the Divine as more traditional Christian fellowship. 

I don’t confine my appetite for live music to Jazz. For one thing, that crowd is too exclusive. Jazz musicians -and to an extent, audiences - tend to be withholding in their affirmation. 

One evening, after a meeting with the social action team at church, I pass by central Brussels for the monthly Brazilian jam at Café Merlot. I don’t necessarily intend to sing that night. However, the atmosphere is so laidback and conducive, I end up performing a couple of Lusophone classics. 

I frequent the weekly Afro-Jam in Marolles at least once a month. One of the regulars, a Belgo-Cameroonian curiously called Roland-Heinrich – has taken a shine to me. He has committed to memory almost everything I’ve said to him, whereas our interactions have barely registered with me. When he asks to swap numbers, I’m apprehensive. I’m not romantically attracted to him and our exchanges are unremarkable. Then again, it’s better if I’m not overly-committed. I can chalk it up to experience; a social experiment. 

Roland-Heinrich wants to meet up immediately. I tell myself it’s better to get it out of the way. I have a window that Sunday afternoon, anyway. The Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) have organised a solidarity barbeque that same day, focusing on the cost of living crisis. I can meet Roland afterwards.

The BBQ itself is more relaxed and informal than I expect. There’s more emphasis on food and fraternising than political education. I’m just content to be a member of a party that isn’t afraid to embrace radical policies and denounce imperialism. Whilst the PTB proudly owns its Marxist roots, you don’t have to be one to find a home here. If the present British electoral system allowed this choice, such a party would surely attract anybody to the Left of the current rightward drift in mainstream politics-the Labour Party included. Parties like PTB appeal to those willing to challenge the Neo-Liberal consensus or left homeless after the Pasokification of so many mainstream centre-Left European parties; socialist in name only.

(Image courtesy of Thermo Fisher Science)

Guests leave the BBQ promptly once sufficiently fed. I stick around until the end, more out of politeness. My interlocutors have drifted off and I don’t fancy trying to integrate myself into groups already deep in conversation. I’m not a fan of small talk, especially in French.

I take a leisurely stroll towards town and still arrive far earlier than I’m scheduled to meet Roland-Heinrich. He doesn't live in Brussels. I either didn’t know or forgot. 

I pass by L'Archiduc to confirm there’s a free concert that evening. I’d already suggested it to Roland. It saves us wasting time finding something to do. 

Whilst waiting at De Brouckere, a man approaches me. He has that poetic directness that I've come to associate with being chatted up in mainland Europe. His name is Aziz. He’s in a wheelchair and appears to have some kind of palsy, which makes his speech sometimes difficult to understand. We nevertheless have a pleasant and innocently flirtatious exchange, much to the bemusement of a group of men sitting nearby. Aziz asks if his disability would be a problem. Instinctively, I say ‘no’. I’m uncomfortable with the framing of the question. We’re all made in God’s image, I reply. Yet, whilst it’s not the sole consideration, I do demure politely (with a smile) when Aziz asks for my number. I’m wracked by guilt that some ableism might be at play. Either way, Aziz seems quite pleased with how the interaction has gone. I thank him for the compliments and kiss him on the cheek before he moves off.

Roland-Heinrich shows up shortly afterwards. 

A multi-instrumentalist himself, he appreciates the musicianship as we catch the tail-end of the free gig at L'Archiduc. Once the music is over, the venue clears out almost entirely. 

Roland-Heinrich swiftly moves towards making his intentions known. He lists all his credentials (a paediatrician with a MSc from an American Ivy League institution. A stint with UNICEF...). Whilst I welcome honesty and commend his expressed appreciation of black women, I'm unhappy at how quickly the conversation takes this turn. We barely know each other and his interest in me seems largely based on the physical. That's far too little on which to go by for him to be making grand declarations. I feel obligated to itemise all the reasons why I’m not interested in him beyond the platonic. By the end of the night, even vague ideas of friendship are less appealing. 

