Resilience

 

After my brief but well-needed Portuguese excursion, I return to Belgium to an ever-complicated work situation. The trade union representatives (TUR), including my colleague Demetria, have been doing their best to defend me in my absence. They write a strongly-worded, well-argued letter to management to challenge their recent decision not to extend my contract. 

No complaints about my work have been raised. The funding -which management disingenuously feigned as ‘hanging in the balance’ - is confirmed whilst I’m on leave. Besides, we have surplus to carry over from this year, which Demetria and new manager, Gina herself, costed into the project proposal. Gina and the GS, Lauren, keep insisting that the format of the programme will change. Fine, I say, but not the substance. It’s not as if I’m suddenly required to become an accountant or civil engineer. The essence will remain the same. I was recruited on the basis I could adapt.

After receiving the TUR letter, the GS agrees to meet with them. It’s false hope. I am not party to this conversation and, for the sake of confidentiality, no notes are taken by the reps. At the very least, the TUR want to convince Lauren to allow me a transitional period. There’ll be a lot of loose ends to tie up in the New Year. She’s adamantly opposed. When asked how she could ignore that my contract is already accounted for, she apparently hints that she’s promised that money elsewhere; to a department filled with her (white) South African compatriots.

A lot transpires from that meeting, all of it supposedly off the record and not necessarily in my interests to divulge at this point. Suffice to say that management feel untouchable; not least because I have a less secure, fixed-term contract. The cronyism and double-standards are so blatant, that it’s positively sloppy. The TUR are devastated on my behalf. Alas, at this stage their hands are tied by internal politics. I’ve already started to look for opportunities elsewhere. I have a lot of annual leave to spare which management would prefer I take in one go, so I am out of their hair. Meanwhile, Gina has been studiously avoiding me since our confrontation at the meeting where she effectively gave me the boot.

This awful situation has nonetheless highlighted how well-supported I am within the organisation and without. On my London trip, sympathetic friends listen with sad incredulity. Several colleagues and affiliates express their chagrin as well as solidarity. My team organises a catch-up/pre-farewell lunch. My colleague Steve and his wife Sylvie stay in regular touch with supportive messages. At church the likes of Karin and Monica ask for regular updates. Pastor Mike sends me a text, remarking that he hasn’t seen me in church for a while (he’s unaware of my travel plans) and sends a prophetic prayer. Renzo’s is an ever-ready shoulder to cry on. I am rich in relationships. It’s nothing to be taken for granted. After so many months of pandemic-related isolation, the comfort of this is sweeter still.

The work stress has clearly taken its toll but my life hasn’t come to a stand still. 

I reunite with Renzo after my holidays at an exhibition he’s co-curating. He’s taking a break when I arrive. I fear I’ve missed him and send a mildly panicked text. His gallery colleagues have been looking at me askew.

I’m so relieved when he walks through the door, I’ve barely said hello before wrapping him in a tight embrace. We’re both a bit giddy, having not seen each other for a while. Renzo makes an unwittingly humourous comment and I double up with laughter. He turns crimson, wearing a confused smile, probably nervous that something has been lost in translation.

No, caro mio, you're just witty.

I wish I could be funny in multiple languages.

I don’t care much for the exhibition itself, which at first sight appear to be a series of misshapen hair nets. Renzo takes the time to expertly explain the intention and craft that the featured artist has put into each creation. It’s an enthused side of him that’s new to me. He's finally making inroads into his true vocation, after years wasting away in the corporate world. More than the work itself, my pleasure comes from seeing my friend in his element.

The last Sunday of the month, Renzo, Brenda and Roxanne will join me for a late lunch/early dinner -or “linner” as we dub it. They overlap with Bruno - a recent acquaintance I’ve made - of mixed Cape Verdean origin. 

Bruno organises conversation groups for men, where they discuss and deconstruct masculinity in contemporary society. We first make contact when in early autumn, I send him an email politely demanding to know why these events aren’t open to women. His response is gracious and studied, ending with an invitation to meet and talk. We’ve remained in touch since. He wants to take me up on the idea of a mixed-gender conversation circle. I invite him round to dine and discuss. I have to reschedule after he drops out at the last moment. When my plans for the following weekend extend to a group linner, Bruno gently informs me on arrival that he won’t be staying to eat. He wasn’t expecting a crowd. It’s Sunday; his day to recalibrate before the week ahead. I’m apologetic. It was a gamble to tell him last minute things had changed.

