And It Came to Pass…

 8 min read.

(image of courtesy of Freepik)

June rolls around with little promise of sunnier climes. Still, I have reason for (nervous) excitement. At the start of the month, I begin my latest comeback to higher education. Days before I’m due to start, the administrative gremlins run amok within The University’s system. My supervisor, Brigitta, sends me a slightly panicked email that there’s an error with the start date of my contract. It’s been postponed by two weeks. Both Brigitta and I are keen that I begin ASAP. Apparently, one too many favours has been asked of the HR officer in charge of my file and she’s no longer inclined to oblige. Somehow, Brigitta manages to convince her otherwise.

I go on campus a day earlier than my agreed start date to sort out some more admin; collecting my staff badge and access gadgets. It’s a clever move, eliminating a needless layer of stress for my first official day. En route to the security lodge, I stumble across the student-led Palestine Solidarity encampments. Like many academic institutions across the Western world, students are embarking on a long occupation to convince The University to cut academic and commercial ties with Israel until it ends its policies of slaughter and oppression.

I make a mental note to pass by the encampment at a later stage for further enquiries. I don’t want to tarry in becoming active. At the same time, I’m circumspect as a new member of staff (PhD Fellows occupy a netherworld between student and personnel). I'm wary of discretion on account of my newness becoming an excuse for cowardice. Nonetheless, it’s important to understand the lay of the land first. Over the next few days, I note Palestine solidarity graffiti all over campus; scrawled on walls and across the tables in the large canteen, or large memorial murals visible from the main road. The University appears to be taking quite a relaxed attitude to the students exercising their freedom of expression. This is a stark contrast to the brute force unleashed by Belgian police during another peaceful, student-led protest in central Brussels earlier that month.

After collecting my staff badge and other essentials, I pass by Brigitta’s office to say a quick hello. We already have a more formal one-to-one arranged for the end of the week. I hear my name called. It’s one of my new colleagues, Geraldine. She has her own rendez-vous with Brigitta that afternoon. It’s the first time we’re meeting offline. Originally from Ghana, she’s relocated to Belgium after doing some further studies in Singapore. I ask how the flat hunting is coming along. Geraldine – or G, as she’s already affectionately known by the team – has joined forces with Elif, another member of our cohort, to look for somewhere to live in or close to Brussels. I’ve given them the best advice I can, which they receive with appreciation. In the end, for the sake of expediency, they settle for somewhere in Flanders; a bit of a commute from Brussels.

Brigitta finds us chatting away and gives us a brief tour of the Literature and Linguistics department  which we’re joining. Based on the sixth floor, our open plan office and kitchen spaces boast lovely views of The University’s verdant grounds.

Later that week, all four of our team of PhD fellows – Geraldine, Elif, myself and Janneke – originally from the Netherlands – will meet IRL for the first time at a department conference that Friday. The other three have already forged a good rapport. For various reasons, I initially feel a bit of an outsider; not least because of the unorthodox path that led to my acceptance on the programme. I’m pretty sure I’m also the oldest of the bunch. Nevertheless, everyone in the team is open and cordial. Over the course of the coming weeks, there will be various opportunities to share more about our diverse backgrounds. Elif, for example, already has familial connections to Belgium. Her mother, of Cypriot and Bulgarian heritage, is a Liegeoise born-and-bred. Geraldine is from the same part of Ghana as my maternal grandfather.

I meet colleagues from the wider department on an ad hoc basis. Things are already winding down ahead of summer, even if PhD fellows don’t strictly follow the usual academic year cycle.

Colleagues are kindly and ready to help, as I become accustomed to new ways of working and various other particularities. Whilst most of us are studying in English, Dutch is the administrative language of the institution. I have neither the time nor inclination to take Dutch lessons. What I cannot translate with Deep L, I ask my Flemish colleagues. I’m especially reliant on the help of the department’s (unofficial) Comms liaison, Karolijn. One of my roles as project coordinator is to help make our team’s research projects more visible online. We're part of - although still somewhat independent from - the wider research group, LILAC (Liminality in Literature Academic Centre). Karolijn patiently shows me the ropes during our shared office days. I try as much to be self-sufficient but am prudent enough to ask questions – of her, Brigitta or anybody else – if in doubt or fully at sea. 

