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 Mikeis 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 viewsin 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.
By the end of February, the murmurings of spring come around with a quickness that should no longer surprise or unnerve me. But it does.
My counsellor invites me, for free, to a Christian weekend retreat for singles on the Belgian coast. I assume God really wants me there. I wouldn’t have had the disposable income for the trip otherwise.
The only drawback is that I am obligated to share a room with a stranger. It’s a lottery. It’ll be hard to switch off completely not knowing the temperament of my roommate. On verra.
Despite the inauspicious weather forecast that weekend, it turns out to be mild enough to take walks along the sandy Ostend beach. To my pleasant surprise, the convention is booked at a lovely new-looking hotel, delectable meals included. The capacious shower facilities are almost the same size as the bedroom. There’s also a great view of the coast. The building is nevertheless so labyrinthine, that I never quite master the layout. It’s only at the end of my stay, for instance, that I discover I’ve been dining in the ‘wrong’ canteen.
I arrive at the retreat not in the most sociable mood. Perhaps the thought of bunking with an unknown is playing too much on my mind. I’ve also not come with the intention to hardcore socialise. I see this as akin to my previous experience of silent retreats; a break from the norm in the hope of spending sustained quality time with God. Furthermore, I’m still negotiating my roller-coaster morale.
Between the seminars, I’m not interested in much chit-chat. Whilst I’ll somewhat regret being aloof at times, keeping to myself generally seems like the right call.
My counsellor, Sandrine serves as moderator. Having only recently married well into her 40s, she knows a thing or two about making the most of being single. I learn more about her in the first few minutes of the opening seminar than I have in the two years I’ve been her client. She’s a more confident and fluid public-speaker than I expect.
The attendees are also far more diverse than anticipated; in age, gender and ethnicity. (It’s not just a room full of black women over 35, then.) There’s one guest whom I can only suppose was coerced into coming. I notice him taking swigs of some unknown liquid stashed away in his pocket. I can’t blame him, if it’s not his scene. Maybe in order to endure, he feels the need for some Dutch Courage. A jocular character even when sober (from what I observe), he’s especially disruptive during seminars. More than once he abandons them altogether, escorted out of the hall by the woman I presume invited him.
Over the course of the weekend, I’ll spot a few people from my home church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM). It’s a relief of sorts to see familiar faces. I’m friendly but maintain a polite distance.
The main sessions are led by an elderly Caucasian couple, Anne-Marie and Louis, both on their second go of this marriage business. Apart from Sandrine’s opening address, there’s an awful lot of focus on future marriage, rather than appreciating singleness in its own right. I wonder how this serves those who don’t want to or, for whatever reason, will not marry. I think of those in the room who might be LGBTQ+ and choose to be celibate; how this over-emphasis on being wed invisibilises their experiences.
Louis still has a noticeable Quebecois inflection, despite having left North America decades ago. Most French Canadians I come across in mainland Europe tend to soften their accent to be better understood. This speaker, not so much. I make a special effort to catch what he’s saying. Then again, ignorance is bliss. At least a decade older than his wife, Louis lives down to several clichés of the reactionary older white evangelical. He rails against the Big Bang theory, apparently not aware that it was first put forward by Georges Lemaître, a Catholic priest from Belgium, of all places. Already fed up, I retire to my room when he launches into an off-topic and vehement Zionist apologia that seems to indirectly justify current events in Gaza. On the way to my chambers, I hear strains of a pitchy rendition of The Macarena emanating from one of the bars, courtesy of the hired 'talent'.
Anne-Marie's interventions are much more pertinent than her husband's. She has a heartening backstory of finding a new lease of life when, after 20 years of marriage, her serially unfaithful ex abandons her and their four children. She does make a few stray comments that leave me uneasy, however; one of them being borderline heretical.
Whilst I am able to engage with some sessions more than others and there are a few insightful moments, it’s nothing that I hadn’t heard before. Louis' interventions irritate more than inspire. It’s hard to relax not knowing when my roommate will return. If she is around, she's amicable but meddlesome. And she snores. I request earplugs from reception after a fitful first night. When my roommate queries why I nap so much, it’s difficult to avoid mentioning her unconscious habit. She blames it on weight-gain, somehow making it all about herself. The second night is a lot less stertorous. I suspect she took my observations to heart and ends up not sleeping well herself.
Meal times are a highlight, not just for the variety but also the friendly (mostly male, Middle Eastern or African) staff. Alas, there is one karen lurking around and scrutinising my every movement. At the end of my stay, when she waves her finger at me for leaving the premises with a half-eaten apple, I snap at her in exasperation. She quickly backs off.
Overall, I’m not sure what to make of the retreat. Back in Brussels there were a number of places I could have been that weekend, including a solidarity demo for DRC. Whilst a change of scene and a bit of alone time with God in relatively plush surroundings has been welcome, there has not been -at least not yet - the life-transforming revelation I had in mind.
My cultural and political engagements continue to be some of the few positive aspects of my mixed (at best) experience so far in Belgium. As usual, there is no shortage of free or cheap cultural events.
