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.

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.