 The month is busy with activities; interventions by world-renowned scholars, seminars, the first of many thoroughly stimulating book club-style theory and methodology workshops and an extravagant University-wide barbeque. There are also more spontaneous occasions to fraternise, like a lively discussion about contemporary Black women writers over lunch with Karolijn and others.

By the grace of God, I’m off to an upbeat start. If there is one thing that nags at me is the lack of diversity in the department. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, even in a context when so many are specialising in studies related to the African continent and its diaspora. Still, it’s one thing to grasp a fact only intellectually and another to be confronted by it. The department is 90% Caucasian, with a significant minority of Chinese students. Simply by recruiting Geraldine and me, Brigitta has pretty much doubled the presence of black fellows in the department.

Brussels is supposedly the second most multicultural city in the world (although I'd contend its cosmopolitanism seems more shallow than somewhere like London). Whilst this might be better represented in other parts of The University, it's not the case on our floor.  It only takes a cursory glance at the members’ section of the LILAC website to gauge that. The few times I cross paths in the corridor with other black women, it’s all I can do not pounce on them with gratitude. Thankfully, the response has been warm.

Palestine Solidarity encampments

I’m trying to be careful that my curiosity over other colleagues’ motivations for studying iterations of Black literature doesn’t turn into scepticism, if not cynicism. It's one thing if most of the fellows grew up in multicultural contexts, regularly exposed to literature from across the world. Instead, many have come from monocultural villages or small towns in Flanders or the Netherlands.

I don’t want to assume bad faith. It's possible that most take a genuine interest in these themes. Why shouldn’t indigenous Europeans care about cultures beyond their own? It's not just for Afrodescendants to study subjects related to our cultures. Neither should we be limited to that. And yet, academia is still a highly elite and colonial space that reflects – if not reinforces – many of the existing inequalities outside of its walls. How much is this literary fetishism, if not (unconscious) orientalism, I wonder? How much is it a case of some more affluent non-European students wanting to study in the West and exactly what they study is of less important?

I’m left questioning the general commitment to solidarity with the historically marginalised all the more following a discussion with another colleague, Trudi. She spots the Palestine badge on my raincoat and asks if I’m interested in joining the activities of staff sympathetic to the cause. I respond with enthusiasm. Trudi explains how staff hold their own weekly assemblies - in addition to the nightly ones organised by students. Trudi also disabuses me of any notion that The University is especially supportive of the cause. Rumour has it that they're engaging in a tactic of exhaustion, ignoring the students until they wear themselves out.

I also meet Benedict; an associate professor of Anthropology, who is public about his support for the encampments (he also happens to co-organise LILAC events with Brigitta). I am informed by both Trudi and Benedict that an open letter has been circulated just before my arrival. It was signed by hundreds of staff, including PhD fellows. However, to my disappointment -one that I readily share with Trudi - it is signed by very few within our faculty. I’m heartened to see Karolijn’s name amongst them, as well as that of Vision (originally from Zimbabwe, she’s one of the few black faces I’ve come across so far).

Outside of work, I share my reservations with loved ones. My friend Sylvia both challenges some of my assumptions and concurs with my questioning of motives. We can't rule out career advancement, she ventures. It’s possible some subjects are perceived as ‘sexy’ and du jour, especially post-2020 BLM uprisings.

Diversifying the department is not your particular fight, Sylvia admonishes, You have other avenues of activism. 

Give it time, she reassures, you have four years to see how the faculty evolves.

Towards the end of the month, I also have the opportunity to converse with one of the visiting professors; a respected UK-based academic of Afro-Caribbean heritage. Without me having to probe, she's candid about how isolating it can be as a black female academic working in Literary Studies. More often than not, she's the only brown face in the room. Whilst this in itself isn't reassuring, it's a great comfort to be able to speak to her candidly. Neither is she despondent. Notwithstanding structural barriers, she gently urges me to use my position in future to encourage young black students to consider a career in Literature. A commissioning of sorts.