Roland-Heinrich isn't taking no for an answer. I suspect he plans to bide his time.  I dislike that pressure and let him know outright. Apart from the absence of any physical attraction from my side, I don’t see much compatibility beyond our shared enthusiasm for music. Roland-Heinrich's far too comfortably indifferent about my political interests. He also comes with particular baggage. He has a young daughter living overseas. I love children but have my own personal reasons for not wanting to wade into that kind of situation. Roland-Heinrich replies that 'at our age' (he's quite a few years younger than me), there tend to be more complications. On the contrary, I riposte. I know several childless men in their 30s, 40s and older. Roland's attitude towards the mother of his child also leaves a lot to be desired. He seems to think that by being dismissive of her, this would win me over. Nope. 

Speaking to a dear male friend on the phone the next day, he assures me my appraisal of the non-date was not too harsh. On reflection, I’d rather not hang out with Roland-Heinrich again, even for politeness' sake. It just means things would be awkward if/when we see each other at the Afro Jam.

There’s more political engagement that week at the annual Worker’s Holiday festival in central Brussels (1 May). I’ve volunteered to help run the stand for Intal; an internationalist anti-colonial, peacebuilding initiative that I’ve recently joined. They have no shortage of folk willing to help but it’s a long shift. The more personnel to relieve the pressure, the better. 

I’m new to Intal. As I ease into the task, I need the more experienced members to be at hand. I eventually hit my stride, nonetheless. I feel useful and have a lot of fun. From my experience thus far, the Intal crew are a warm bunch.  I purchase a T-shirt commemorating the 50^th anniversary of Allende’s thwarted revolution in Chile. One lad from PTB’s junior collective approaches me at the stand, assuming I’m only slightly older than his 22 years. 

Why, were you trying to recruit me? I ask, chuffed at the thought. His response is ambiguous, a tad bashful. It’s been that kind of (long) weekend. When it comes to male attention, it tends to be feast or famine.

Later that evening, I connect with Dawn- a good acquaintance from church. Whilst she's lived in Belgium twice as long as I have, we've both had our seasons of feeling relationally disconnected. 

Dawn initially makes plans for a get-together with a larger group. She valiantly perseveres as others drop out. 

And then there were two. It works out fine all the same.

Soundtrack: Love2 by Reel People, Love is Energy by EMAMKAY.

Winter Sun in Coimbra: Part Two

Terreiro do Paço, Lisbon (ionline.sapo.pt)

Part 1

I wake up on Sunday, half-way through my trip, in the state of disillusion that has characterised the last few weeks. My sleep is still not as regulated as it should be. During breakfast, I tune into the livestream of my Belgian church, FWM’s morning service. Pastor Mike speaks on the importance of testimonies. He asks us to recall something good that stands out this week. I remind myself of where I am. Even if I’m feeling somewhat miserable, I have the luxury of doing so on holiday in a beautiful country. Unlike the mainly overcast weather during my visit to La Côte Azur, I don’t lack for sunshine. My Coimbra trip so far has been consistently pleasurable. Or at least, there’s been no drama which is a mercy in itself. Despite my hotel apparently being near a sketchy part of town, I’ve been safe. Whatever ails me is either in my unreachable past or can wait for when I return to Brussels. I shouldn’t let it rob me of present enjoyment. I don’t want to look back on this moment and only remember it being eaten up by worry. Let tomorrow take care of itself. À chaque jour suffit sa peine.

I have booked myself on a day tour in Lisbon. This was before I found out how irregular the train service is between Coimbra and Lisbon on a Sunday. I do second guess my decision and consider staying within the confines of Coimbra. However, noting that I tend to become more mired in dark thoughts if I spend too much time on my own, I persist with the original plan. I manage to find a train route that will get me to the Portuguese capital around the same time the tour starts. I notify the tour guide, Hugo, that I’ll be running a few minutes late.

With the local transport service all but useless and not fancying the idea of another taxi for a relatively short journey, I take a spritely walk towards Coimbra-B station. I arrive in good time to buy my ticket and catch the train.

It’s been over 13 years since I last spent time in Lisbon. It was my very first experience of Portugal; a girls’ holiday with mum and sis. The beauty of its topography, its people, its cosmopolitanism and good food, all made a strong impression. I'd like a refresher of the City without doing exactly the same things I would have all those years ago. Hugo’s donations-based tour promises to be an alternative view of the Portuguese Capital, from a local’s perspective.

I arrive at the designated meeting place in time to see the group moving off. They’re easy to spot. It’s a sizeable collective; the opposite of the huddle on the previous day’s Coimbra tour. I rush up to whom I assume is Hugo, breathless.