For the time we do have alone, Bruno asks me pointed questions about my objectives for the mixed circles and what role I envisage playing. Basic but still surprisingly difficult to answer. I respond with lots of my usual verbal processing and digressions. I’m already feeling disorientated about the misunderstanding over the afternoon’s events. Bruno seems to find it useful nonetheless. True to his word, he leaves as the rest appear. He and Renzo exchange a brief but courteous, if a little awkward greeting. They would be somewhat familiar to each other from the conversation circles.

There is an element of relief to be only entertaining three. It wouldn’t have been fair on Bruno or the others if he stayed against his will. Plus the layout of my otherwise attractive living room is not the most suited to hosting dinners for multiple guests. All three of them well and truly an integral part of my Brussels life, they’ve met on previous occasions. I’ve prepared a vegan curry for Renzo and my trademark mixed-meat tagine for the rest of us. We spread out between the Diner-style counter and the inviting couches. It works itself out. 

Despite ourselves, we end up talking shop. Roxanne and Brenda’s work schedules sound punishing. Of course, I update them on the latest twists and turns at the office, including Demetria's announcement she’ll be expecting in the spring. It’s the best news and a delicious irony, given management’s recent decision to downsize an already under-resourced team.

We while away easy hours in each other’s company. The night is still young as my guests start to troop home. They leave with enough leftovers to at least spare them a night or two of cooking.

I hope to make these “linners” a regular feature over the colder months. Especially as our options could be limited for external activities. Although Christmas is a lot more swinging this year than my first Brussels Noel (on lockdown), there’s a nervousness about the worrying infection rates in Belgium. It’s whilst attending a stimulating theatre performance about young Europeans drawn to the Far Right, that I first hear of the Omicron variant. The outing has been organised on Internations. A member of the party is anxious about the detection of cases in Belgium that day. And thus the pessimism begins.

The following week, I attend a DJ set -another Internations-related event – where rumours are circulating of a near-total shutdown. Again. 

I admit I have mixed-feelings on entering the bar. It’s a COVID-pass only event but still... There’s a heck a lot of people in a confined space. Various socials are going on at the same time. I don’t see anyone familiar and I’m about to forfeit my five euro entry fee when I run into man-about-town Aurélien. He informs me auntie Carol is in the house. I perk up. He shows me to the corner where they’ve congregated. An older Ecuadorian mulatto called Bonaparte apparently takes a shine to me. We talk a little about South American politics and the pink tide. With his transatlantic accent he describes his drift towards the centre from his Radical Left past.

 I’m cordial but wary. If the sting is less sharp than it once was, I'm still smarting from my many misadventures with heteros so far in Brussels. When Aurélien tries to invite himself over, I smile and inform him and Bonaparte that only gay men are allowed to hang out round mine. They think I’m joking.

The music is pretty cheesy; EDM remixes of Europop, The Bee Gees, Donna Summer and Boney M. I make an effort to dance all the same. Bonaparte flays his arms around enthusiastically, using this as a pretext to shimmy up to me. I try to be jovial but protect my personal space. The selection starts to perk up as I head out the door. Typical. It’s then that Aurélien speaks of rumours circulating around another closure of bars, restaurants and cafés. (In stereotypically French libertarian style, he's generally against restrictions). 

I’ve suggested we organise a surprise farewell for Carol at a bar, before she moves permanently back to the Caribbean. Aurélien's not convinced such events will be feasible for much longer.

Fortunately, the worst-case scenario is averted, for now. Nightclubs close and there are various other limitations. Mercifully, nothing as drastic as this time last year. Yet.

Some of Carol’s friends have already conspired to turn an Internations’ winter party into a send-off. It falls on a very busy Friday in early December. As far as Carol is aware, I'm not available that evening. 

I'm double-booked, having signed up to attend a film night at church about undocumented migrants in Belgium. It’s a subject about which I’m keen to have deeper knowledge. The low budget feature by a charity called Olivier, based on real-life events, is hard hitting. It’s thus frustrating to hear the moderator – himself supposedly involved in support work for the undocumented – use phrases such as ‘illegals’ and claim that ‘the population doesn’t like migrants, so politicians give the people what they want’. I can’t let these slide. Before exiting to surprise auntie Carol, I comment on the problematic use of phrases such ‘legality’ when it comes to migration -or any human being-and how politicians aren’t hostages of fortune. They often cynically drive the prejudices around certain types of migration to distract from the real causes of inequalities.