Soundtrack: Happy by Yinkah, Matthew 4:19 by Lynn Nsongo, Surrender the Day by Jimetta Rose & the Voices of Creation, Tawk Tamahawk, Choose Your Weapon and Mood Valiant by Hiatus Kaiyote.

Wind of Change Part II

6 min. read

(Part 1)

Easily the most time and energy consuming pursuit of late has been an application to do a PhD programme at one of Belgium’s leading universities. I receive notification of three funded literary studies fellowships related to the African diaspora, via a cross-cultural mailing list I'm on. The notification comes courtesy of the supervising professor, Dr Brigitta Puller. She’s recently relocated to Belgium from Germany to take up tenure at The University. Our paths have briefly crossed before in certain academic and related spaces; tenuous enough for us to have only hazy recollection of each other. Fate brings us together again.

The PhD themes are intriguing, the fringe benefits are great and thanks to a heavy tax reduction for students, the salary seems decent by Brussels’ standards.

Two of the fellowships are of particular interest but I end up applying for all three, to better my odds. I’m eventually asked to interview for two. Ironically, the first for which I receive a response is the one in which I’m least invested.

Each interview requires a five-minute Powerpoint presentation on a given theme, the slides for which need to be forwarded two days ahead of the interview. A clerical hick-up means the instructions for one of the interviews arrive with over a week’s delay, a day before a planned trip to the UK.

The interviews take place within a week of each other. I feel I can’t start preparing the second until I’ve finished the first. I plunge myself into research and interview prep. There’s an added pressure given that, as usual, I keep knowledge of the interview to myself. Whilst my family are aware I’ve applied for the PhD, they don’t know when I progress to the next stage. I only inform my life coach Pieter, during our monthly meet-up, when we both happen to be in London, a few days before my first interview. I also inform my friend, Oxford professor Danny Dorling. His support and input is invaluable throughout the process. He and my former MA supervisor, write glowing recommendations to accompany my application. Danny’s reference is so effusive, I tell him no mere mortal could be as good as he makes me out to be. In any case, I credit these great references for me eventually being shortlisted.

Both Pieter and Danny are chuffed for me. The weeks leading up to and during the interviews are somewhat frenetic. I’m constantly exhausted. Whilst initially disappointed that I’m not interviewed for the third fellowship, I start to see it as a blessing in disguise. It would have been too overwhelming. Both interviews go fairly well. The mistakes made in the first allow me to give a slicker performance for the second.

VUB University campus, Brussels

The morning after interview number two, I receive an email from Dr Puller. The message is affirming but does not bring the good news I hoped. She takes it upon herself to notify me before the official rejection email comes through. She commends my efforts and what a positive impression I made. I have a sinking deja-vu feeling reading the ‘..you came so close' subtext.

There is nonetheless initial cause for cautious optimism. Dr Puller proposes we get back in touch soon. She adds that we should continue on a first name basis (Brigitta - hard ‘G’).  Yet, as I slowly share the news with family, select friends and acquaintances (very few of whom knew about the application in the first place), I lose some of that optimism. It’s not the first time that a prospective employer sets up a meeting, implies there could be future collaboration and then it comes to nothing. I don’t want to be misled again.

That weekend I’ve planned a number of socials which I’m tempted to cancel. Politeness prevents me. That same afternoon, I honour a long-planned appointment with my friend Sylvia. I recount everything from scratch. The tears flow freely and often that day. Sylvia leaves space for that, in a sympathetic but tough love manner. (It's an odd day in general. I run into other acquaintances at this inopportune time.)

The application could only have gone one of two ways. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. A month or so before being called for interview, I have a vivid dream about a less-than-positive outcome. I once heard a pastor say some things are either God or the devil. It could also have been my nervous subconscious speaking. In any case, it helped prepare my mind if the results weren’t favourable. But still. I’m winded by the news. I feel especially bad reflecting on Danny's zeal; how he went over and beyond with his help and guidance. In some ways, I feel worse for him than myself. Danny continues to be supportive and is in no way recriminatory. He’s far more hopeful of what might come out of any future discussions with Brigitta than I am.