It's fine. You’ve just missed the first part, he reassures.

The group is made up of all sorts. There’s a Spanish couple who lived in London and are now based in Lisbon. Then there’s the posse of garrulous Ukrainians, whom at one point I have to hush when they’re voices carry over the Guide’s.

Hugo himself is camp and jovial. However, early on in the tour, I detect an historical blindspot where Portuguese colonial history is concerned. My romantic memories of Lisbon have been challenged of late after (finally!) reading my Afropean co-editor-in-chief, Johny Pitts’ travel memoir Adventures in Black Europe. (Incidentally, I think his views on Marseille are too rose-tinted, but I digress). He approaches Lisbon with a healthy scepticism in relation to its historical amnesia. 

I perceive such forgetfulness in Hugo’s accounts of the so-called Golden Age of conquest and ‘discovery’, with no caveats about slavery or colonialism. That’s not to dismiss the validity of the entire tour. He details the extent of the 1755 Earthquake’s destruction very well. He ends with a summary of Salazar’s dictatorship and the eventual overthrow of his successor, Marcelo Caetano, in the Carnation Revolution of 1974. Hugo rightly includes a reference to the massacre of Lisbon’s Jewish population in the early 16^th Century under the ridiculous pretext of heresy. To his credit (and possibly because of my prompting) he mentions how stubbornly the Portuguese held on to their colonies; something notably missing from the Coimbra tour (which had similar weaknesses). Nonetheless, more generally, he’s a bit quiet when it comes to Portugal’s role in the exploitation and brutalisation of brown people. I bring this to his attention directly during one of the lulls between his expositions. Hugo claims to have mentioned the country’s role in the transatlantic slave trade at the start, which I missed. 

At least we weren’t as bad as the Dutch (he previously lived in the Netherlands).

I don’t allow him the comfort of that old chestnut, where former colonial powers play the what-aboutery game. All colonialism was bad, I remind him and he concedes. He acknowledges that the Age wasn’t so Golden for the enslaved and colonised but, he contends, should we judge the past by today’s standards? This is a common refrain; often – although not exclusively-from racially illiterate Caucasians. I respond, as casually as I can muster, that the effects of the past still play out today. Moreover, there were always those who morally objected to slavery and colonialism. Namely the subjugated and those who took up their cause. This is conveniently forgotten. Hugo agrees, but adds I try not to be too political. Everything is political, I counter, including what he chooses not to say.

Alfama, Lisbon (image: Civitatis)

Hugo widens the discussion to include the rest of the group, now focusing on Portugal’s current political situation and the upcoming election. He claims Portugal is a tolerant country and not given to extremes. I recall the concern expressed by Diana, the Italian guide on my Coimbra tour. By contrast, Hugo believes the support for the Far-Right is fringe compared to France, for instance. He might be a Portuguese native but I’m inclined to trust the outsider, more politically-engaged instincts of Diana. Hugo is knowledgeable and genial but I sense a complacency that is the preserve of the privileged. He takes shelter under the belief that racism is only evident in the Extreme-Right, something about which I am also keen to disabuse him.

I feel nevertheless obligated to keep this sensitive conversation as breezy as possible. Firstly, I am not the only one on the tour. Neither do I want any germane points I do make to be lost if I’m perceived as too ‘disruptive’.

Meanwhile, I overhear a conversation between a convivial elderly South-Asian man with a transatlantic accent, and a tall blonde of indeterminate origin. She has her camera perched on her right shoulder with some contraption that reminds me of a harmonica stand.

As the tour comes to a close, I catch the voluble older man’s attention. He asks about my background and shares about his own. Mo, as he’s called, is an Italian-raised Pakistani living in the US. He’s worked for various international institutions including IFI’s and the UN. He’s passing through Lisbon en route to Francophone West Africa, where he's to discuss his new book on France’s neo-colonial relationship with its former Empire.

Mo picks my brain about a host of subjects, including what was discussed with Hugo. He’s of the generation that believes colonialism wasn’t all terrible. It’s a debate I have quite frequently with one of my mentors from a similar part of the world. I maintain that even if some good emerged from the period as an incidental by-product, it doesn’t negate the evil that was done. Mo argues that we need to strike a balance. I proffer that since colonial propaganda determined the narrative for so long, for the discussion to be truly even-handed, we don’t need any more talk of the purported benefits of Imperial exploits. 

