Croatia Calls…Again: Part I

 6 + 1/2 min. read

Seget Vranjica village near Trogir, Croatia (image: Croatia Gems)

It’s that time of year again. For my summer/birthday break, as usual, I’m looking for a change of scenery. The last few have been spent becoming acquainted with Eastern Europe. My first foray into this part of the Continent was visiting the Dubrovnik region in Croatia, for my 40th back in (still) COVID-afflicted 2021. I became instantly enchanted with the Croatian coastline. I knew I would return but wanted to be intentional about it. Otherwise, the lapse would be too long.

In the interim years, my summers have been spent inland. I’ve missed birthdays by the sea. Whilst I’m not a swimmer, there’s something about being near a vast body of water that helps put my soul at ease.  Last year, when visiting the Hungarian capital, I bumped into a fellow solo traveller who would go on to tour the former Yugoslavian coast. She mentioned Split. I made up my mind that that would be my next summer destination. Thank God, my financial situation has improved enough for this to be a reality. I find a very good deal on accommodation in the city's peripheries, close to the seafront.

I catch a flight at dawn to Split airport via Munich. On arriving, the warm climes, clear blue skies and eye-catching vistas instantly have me upbeat. I randomly spark a conversation with one of the few black faces I see around; a lad from the Caribbean, now based in Germany. His parents are in the military. He seems ambivalent about his adopted home. Keep your head up, I say. 

At the bus stop, I meet a portly young man in town for the Defective dance festival. Although I’ve never attended, I admire the musical taste of hunky Melvo Baptiste, one of the organising DJs. The coincidences don’t end there. It turns out this bus stop gent is a Bruxellois who happens to share the same postcode. He highly recommends Trogir, where I intend to spend a lot of time. I don’t take these fortuitous encounters for granted. I see it as akin to a Divine welcome. 

The first part of my journey to my accommodation, in the seaside village of Seget Vranjica, is straightforward. It’s a scenic route. We pass a number of marinas, heads bobbing up and down in the water. I wink at a little blonde girl on the bus, who returns my bonhomie with a dead-eyed, 50-yard stare.

From Trogir station to Seget Vranjica is less simple. Public transport is cost effective but infrequent. I find a bus driver who promises he’s heading in my direction. I’ve printed several possible bus routes but I have the ‘wrong’ one to hand. It’s through the kindness of surprisingly hospitable locals that I eventually find my way. A woman and her elderly mother welcome me onto the patio of their summer home, surrounded by vines and olive groves. One of their neighbours generously drops me off at the accommodation, refusing any monetary appreciation. 

I’m welcomed by one of the building managers, Sally. I'm ahead of check-in but later than I'd hoped to arrive. Sally's surprised I don’t use Uber and even more shocked that I don’t possess a smartphone. 

The hostel is a small complex of student-halls style accommodation; self-contained units with a communal kitchen. The best of both worlds. I can enjoy privacy without being cut off from civilisation. I have an intimate little room to myself with ensuite shower. It smells amazing when I arrive; just as I read in the reviews. It takes some getting used to the limited space but it’s fine as somewhere to sleep and shower. What I’ll soon come to discover, to my frustration, is how far Seget Vranjica is from Split; much closer to the airport than the city itself.

After a wash and a nap, I’m back out for a tour of nearby Trogir’s old town.  

Trogir Old City (courtesy of Pelago)

I rush to the bus stop, afraid I’ve missed my ride. Except it’s not me that’s late. I’m about to give up when I see a plush coach-like vehicle on the horizon. 15 minutes late, the bus gets me to Trogir just in time for the start of the tour. The guide, Martina, is a bright and genial local with spidery eyelashes, and several years experience in the tourist industry. The tour group is made up of a medical doctor from the US on holiday with her son; a painfully shy French-Canadian with an apparently very good command of the Serbo-Croat language, and a family now based in Argentina by way of the US and Brazil. 