I rush out to auntie Carol’s farewell; grabbing mutual friend Roxanne’s present along the way. She has to stay and help with the clean-up after movie night.

New COVID rules dictate that venues close at 11pm. I arrive so close to the end of the social that I am not charged. Heck, it’s worth it to see auntie Carol’s surprise.  It takes me a while to locate her at first. I don’t recognise her from behind. She’s wearing a feathered black and ruby wig. 

I proudly hand her my gift (courtesy of a Brussels’ Christmas market artisan), after drawing a blank for so long.

 The room is throwing down to the last strains of music. It’s some sort of dancehall. Not really my cup of tea but I am in the mood to party, despite my could-sleep-standing-up fatigue. Predictably, Carol’s close friend and my one-time nemesis Rob is in the vicinity. He co-organised the gig with fellow Internations consul, Marcus. I give Rob a wide-berth except for a furtive wave goodbye. 

I'm more surprised to see Simon-Pierre mingling in the crowd. He’d dropped off the grid for so long, I began to assume he were sick. Evidently not. There’s a moment of mutual recognition. Perhaps. My new hairdo takes him longer to place me.

I reflect on my cool and fleeting interactions with SP and Rob. I know I can be good at holding a grudge and don’t want to indulge bad feeling. Yet, I also have enough quality relationships to not squander energy on those that aren’t. On one hand, it seems only right that SP and I have a conversation about why communication abruptly ended. Then again, as Renzo reminds me, it’s not a mystery why Simon evaporated. C’est toujours la mème ritournelle. Especially with these heteros. In the end, maybe there was never anything genuine to salvage.

Soundtrack: Befriended + We Walked in Song by The Innocence Mission, An Evening with...Silk Sonic, Geography by Tom Misch.

Déjà Vu

It’s a month since I arrived in Brussels. My concept of time is already warped. Some of the experience has passed in a blink of an eye. Other aspects feel like a distant memory. That’s nothing new. I felt the same living in Strasbourg. I was based in North-East France for roughly two and half years. A relatively brief period. Yet there are times those early memories from 2017/2018 feel so much further away than they are. I can’t blame it all on the distortions of living through a pandemic. It comes with the territory of getting older. Everything appears to speed up post-18. Back in my student days, a fellow undergrad put it down to the rapid life changes after leaving school. Up until that point so much is determined by a routine over which we had very little control.

20-odd years later, his theory still holds up.

Of course, there is no getting around the impact of a global health crisis on social norms. I have to keep reminding myself of the effect it is having on adapting to a new work environment. The physical distancing measures at The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO) are very strict. With our presence in office heavily constrained, I am meeting very few of my colleagues. Add to that the usual summer lull – which COVID-19 hasn’t changed the way I’d expected – and my whole initial one-year contract could pass before I’ve begun to form proper working relationships.

There is nonetheless a thick silver lining. I have the time to adjust to my new life at a slower pace. Working from home has its drawbacks. Contending with the morning commute is not one of them. Furthermore, in finding alternative spaces to WFH beyond my hotel room, I have become acquainted with the personnel at various eating establishments in central Brussels. There’s Mehmet, the red-head Belgian-Turk who in addition to his mother tongue speaks fluent English, Dutch, smatterings of German but hardly any French. Abdul, the gregarious proprietor of an organic café in Botanique, takes easy continental living to an extreme; shutting up shop days before a national holiday in the name of faire le pont. In the same neck of the woods, I meet Afro-Cuban festival curator, Leonardo (or Lenni) and Sanaa, his idiomatic-English speaking, Belgo-Afghan colleague, at the Point Culture; one of many such hubs dotted across the city.

Back in the office, I’m encouraged by the interactions I’ve had thus far. My team are doing their utmost to cooperate and maintain regular communication under the current restrictions. Emails are prefaced with Dear Sister, or less common Dear Brother... (Personally, I prefer Dear comrade. It's rooted in the workers' struggle and gender neutral. I appreciate the familial sentiment, however).

Before she goes on leave, my manager Ama instructs me to shadow another colleague, Demetria. Having only interacted via computer screens, we meet for the first time in person during my second week. I discover her to be as warm and down-to-earth as she has appeared from afar. In between brainstorming about projects related to GBV and harassment at work and the effects of the pandemic on migrant workers, we swap life experiences. Demetria relocated from her native Thessaloniki to Brussels to study International Relations. She speaks five languages and is learning her sixth. A similar age, we ponder the unfulfilled Brave New World promises that we Xennials/older millennials were fed growing up. We talk about cultural adaptation from our different perspectives.