The tour concludes in the main Terreiro do Paço square, overlooking the sea on one side and the pastel-coloured houses of the Mediaeval Alfama district in the distance. It’s a stunning day. Apart from the temperature being a little fresh, we couldn’t have asked for better weather for such an excursion. 

As we overlook the bay, Mo is happy to resume the conversation where we left off. We move on to racism in terms of class struggle, the elites and establishment media, the role of political education in bridging divides and the state of British politics. When Mo mentions that he and his wife will soon be relocating to Addis-Ababa for work purposes, we each give our (admittedly limited) take on the ever-more complex Ethiopian conflict. 

Mo says he likes the way I think. He is surprisingly sympathetic to my political views considering his professional history. He won’t let me leave until I’ve given my email details.

It is a stimulating chat but I have a coach to catch. 

I just miss the 5pm bus to Coimbra. I regret that I won’t have the chance to do the trip again at dusk. With an hour to wait until the next coach, I head to the nearby Lidl to stock up on essentials such as fruit and water. I’ve barely seen a supermarket in Coimbra.

At the risk of repeating myself, outside of the UK, I find Portugal’s Lidl franchise to be the best. Not only in terms of product range but value for money. I pounce on some bargains I’m unlikely to find in Brussels. I’d stock up on more if I didn’t have such a restrictive luggage allowance. (Too bad that the Agave syrup that I purchase for a steal, is confiscated by Lisbon airport security for being over the 100ml limit. I'm miffed. Irony of ironies, my small suitcase eventually has to go into the hold anyway).

(image: Algarve Primeiro)

It’s another long-ish walk from Coimbra bus station to the hotel but I won’t begrudge the exercise. Besides being approached for some change by a man worse-for-wear, I am not hassled.

I decide to dine at an Italian establishment I’ve passed several times. I’m seated close to a multi-cultural group of young British females. For some reason, it’s never really a comfort to overhear anglophone accents whilst on holiday.

The inexplicably all-male waiting staff are also a cosmopolitan bunch. One is particularly attentive. He asks where I’m from before informing me of his own Colombian and Italian roots. He stares deep into my eyes with his pretty baby blues and lavishes me with multi-lingual compliments. I don’t know whether he’s sincere, angling for a tip or thinks I’m easy prey because I’m eating alone. On the other hand, I could just accept the compliment. I have been feeling rough lately (which is partly why I question his motives). 

I’m bemused by things I experience in mainland Europe that would almost never happen in the UK. Back in Blighty, even if I had the impression one of the waiters found me attractive, it would rarely, if ever, be as overt. Just some mild flirting within the confines of professionalism. There’s something almost shameless (or is that fearless?) about a certain kind of European male.

In between minestrone soup, a tasty seafood pizza and lemon tart with vanilla ice cream, my admirer finds any excuse to chat. I discover that in addition to Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and English he speaks a total of seven languages, including Thai and a bit of Russian. Or so he says. It’s entertaining enough and I could do with the pick-me-up. It might all be theatre but I don’t intend to follow it through. I can't remember if we even exchange names.

He asks what I’m doing later on. Rest, I answer.

Back in my hotel box, I watch some humorous clips online, shower and try to pray before lights out. Instead I pass out. It’s another night of fitful sleep and I’m exhausted the morning of the last full day of my Coimbra break. I feel and look awful. I open up about the disrupted sleep with my morning prayer group. It’s a vicious circle. Anxiety hums in the background like white noise. That adversely affects my sleep. I can’t even switch off my mind’s chatter for a catnap. Insufficient rest contributes to low morale which disrupts my sleep more and so on…

It’ll be a waste of time getting fully dressed and made-up before breakfast. I’m involuntary crying into my food. My make-up drips onto my T-Shirt. Thankfully, the restaurant is virtually empty. The few staff around are busying themselves elsewhere. If they see me upset, they’re discreet about it. 

I’ve been avoiding logging into Skype until my return to Brussels but I don’t want sis to worry. Sure enough, she’s wondering where I am.

I take my time over breakfast. I need to calm down. I’m trying to arrange a refund for another tour I have booked that morning. The Guide is unresponsive and there's a major mistake in the itinerary.

Não importa. It means I can attempt another siesta before heading to the beach earlier than I’d have been able to.