True to her word, Dr Puller promptly offers to meet offline before she leaves for her Easter holidays.

Good old German efficiency. There’s no time like the present. I'm eager for targeted feedback about my application. I'm not anticipating much else. I don’t doubt Brigitta’s sincerity. Nevertheless, if she’s a new member of staff, I reason that there’s only so much she’ll be able to do for me. I prepare myself for a commiserative meeting.

Brigitta does offer solace. She explains exactly how fierce the competition was and that I made it to a shortlist of five, twice. I also came pretty close with the third application, she adds. She proceeds to lay out a few options. Before I have time to process her words, she's offering me a project coordination role with the opportunity to study for a PhD over the next four years. I duly accept, trying to maintain my composure whilst inside, I’m on the verge of an out-of-body experience. Have I just heard correctly?

In case I have any doubts, Brigitta wastes no time in setting the wheels in motion before she leaves for her holidays. The fellowship begins in June. The following weeks and months are replete with a mountain of admin and numerous email exchanges. With the exception of mum, Pieter and Danny, family and friends are kept out of the loop until most of the formalities are out of the way. Not even my therapist knew. I am immensely moved by the joyful reactions from various quarters.

I am relieved, excited, nervous, curious…and a little stressed by all the admin. My life should at least feel easier but I’m not (yet) as carefree as I thought - hoped - I’d be. As Sylvia remarks when I share the good news (minus the expletive), it's been a relentless few years. Or several. I'm still in recovery. There is no silver bullet or short-cut when it comes to the inner healing process.

Still, it's undeniable that my life is about to change significantly and for upbeat reasons. All the nudges from loved ones to consider seriously a career in academia are being vindicated. Since doing my masters, I’ve been more open to the idea of a PhD. At the same time, paradoxically, I’d never thought of myself as a 'natural' academic. I'm intellectually inquisitive, sure but it's not necessarily the same thing. And yet here I am.

A German professor who moves to Belgium almost two years after I left TTUO is the vehicle of change in my life. Two plus years of soul-searching and turbulence. An unexpected blessing in a roundabout way. It happened when it happened. Not a minute sooner and not a minute too late.

If God indeed has a sense of humour, it’s a dry one. At least in my case.

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)

Wind of Change Part I

5 min. read

Whilst I have indeed been quiet on these pages of late, life has been anything but.  In the weeks going on months that have elapsed, I’ve squeezed in a refreshing if hectic trip to the UK, visiting cities and people I hadn’t seen IRL since before the pandemic. As has become my post-lockdown tradition, I purposely schedule the break to coincide with Mothering Sunday in the UK. The day itself is lovely. I accompany mum to her church where I receive a guest-of-honour welcome, not to mention an unexpected gift. In the evening, on mum’s suggestion, we dine at a popular new-ish Turkish restaurant in the neighbourhood that comes with her hearty stamp of approval. Given that I’m usually more of a fan of Levantine cuisine than my mother, that says a lot. The establishment is heaving with activity. A lone vocalist plays inventive acoustic guitar covers, in between choice late 90s/early 2000s R&B being blasted through the speakers.

 A few weeks later, mum will spend a week and a half with me for the Easter period. It’s a relatively smooth trip but for a fairly heated set-to that is settled within an evening. Highlights include a moving Good Friday service at Holy Trinity Brussels that has us both in tears, and a visit to Ghent; mum’s first, my second. We continue our custom of signing up for a walking tour of the city, which gives me a renewed appreciation for it. I wasn’t all that impressed when I passed by for the first time in 2016. I realise that back then, I hadn’t really seen Ghent proper. If the guide seems a tad disconnected at the start, he becomes more committed as the tour progresses.

A major snag is the town's counter-intuitive layout. Getting from the main station to the city centre is fairly straightforward, the return journey not so much. We are amongst a number of day visitors, roaming around for an inordinate amount of time looking for the bus to take us back. Asking locals is mostly futile. Their English levels are not up to the task (surprisingly for Dutch-speakers) or they are none the wiser. I’m especially frazzled after a frustrating conversation with a hotel clerk who, rather than just admit she can’t assist, wastes my time with instructions of which she herself is not sure. We eventually make it back with the help of some kindly and better informed locals, one of whom explains that the recent modifications to the layout even confuse residents.