Point Culture, Brussels

Over the coming weeks I’ll observe her weep genuine tears over the untimely death of one of our partners; a vibrant young Mexican trade unionist with whom she’d only very recently been in contact. I’ll watch Demetria both assert herself but maintain her sang-froid whilst an abrasive colleague is scandalously unprofessional during a conference call. I’ll listen as she comfortably conducts virtual meetings in her second, third and fourth languages (English, Spanish, French...). Demetria implores me to resume my long dormant Spanish study. TTUO works with many monolingual Hispanophone comrades. I’m less keen. I have enough basic knowledge to pick up bits and pieces but I fell out of love with Español many years ago. Neither do I want it interfering with my Portuguese study. Nevertheless, three weeks into the job, I concede it would at least be useful to improve my passive Spanish skills.

I soon have the opportunity to make myself useful. I contribute to the design of a survey on global migration, translate here and there, proof-read and facilitate online discussions, amongst miscellaneous tasks. Demetria organises introductory Zoom conversations with overseas partners. I’m finally discovering what has become the new normal for many office-based professionals. A substantial part of the working day is spent in online meetings and/or webinars. Being new, I want to avail myself of them all. Making a valiant effort at first, I realise it's impossible. A whole day could go past having done little else. Hard choices must be made.

I still have a growing backlog of background reading that I have less and less time to do during office hours. I squeeze in what I can whilst using public transport, alternating between work-related reading and Portuguese study.

Yet I really can’t complain on the work front. Ça va bien. Thank God for small mercies.

The ongoing hunt for a flat is less smooth. The TTUO only guarantee my temporary digs for a month. I’ll be paying my way after then. I had hoped to find somewhere by 21 July; Belgium’s national holiday. The office would be closed, making it easier for me to move and less reliant on the two days relocation leave afforded us. 

It is not to be. I spend a solitary Fête Nationale in my short-term studio rental, catching up on reading, podcasts and speaking to family and friends.

More and more of my viewings are cancelled before the chance to see the property. Someone has pipped me to the post. Others fill me with niggling doubts. Eerily quiet surroundings with limited transport connections or slap bang in the middle of commercial areas. Promising flats are marred by half-finished renovation and/or detritus still remaining from the previous tenant. If they can’t get their act together for a viewing, it doesn’t augur well for future relations. Some properties aren’t available before the autumn, as I discover on one occasion half-way through the visit.

I attend a viewing one lunch time, a stone’s throw from my office. There are several of us. The space is newly renovated but on closer inspection, something is amiss. The agent shrugs when I ask why the wardrobe appears to have had its doors removed. The main bedroom isn’t a room at all; just a sectioned off part of the living room. Worst of all are the poorly maintained communal areas. When a few of us make an early exit, we discover that the front door is missing its handle. A young lady spots the broken knob lying on the floor for residents to re-attach. Something the estate agent somehow concealed. Considering a bulk of the bills go towards the upkeep of said communal areas and little else, this is not reassuring.

Towards the end of my first month, I feel thoroughly demoralised. And frightened. I’m yet to receive my first salary. Tax at source is significant. I don’t want to gripe. I consider it my civic duty to contribute financially to the common good. It will however have a significant influence on my budget. I now have to consider extending my temporary accommodation; something I’d hoped wouldn’t happen. My mind frequently goes back to the stress of my early days in Strasbourg, where it took me six weeks to find a flat; hopping from one AirBnB to another.

With the confidence of those who know Brussels well, my TTUO colleagues assure me that I’ll find somewhere decent for a reasonable price. I am encouraged by these positive prognostications but time is of the essence.

The longer it takes to find accommodation, the longer it takes for me to settle in. The longer it takes to find and build community. Brussels makes up in vibrancy and culture what it lacks in general aesthetic appeal. There has been a (sometimes worrying) resumption of activity post-lockdown. Yet moving to a new City intensifies the sense of alienation that has characterised 2020 so far. I feel adrift, separated for so long from those who have known me longest and/or best. This rootlessness isn’t helped by the realisation that even some of these relationships are fractured. Emigrating has only made the cracks more evident. 

Much of the online spiritual nourishment that has been a lifeline these past months takes place during office hours. I still participate, not wanting to lose focus on what’s most important. Yet I do have to adapt to this new life season. 

Soundtrack: Women in Music III by Haim, Quarantine Casanova by Chromeo.