The nap isn’t entirely successful. I join my weekly Christian meditation session before boarding the train to Figueira da Foz. 

I already feel much better stepping outside of my box room into the daylight. Despite my general exhaustion, the loveliness of the day is not lost on me. The weather is Spring-like. It’s the warmest it's been so far during my stay. The surrounding landscape demands my attention once more, inviting me to benefit from it whilst I can. It’ll be after dark by the time I return from Figueira da Foz. I have an early-ish train to catch to the airport the following morning, so will be hurrying along.

I’ve selected the right day to go to the coast, although on arriving at my destination, it’s not immediately obvious. There’s water, yes but at first glance Figueira da Foz looks like a dock more than a beach. 

After stopping to check my coordinates a few times, I’m assured that there is something resembling the seaside nearby. My perseverance pays off. Best of all, there’s just the right amount of activity. Neither too busy nor totally deserted. 

I stop off at a kiosk for a snack. A man interrupts my order to charge his phone. He then proceeds to ask my origins. He feels the need to share that he lived and worked in Senegal for a time. He endeavours to educate me on the country’s ethnic diversity. He lists off the number of local languages he acquired, as well as French.

Figueira da Foz (image: Accor)

Congratulations, I say. Whether or not he discerns my mild sarcasm, I can’t tell.

He asks if I like Portugal. I reply in the affirmative and explain it’s my third visit to the country. I humour the conversation solely for the practice. Otherwise, I find him a little obtrusive.

I can’t understand everything he says. I pick up that he continues with his own life story-namely where else he’s lived in Europe – and says something about the low salaries in Portugal; in the region of 800-900 euros a month. This is a theme that’s recurred throughout my visit. If the wages are low, at least aspects of the cost of living are also economical, such as food. Rents are cheap compared to other European states but not in proportion to the average Portuguese salary. 

The conversation turns to varieties of Portuguese, as it has often done. I am frank about my Brazilian bias, reiterated by my current interaction. My interlocutor swallows his words. I’m only able to follow thanks to a few days of consistent exposure, which is a small encouragement in itself.

Once my toasted sandwich is ready, I bid farewell to the sales assistant and my fleeting acquaintance.

I eat lunch on the beach. Apart from a few families seated on nearby rocks, I have the modest sandy section to myself (there's much more to the beach that, alas, I don't have time to discover). A surly canine barks at me for no reason. Its owners hardly try to assuage it.

What’s your problem? Racist dog.

A creepy elderly fellow I first saw near the kiosk, keeps circling me from a distance. He doesn’t look away when I make eye-contact, or even try to hide his fascination. At what point this becomes fetishisation, I don’t know but his attention must cross that line. I forget about him, believing he’s become bored and moved on. Feeling sufficiently free of anyone’s gaze, I inconspicuously remove my tights.

A few minutes later, I look around and catch the old geezer watching me again from afar.

I won’t let this Peeping Tom steal this placid moment from me. I ignore him and enjoy the view. I don’t have long before I have to rush back to the station for the return to Coimbra.

My last night in the City is rather anti-climactic. Unbeknownst to me, many businesses don’t open on Mondays; similar to when I lived in Strasbourg. A restaurant next to the hotel that I’d had my eye on since my first night is closed. With no Plan B and not wanting to dine at the same eateries as before, I stumble across a promising-looking establishment in the vicinity. 

It seems busy. A little too busy. 

A group of 40-50 obnoxiously raucous youngsters have commandeered the joint. It’s the performative, self-conscious ‘fun’ of the insecure. 

They want attention. I’m determined to deny them that currency.

(image: Travelling Buzz)

There are frequents burst of a rowdy football-like chant. It’s all I can do not to scream "STFU!". I try to read instead and (unsuccessfully) drown out the noise by switching on my MP3. The mellowness of Alison Thorsteinsen's gorgeously doleful compositions can't cut through the racket.  I waste no time paying the bill after my Octopus and Shrimp meal. After a little small talk with the manager and his wife, I wish them good night and a cheeky Boa Sorte before stepping into the brisk night for a brisk walk. I hope to purchase an iced dessert from Burger King and pass by the hotel bar before bed. Both closed…

I don’t expect to sleep well the night before my departure. To my great surprise, I wake up better rested than the morning before. Not perfect but an answer to prayer nonetheless. I’ve reserved an earlier breakfast, expecting to see the luminous restaurant busier for a change. Still practically empty. The only unfamiliar face is that of a vibrant young waiter. From his more comprehensible Portuguese and ethnically-ambiguous features, I guess correctly that he’s from Brazil. São Paulo, to be precise. The hotel staff have all been friendly but he’s especially warm; as sunny as the climate I'll be leaving behind.

