Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part II

 7 min read

Part I

Inside Faro Cathedral 
(image: Expedia)

By the next day, I’m familiar enough with my surroundings to avoid the unnecessarily circuitous routes to Faro city centre. I still take the occasional wrong turn but I’m quickly able to rectify my path. Besides, getting lost is part of the adventure.  I try but fail to resist the urge to scratch furiously at my mosquito bites. Despite diligent application of my roll-on repellent, the critters have chewed up the fleshiest parts of my legs.

On my jaunts, I’m in the habit of greeting locals in a way I wouldn’t in the UK, France or Belgium. At least not consistently. Faro has quite a friendly atmosphere, something I’ve picked up on previous trips to Portugal.

As also observed in other major Portuguese cities, the Black presence is well-established in Faro. There is scarcely the kind of othering that one might experience in certain contexts; even next door in Spain. I greet my fellow Afrodescendants with a nod and ‘Bom dia’ or ‘Boa tarde’. I spark conversation with folk of Mozambican or Cape Verdean heritage in shops and restaurants. One day, when my Portuguese skills are more assured, I’ll have more in-depth conversations about multiculturalism from their perspective. If there were one other country in mainland Europe with which I’d experiment taking up residence, it would be Portugal. At the same time, I don’t want to be naïve. It was also a major empire that held on viciously to its former colonies. It’s one thing to dip in and out as a tourist, and another to immigrate.

It’s yet again a glorious day; nothing like the Novembers to which I'm accustomed, even compared to when I was last in Portugal around this time of year. I have on my sight-seeing list mainly holy sites; Faro Cathedral, São Pedro church and the morbid Igreja do Carmo; the one with all the bones.  São Pedro is a hop and a skip away from my accommodation but is closed when I first stop by. Same for the Igreja do Carmo.

I therefore take a leisurely stroll to the Cathedral. I’ve noticed en route that Faro has a surfeit of beauty clinics; so many in such close proximity that I wonder how business remains viable. Perhaps the Faronenses still consider grooming a priority, despite these economically straitened times.

The animated fellow at the Cathedral’s ticket office  - fresh from ending what sounded like a heated phone conversation - goes on about the 'bargain' five euro entrance fee. I think. My Portuguese still isn’t as advanced as it should be. That I find the Brazilian variety much more pleasing to - and easier on - the ear than the European, only adds to the challenge. However, I still have enough of the language to feel at ease in the country and make my way around without difficulty. If I miss much of what the receptionist has said, the practice is still valuable. He offers me a guide in Portuguese which I gladly accept.

I usually don’t like to pay to enter churches but I make an exception. The interior of the Cathedral is inviting, if a bit gaudy - as these gilded Roman Catholic spaces often are. There are entire walls made up of azujelo; artisanal blue tiles, for which Portugal is famous. I’m surprised this area haven’t been cordoned off like other parts. I reach out to touch one wall and notice how brittle the tiles are. I’m suddenly overcome with emotion; as if their fragility reflects my own. 

Adjacent to the main chapel is a modest-sized museum, housing sculptures, slightly damaged portraits of various apostles and miscellaneous church regalia. Not for the first time, the latter unnerves me. I wonder how Jesus, a humble carpenter who epitomised simplicity during His earthly ministry, came to be associated with such pomp. A sincere desire to offer God the best became an end in itself.

I complete my visit with what I’m most interested in; the view from the bell tower. It doesn’t disappoint. I sit down on a piece of elevated stone, which appeases my mild vertigo but still affords me a decent view of the city from on high. The half-hourly gong of the bell is pretty formidable at this close distance, as is to be expected.

Feeling more and more confident about my navigation skills, I return to some of the areas covered on the tour the previous day.

I plan to finish up at the Skull Church, en route to my accommodation. Not before stopping off to replace my broken suitcase; an additional expense I do not need. 

I stop off at São Pedro’s - now open - for a few serene moments. An elaborate choral soundtrack, similar to that I heard playing in the Cathedral, streams through the church speakers at a low volume.

When I arrive at the Igreja do Carmo, I’m told it’s cash entry only. Having used up all my change, I’m not about to be ripped off by one of the many nearby commission-charging ATMs. I take it as a sign. I already had doubts about this macabre detour. 

After a pit stop back at the accommodation, I return to the bay to catch another splendid sunset.  I hope to spend a couple of hours at the waterfront before making my way to a free early evening Jazz jam, held in a bar-cum-arts centre in the vicinity. It’s the same kind of event I’d attend in any city I’ve lived in. I don’t know. These shows have a way of finding me. 

A solo guitarist has replaced the duo busking at the bay the day before. I intermittently swap between my own playlist and listening to his covers of Sting, Grover Washington Jr, The Cranberries and Prince. He’ll also be at the same location the next day, adding George Michael to his repertoire.