Ghent City Centre (courtesy of Visit Gent)

In other news, my activism is infusing my time in Belgium with meaning that I would have otherwise struggled to find. The Intal coordinating teams have entrusted me with increasing responsibility. In March, there are demos for Palestine and against structural racism more widely. I’m also part of the working groups for a forthcoming European election related-event, as well as Intal’s programme for the annual Manifiesta festival in September.

Elsewhere, I have a difficult but necessary conversation with one of my pastors about the church's silence over Israel’s barbaric assault on Gaza. I am given an impetus on meeting Lys, a young woman whom I spot wearing a Keffiyeh at a Sunday service. I’m so heartened and relieved to meet someone at Fresh Wine Ministries openly showing their support for the Palestinian cause, I give her a warm hug.

We both lament the general lack of engagement at FWM. Whenever I do hear the crisis mentioned, say at prayer meetings (which I have been frequenting less for this reason), it’s usually someone with Zionist leanings, whitewashing Israel’s oppression and ignoring the Palestinian plight altogether. (Of course, I don't allow that to pass without a corrective).

Lys intends to speak to Pastor Mike about the church’s lack of response. So do I. Let’s talk to him together. I suggest with enthusiasm...

...Except she means straight after that Sunday service. With all the post-service buzz, it's not the ideal time to have such a heavy discussion, to my mind. I only find out from Lys later by text that she’s already had a word with Pastor Mike. She seems too easily pleased with what sounds like cop-out reasoning. Perhaps Lys doesn’t feel comfortable probing the pastor further. An age difference and linguistic limitations could be a factor.

I feel I have no choice but to meet with Pastor Mike myself. I would like us to speak online but he prefers we convene at church.

In the lead up to the meeting, I am incredibly nervous. I shouldn’t be. Pastor Mike is effusive and easy-going. And yet, it is a highly sensitive subject. On the day itself, in a wonderful show of solidarity, my good friend Karin calls me to bounce off ideas. She credits me for helping her evolve her own understanding around the Palestine issue. I am profoundly grateful for her support.

I also consider it providence that Elodie, a member of my house-group, happens to be hanging around church that afternoon. She’s sympathetic to the Palestinian cause herself, although not the most vocal about it.

Pastor Mike is relaxed and receptive, at least at first. Whilst he remains convivial throughout, there are tell-tale signs that he’s not all that comfortable with the conversation. He insists he needs to collect his children from school, for instance. I assume the meeting is over, only for Pastor Mike not to be in a hurry to leave after all.

At one point, he tells me to ‘climb down off my soapbox’. It’s said in a jovial tone but I don’t think it’s wholly meant in jest.

I like to believe nevertheless, that it's an instructive conversation for both of us.

Pastor Mike’s views in private on any number of issues are comparatively more radical than he lets on in public. Our discussion is too extensive to go into detail here but it does cover a lot of themes beyond the Middle East to encompass the DRC, double-standards over Ukraine and anti-migrant sentiments. We converge on a number of topics, even if our approaches are significantly different. Some of our conversation takes place in Elodie’s presence. I’m mildly irritated by what seems to be an inconsistency in what she says when Pastor Mike is in the room and when he’s not.

I encourage Pastor Mike to be more explicit about social justice matters as well as other delicate issues that affect congregants, especially those on the margins. He says that it shouldn’t all come down to him. I agree. However, he does have a platform and it contributes to church culture.

I don't attend service at FWM the following Sunday but I'm told that Pastor Mike's sermon reflects some of what we've discussed. Several weeks later, a day after Iran responds militarily to Israel bombing one of their consulates, Pastor Mike begins his sermon with intercessory prayers for the nations including Palestine, Congo and Sudan; a direct application of a suggestion made during our meeting.

Soundtrack: Ye Ankasa|We Ourselves by Jembaa Groove, Grupo Ébano by Grupo Ébano