It’s a shame our paths didn’t cross sooner. I nevertheless take this brief encounter as an auspicious farewell, as I depart that crisp January morning for Lisbon airport.

Soundtrack: Sometimes I'm There by Alison Thorsteinsen 

Win Some, Lose Some

 

What a difference a year makes. And ready access to vaccines. If activity hasn’t resumed to pre-pandemic levels, my diary is a damn sight busier than the previous autumn. I keep flashing back to what I was doing this time last year. I shudder at the thought of my first Sunday morning service at Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM) also being my last before the second lockdown. That memorable conversation with Pastor Mike, both fateful and comforting. I think of how the few (mostly, not intentionally) male contacts I made started to act up and/or drop off. 

One of them was Gerry Rose, whom I have seen occasionally at FWM since doors re-opened.

After service one Sunday, he accosts me on the underground. My feelings are ambivalent at best. A bit hostile, to be frank. There’s a conversation we need to have but there never seems to be a good time. It doesn’t help that he barely engages with the church beyond the main Sunday service.

As nonchalantly as he can, not oblivious to my irritation, Gerry asks where I’ve been.

Where have you been? is more like it.

This precedes an hour or so of what is at first, tense if elucidating conversation before becoming just frustrating. Gerry explains he was sick for a number of weeks. Then his phone clapped out and he lost his numbers. He wondered why I hadn’t reached out during time and supposed I had definitively left town. On the other hand, I assumed he’d just reacted with the same whimsy as the majority of men I’ve met in Brussels; acting strange and/or disappearing completely when I promise nothing beyond friendship.

It’s clear that there’s been a misunderstanding based on a series of unfortunate, although not fatal, coincidences. This isn’t enough for Rose. Throughout this impromptu meeting, I have the sense that he holds me responsible for the breakdown of communication. He believes I still have his number. I eventually admit I do not. He asks why I didn’t approach him at church. I explain that I thought he was avoiding me. I’d seen him from a distance numerous times and could only presume he’d also spotted me. Since I believed he’d abandoned ship, shifty behaviour on his part would hardly be a shock, if disappointing. 

Gerry points to one occasion a few weeks back when he reacted to my presence with surprise. I recall being baffled whilst wondering if it were all for show.

Rose claims he looked for me after that service to no avail. I point out, multiple times, we should have had other chances to reconcile. That is, if he hadn’t been such a lone ranger; vanishing after service and never involving himself in the church community outside of a Sunday morning. This observation of his consumer-style attendance at FWM hasn’t endeared him to me. It only adds to the impression of a certain immaturity drawn from our earlier interactions. Back then, I had to overlook it. I didn’t have much choice.

Gerry follows me off the metro. He’s preventing me from getting on with my day. This drawn-out, repetitive epilogue grates me and any constructive element evaporates. Perhaps that’s why when he asks to exchange numbers again and meet up for a drink, I blurt that I’m no longer interested in the latter. There’s an irrational aspect to my reluctance, I’m aware. Gerry’s side of events is credible enough. However, our first encounters awfully resembled that of a man with romantic intentions, although he now denies this. Predictably. Yet I can’t shake that air of suspicion. And whilst our breakdown in communication can be attributed to crossed-wires, at this stage it makes no difference. Rose’ insistence on I-don’t-know-what doesn’t help his case either. It’s a relief to have finally cleared the air and I hope for civil relations going forward. However, when so much conspires against it, maybe it’s a sign that full-on friendship is not meant to be.

That’s not to say I’m not open to meeting new people. I’m just not as desperate as I was a year ago.