(image: Deposit Photos)

It soon becomes too cool to continue sitting by the bayside and the venue won’t let punters in before showtime. Hungry, I decide on an early dinner at a restaurant recommended by the tour guide. I can’t visit Portugal without sampling some of the local catch. For a while, I’m the only customer. The young mulatto waiter tells me it’s typical of the low season. I order some vegetable soup and a piping hot cod gratin with shrimp and a side of salad, on the waiter’s recommendation. Having cleared my plate, I have no regrets.

The Jam is in full swing by the time I arrive. A drums/keys/guitar/double-bass quartet combo is on stage, occasionally swapping musicians in and out.

There are no free tables, although a few spare chairs are scattered around. I pull one up. At an adjacent table a young lady, sitting with a sardonic-looking older man, sucks on an e-cigarette. (The establishment’s smoking policy is pretty lax). Her dress is so short that when she stands up, the gusset of her tights is on full view. A red-faced young woman behind me interrogates an androgynous-looking individual, in loud accented-English, about their relocation directly from Nigeria to Portugal. She speaks with an aggressive friendliness particular to inebriation. 

I’m eventually invited to join the table of a Colombian couple, Jose and Alicia, with whom I’ve struck up a conversation. It seems impolite to refuse, even if I dislike being the third wheel. Oddly, the conversation stops once I join them.

One of the guitarists is Alicia’s tutor. Whilst he has his moments, he doesn’t always blend well with the other musicians.

The couple disappear before the end. Showtime is over at a very respectable 9pm on what is, after all, a school night. I recall the advice I received on the evening of my arrival to avoid staying out beyond 10pm.

On the way back to my accommodation, I notice a young man from the audience walking in a slight zig-zag ahead of me. He stood out when I heard him speaking with a native English accent. He also bears a resemblance to French singer/songwriter, Julien Doré.  When I see him make a left turn towards the pier, I quicken my steps to follow suit. It’s poorly lit and I can’t see well without my glasses. When he walks a little too gingerly towards the edge, I shout to get his attention. 

Hey, hey!

I ask his name. He doesn’t want to divulge it. 

I’m just checking you're all right.

No, I’m okay, really. Just about to have a beer.

Oh well, fine. Jesus loves you...Umm...The universe would miss you if you weren’t around.

(I normally hate the vague, new-agey reference to 'The Universe'. In this case, I mean it in terms of the entirety of God’s creation)

Thanks for your concern. Really.

I continue on my way but then get it into my head that he could have been lying. I rush back. I can only make out treacherous shadows, before I see a young couple sitting calmly at the same spot. Tired and panicky, my Portuguese is especially garbled. They ask me to switch to English. If it weren’t urgent I’d insist otherwise. I ask if they’ve seen a man with long curly blond hair. They point unhurriedly to a dark mass lying on the pier. He overhears my concern and thanks me once again for checking up on him. Relieved, I return to my room with a clear conscience.

Faro Beach
(image: Travel in Portugal)

The last full day of my Faro trip, the weather begins to feel a bit brisk. Rain is forecast the following day, when I’m due to fly back to Brussels.

In the meantime, in light of the slight temperature drop, I’m second guessing my choice to spend a day at Faro beach. A very cheap and cheerful round trip by boat will have me there in 20 minutes. 

I’ve already made up my mind, so power through. I’ll be glad I did. It’s a wonderfully serene, not to mention temperate day by the coast. Being off-peak, the beach is far from crowded. It’s mainly smatterings of folk like myself, strolling along the coastline or a few going for a swim. A woman in a skimpy bikini dips her giddy toddler into the water.

The beach is so tranquil, that mine are the only footsteps I see in the sand for some distance. I park myself under a beating sun, tempered by the sea breeze. Apart from being beset by pesky flies, I spend a mellow afternoon reading, meditating or listening to podcasts at leisure, before returning on the last boat to catch the sunset in Faro city. I linger until it becomes too nippy to remain in one place.

I round off my sweet Portuguese parenthesis with some traditional barbeque chicken - or churrasqueira - in the neighbourhood.

Soundtrack: I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali and the Better Days EP by Tom Misch.

Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part I

5 min. read

(image courtesy of Viator)

November rolls around with a biting cold and solidly overcast skies. Fortunately, the month also comes with a couple of public holidays, on top of the generous annual leave afforded by The University. Months in advance, I plan to take a break from the Belgian Autumn and head back to Portugal; one of my favourite European spots. It’s been almost three years since my last visit. I try to vary my location on each trip. I’m yet to know the Algarve region. At this time of year, it remains sunny and warm but at off-season prices. Still recovering from years of precarity, I keep it modest. I manage to find a very decent en suite accommodation deal, which ends up being even more economical than the flight. 

I’ve decided to base myself in Faro; close to the airport for my morning return flight to Belgium. Apart from a walking tour, my itinerary will not be as ambitious as usual. As well as being friendlier on my budget, I want this to be more of a restful break. It’s been a hectic quarter so far. Too much running around and too many day trips tend to detract from the relaxation objective. 