Trogir is alive with touristic buzz. The town is pretty; a more compact version of rival Dubrovnik. Martina takes us through the history of Croatia’s occupation by numerous foreign powers and their diverse impact on custom and language (Ottoman Empire, the Venetians, briefly France and the Austro-Hungarian Empire). Like most of these tours, a little goes a long way. We take the scenic route around what’s barely a square mile, encompassing the Town Hall, St Lawrence’ Cathedral and the bayside promenade. 

Despite the tourism, the town hasn’t succumbed to the familiar gentrification. Hundreds of locals still live in the old town, laundry (in)famously drying outside their windows. Martina assures us the best way to appreciate Trogir is to get lost in its side streets. As if she read my mind. 

Towards the end of the tour, Martina opens up about the lasting traumatic legacy of the civil war. She grew up hating Serbs. One day her grandmother chastised her harshly, admonishing her not to judge a people by their bad leaders. Martina then shares an affecting, Good Samaritan-style family anecdote of when Serbs readily came to their aid in life-or-death circumstances.

Dinner is at one of only a couple of places that Martina would endorse (indeed, the cuisine will be one of the most underwhelming elements of this trip). As I settle the bill, another local starts speaking to me in fluid English extolling the virtues of the menu. ‘This is the best pizza in Dalmatia’, she boasts. She also happens to be a tour guide, coincidentally called Martina. She claims to be the former neighbour of her namesake, who is allegedly named after her. Whilst the younger Martina insists that Trogir has only recently become touristy, her elder strongly disputes it. ‘She grew up during the war’, she observes ‘we didn’t have much tourism then’.

Filip's Marina Taxi Boat, Croatia

There’s enough time between dinner and the last taxi boat to my accommodation for a leisurely stroll around the bay. A marching band passes the restaurant. On one end of the promenade, at the old fortress, there’s a Techno music festival. A few hundred metres away is a stage for free local events. Performers dressed in folk costumes play traditional music whilst young children, also in costume, stand mannequin-still in front of the stage. They look mortified, as if held hostage.

On the other side of the marina, I see a good-looking young black man coming in the opposite direction with whom I assume is his Caucasian girlfriend. Just as we pass each other, a voice carries over the wind.’How are you auntie?’.  

‘Did you just call me auntie, you cheeky monkey?’, I shoot back. And so we start to converse amiably. Contrary to assumptions, they’re step-siblings. Joe, the young man, was born in the Caribbean but moved to Ireland as a child. His step-sister, Zara is originally Croatian. Her mother married his dad and they were both raised on the Emerald Isle.  Neither is new to Croatia.

We chat about our affection for the region, lodging in remote places and me not possessing a smartphone. Joe asks if I’ve encountered any strange behaviour. It’s then I have to admit my reservations. On the bus from Split Airport, I couldn’t tell if the passengers were trying not to notice me or if I were being over-sensitive. Elsewhere, there have been a few stares. Then there was the stony-faced little girl. It’s the opposite of my experience in Dubrovnik and the surrounding areas. Where I expected some odd reactions, it was surprisingly welcoming. I also saw a lot more Afrodescendant tourists on that part of the coast.  I assumed the rest of the region would be the same. Joe is ambiguous himself, not sure whether these are stares of curiosity or hostility. Zara confesses that, after growing up in monocultural rural Croatia, she was scared on first meeting her step-family as a child.  We part ways, without sharing numbers. We’re in the region for roughly the same time. I suspect we’ll cross paths again.

The last taxi boat leaves at 10pm. I receive mildly askance looks from some other passengers. Nothing that will spoil the serene half-hour crossing, however. The sun sets noticeably earlier here than in North-West Europe. Now well after dark, the waves take on a black velvety effect. White and amber lights signal distant city life. The night sky is clear enough for the constellations to command my attention.

Part II

Part III

Soundtrack: John Gómez and Nick the Record present the TANGENT compilation feat. Various Artists

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)