One Friday night, I attend one of my first proper indoor gigs in Brussels at the Music Village. A Jazz quintet is paying homage to Nat King Cole-one of the best male vocalists on wax, IMHO. The singer sounds as if he’s listened to Kurt Elling so often, he can’t help but channel everything from his tone to his phrasing (although, when I approach him during the interval, he claims he’s no acolyte). The event has been organised via Internations. Also in attendance is a middle-aged Pole, Lukasz, with a British inflection and enough of an appreciation for Jazz for us to have a pleasant muso-lite discussion. Having relocated for the second time to Belgium after a decade long stint back East, he’s hitting the town hard. Our paths cross again a few weeks later at a French language exchange.

On the way back from the concert, wading my way through the bustling Friday night central BXL crowd, I bump into Lauren, the head of TTUO. It’s a cordial exchange and I thank God for the grace to be...well, gracious. A couple of months to the end of my current contract, management haven’t done the courtesy of telling me where I stand. This is a stark contrast to the efficiency of my previous renewal. At best, it’s negligent, at worst malicious; for reasons that have both a lot and nothing to do with me. I have made enquiries about any potential breach of duty on the part of my employer but being on a fixed-term contract, my rights are lot more limited. My team, including my union rep Demetria, are wonderfully supportive. We’re all disconcerted by the appointment of our new manager, Gina; a woman with a chequered reputation- to say the least- and a penchant- no - a compulsion for micromanagement.

There’s more I could say but I exercise caution. As remote a chance it is that the bosses could read this, you never know.

The situation is highly stressful. It has been a drag on morale that I haven’t felt since the nadir of lockdowns.

À chaque jour suffit sa peine. I have a job for today. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

There are always reasons to be grateful. I now have people whom I can call friends; who care about my fate in Brussels.

Back at work, a refreshing two-day course on Active Listening is the first offline training I’ve done in forever and a break from the tense norm. I’m even more pleased to meet the tutor; a Franco-Caribbean woman with luscious natural Afro hair. During the course, I have a chance to speak at length with Cheryl; a young Italian colleague with an elderly English woman’s name and a passing resemblance to a younger Jennifer Aniston. She also has good politics. When I hear she’s actively involved in the Free Palestine struggle, I tell her about a series of related events I plan to attend that weekend; at the unpronounceable Beursschouwburg in the city centre. We make plans to go together that do not materialise because of her hectic schedule.

By chance, this mini-festival is jointly-organised by a fellow I met exactly three years ago at the 2018 Afropean symposium. I didn’t expect to bump into him again.

The first event is a stimulating retrospective on the past 50+ years of Palestinian resistance via campaign posters, by Lucas Catherine; a long time veteran of the movement's Belgian contingent.

During the Q&A, I seem to spark some controversy when I ask a question about the contested use of Zionism, even by Jews on the radical left. I cite the belated David Graeber’s family as an example. Even if I doubt that Zionism can be redeemed as a concept, it’s not my place to ignore the disparate Jewish voices on the issue. I’m nonetheless interrogated to varying degrees; some more easy-going than others.

The second discussion is supposed to link the Palestinian resistance to other anti-colonial struggles by way of a book launch. The speaker, an African-American academic, is a disciple of one Dhoruba Bin Wahad, an obscure member of the Black Panthers, wrongfully imprisoned for almost two decades and with some tenuous link to Afeni Shakur, the mother of Tupac. The speaker appears to take Bin Wahad’s every word as Gospel.

What starts as veiled, vaguely anti-Christian salvos at the Civil Rights movement, transforms into outright barbs. He goes for BLM as well. I pull him up on his over-simplification. His gripe is rather with them being co-opted and sanitised, rather than perhaps the movements themselves. MLK was unpopular with white America in his lifetime and hounded by the FBI, before being assassinated. For crying out loud. Mr Academic goes on the defensive and is positively obnoxious. He qualifies the Civil Rights movement as a “pain in the a*s*” and I detect something that looks a lot like misogynoir in his critique of BLM; an observation I have no qualms vocalising. Sadly, it's a line of thinking with which I'm not unfamiliar.

For someone who himself is so disparaging of elitism, including that within academia, the speaker does a very good impression of the snobbish academic with a fragile ego. I note that apart from one of the other organisers, we’re the only Afrodescendants in the room. The audience looks uncomfortable; not sure what to make of this melanated clash. Others also take issue with some of his framing and certain inconsistencies (such as his admiration for Stokely Carmichael/Kwame Touré, who started out in the youth chapter of the MLK-led movement).

Noting that he would not be genuinely interested in a constructive debate, I head home just before the close.