My direct flight touches down in Faro just before sunset; ahead of schedule, for a change. The weather is gorgeous. The only thing dragging on my mood is that the careless baggage handlers have damaged my hitherto near-pristine suitcase.  

At the bus stop, a motley crew of us tourists attempt to work out the bus system. We're all heading to the terminus in Faro city. I briefly befriend an Austrian solo traveller, who’ll be taking an onward coach to Porto during the wee small hours. We part ways as I go in search of my accommodation. My printed Google Map instructions, as is so often the case, prove all but useless. On the bright side, I have the opportunity to practise my Portuguese when a very kindly local goes out of his way to help me locate my AirBnB. I ask if it’s a safe neighbourhood. Yes, he replies, before 10pm.

By now it's too dark to go exploring comfortably. After unpacking, I head out for what turns out to be especially dry pizza and retire to my temporary quarters. Based in a residential area, things can nonetheless get noisy. I’m awoken one night by a group having a loud conversation at stupid o’clock, followed not long afterwards by the sound of construction work.

The Arco da Vila (when not covered in building works)
(image taken from Algarve Tips)

For the first full day of my break, I have purposefully chosen a walking tour that starts in the afternoon. I aim to enjoy a lazy morning, liberating myself from the guilt of not immediately exploring my surroundings. Having done a little research, I’ll leave the real exploration for later in the trip, to be done at a leisurely pace.

As a precaution, already noticing that the layout of Faro is confusing and the streets often not clearly marked, I give myself over an hour to locate the meeting place for the tour; the Arco da Vila. It’s supposedly meant to take roughly 10 minutes by foot. More like 40 minutes.

I won’t complain. The route is scenic. It's warm, with clear blue skies and there’s a romantic view of the marina. I notice that, like London and Brussels, Faro city is already kitted out for the festive season, albeit the Christmas lights are yet to be switched on.

I arrive at the Arco da Vila, in plenty of time for the tour. One of the city’s top landmarks, this 19th Century neoclassical arch is being renovated. Covered by scaffolding, it’s more of an eye sore at the moment than an attraction. A group of us gather, waiting for what we fear might be an errant tour guide. A young blond gentleman with dark glasses eventually manifests a few minutes late. He walks briskly, holding the signature red umbrella by which we’re supposed to recognise him.

We make our way through the sinewy streets of the old town. In between facts and figures, the guide tests our existing knowledge. He explains that the city layout was made deliberately confusing under Moorish rule, as a defence strategy. Monuments I’d read about now come to life, such as the Cathedral or the Igreja do Carmo; famous for its chapel composed of skeletons excavated from the grounds. I realise how strategic my accommodation is. The Chapel is a stone’s throw from where I’m staying. 

There are also the amusing, if extraneous bits of trivia. Like in my old stomping ground of Strasbourg, storks abound in Faro. The birds build giant nests which can weigh up to 200-500 kg, potentially causing a lot of problems if they tumble. Yet, the city authorities do not permit their removal.

Igreja do Carmo 
(image: Visit Faro)

The group strolls through familiar streets in which I’ve already lost myself. It’s a charming couple of hours, even if I’m not best pleased with some of our guide’s politics. He makes less than favourable comments about the previous socialist government, apparently disgruntled they tried to prevent the proliferation of AirBnB and deter predatory property speculators. Having now been taken over by a right-wing administration more predisposed to this kind of investment, I don’t see how this improves the housing crisis. The conversation itself is sparked by a Scouser enquiring about the many abandoned buildings. I try to challenge the guide on some points, acutely aware that mainstream opinion is wont to discredit any economically-left leaning project. Notwithstanding the controversial circumstances in which former PM António Costa resigned, I should have made a stronger case for the things the administration did get right, such as acknowledging Portugal’s colonial crimes.

I am crowned the champion of the tour quiz. I ‘win’ the opportunity to hold the red umbrella in a photo I’d rather not take. We finish just before dusk. When I ask about the closest beach, the guide is kind enough to accompany me to a spot parallel to the railway line, overlooking the sea. It’s not a beach but it is a great vantage point for the sunset. The scene is enhanced tremendously by the intoxicating tones of Farah Audhali, on BlueLab Beat’s superb new single, Options pouring through my earphones.

I plan another evening of eating in. An online Quincy Jones tribute awaits me.

I pass by the local Auchan; a French supermarket chain that has apparently made notable in-roads in this part of Portugal. 

En route to purchase supplies, I stumble across a duo - vocalist and guitarist - doing an acoustic cover of Jorja Smith’s Be Honest. It’s a curious arrangement; pleasing enough to grab my attention but harder to make out with the singer’s peculiar diction. 

Part II

Soundtrack: Thriller and Bad by Michael Jackson; I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali

Back in Marseille: Part II

7 min. read

(image courtesy of Freepik)

(Part I)

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

La Palestine restaurant, Marseille

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can say that again.

(image courtesy of 123RTF)

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

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

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

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

Back in Marseille: Part I

7 min. read

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soundtrack: Studies in a Dying Love by Aladean Kheroufi

(Part II)