I have a heated exchange at Full Circle with a cocky UK-based African-American academic. His address is noticeably androcentric and he carries a strong aroma of misogynoir. He minimises the distinct difficulties Afrodescendant women face at the intersection of race and gender discrimination. He doesn't have much truck with intersectional theories at all. It's thus not a surprise that he apparently has a vendetta for black feminists like Kimberlé Crenshaw, Audre Lorde and in particular, bell hooks. Time doesn’t allow me to go into my frustration with his all-or-nothing, cherry-picking method of argumentation, as well as the lack of intellectual rigour elsewhere in the room. Notwithstanding a few notable exceptions, the mostly white guests are too scared and/or ill-informed to challenge him or add anything constructive to the conversation. Similar for most of the Afrodescendant guests, a number of whom are Americans themselves. Some patriotic loyalty is at play, apparently. One attendee, with whom I’d previously had a cordial exchange, is particularly defensive that evening. Or maybe I've just caught her at a jaded low-point. She accuses me of interrupting (she's not wrong) whilst shamelessly hacking others off herself. She pounces on any comment she doesn’t like, whether or not directed at her. She serves as the academic’s personal bulldog if I so much as ask for a point of clarification. Worst of all, as someone who professes to be interested in the advancement of black women, she takes no issue with the very problematic statements made by the guest speaker. For someone as educated as she claims to be, it’s a disappointing display.
I have a more positive encounter at the celebrated Jazz venue, Archiduc, where I come across a couple I met over five years prior at the 2018 Afropean symposium. I recall a conversation with the fellow, of mixed Afro-Brazilian descent, about his being an advocate for Black Love. At the time, he proudly informs me of his relationship with a darker-skinned Afrodescendant woman. I am glad to observe he's kept his word.
I have long wondered what became of the two. Did they remain in Belgium and if so, why I had not bumped into them sooner, like other guests I met at the same symposium?
That is partially answered by the adorable tot accompanying them at Archiduc that afternoon. They’ve spent almost two years in hibernation, outside of work obligations, looking after the new addition to the family. We exchange numbers and a few text messages. I'm not expecting us to become BFFs. I'm just pleased to have scratched that curiosity itch.
On the political front, I am in charge of booking the entertainment for a special bring-and-share organised by Intal, to raise awareness about the deteriorating situation in Eastern DRC. A live performance and a DJ set are also envisaged, to add some well-needed levity to the event. I ask my mate, B-Sharp from the Afro Jam to help out with the former. He's on another level that evening, the enrapt audience hanging on his every melodious word. He ropes me into an impromptu performance, as I suspected he would.
I am also invited to be on the organising committee of the association's annual political education conference, Campus Intal. Whilst the organisation itself is slightly on the chaotic side, it’s still incredibly rewarding to be involved in any activism of this sort. Many, if not all, of my Intal comrades are also members of the Belgian workers’ party, PTB. We cross paths once more at the party’s New Year’s gathering, at which delegates outline their political programme for 2024. It’ll be a significant period, with many forthcoming key elections, none for which I am eligible to vote. My support will have to be moral instead.
Campus Intal itself is equal-parts invigorating and exhausting. The team of volunteers is coordinated by Kelly, a boisterously loud New Zealander of Taiwanese origin. I’ve hitherto given her a wide berth, deterred by her presumed attention-seeking and a suspicion that any activism had more to do with her IG profile than The Cause. My attitude does thaw substantially whilst we work together to ensure the weekend runs as smoothly as possible.
I make several great connections that weekend in between the informative and interactive workshops. There’s Italian-Eritrean, Merlat working in the NGO sector. I meet Brian, an easy-on-the-eye Brit of mixed-Madagascan origin. He arrived in Brussels almost a year before I began my (mis)adventure here but is new to political engagement. I have longer conversations with vaguely familiar faces such as half-Egyptian, Yussef and Habiba; a bright, not to mention stunning, Lybian-Italian with Camel-like eyelashes born and raised in Vancouver.
At the end of conference day one, I partake in my first guerilla, flash mob-style protest at the notorious supermarket chain, Carrefour. Heavily invested in Israeli settlements, the franchise is high on the list of companies to Boycott according to the BDS campaign. A sizable group of us descend on one of the largest branches in Brussels. I assume we’ll merely picket the entrance so I am surprised when we enter the megastore's premises themselves. At a strategic moment, Palestinian flags are unwrapped, and one of Intal’s leaders calls for a boycott of Carrefour and an immediate ceasefire in Gaza on a megaphone. The group proceeds through the shop chanting these demands, as bemused customers record the protest on their phones.
Those amongst us (like myself) with a more precarious, third-country national status serve as decoys. Habiba and I feign a genuine interest in the dairy or pasta products whilst we play lookout. We’re led by Lucien, born to Syrian-Christian parents near Damascus.
I detect one of the security guards making a furtive phone call. He doesn't attempt to handle the situation himself. I ring Lucien to warn him the police are on their way. They show up with a head-spinning quickness.
By that time we’re already at the tram stop, heading back to HQ. It is exhilarating. Despite being almost half my age (I assume), Habiba is a veteran of this kind of direct action. It’s more of a novelty for me. The following morning, both of us will attend a popular workshop on activists’ rights in Belgium. The human rights lawyer leading the session is the same who advises on Intal's direct actions.
Following the supermarket protest, we let our hair down at the conference afterparty. Most of the crowd are baby Millennials or Gen-Zed, far more familiar than I with the Electro-Eastern fusion, Amapiano and commercial Hip-Hop playlist of Intal's very own DJ Mustafa. Despite the absence of any old school R&B, I still get my dance on. It's just as much fun watching the comrades throwing shapes to varying degrees of success. Kerry, intense even when sober, is literally bouncing off the walls after a beer or two. When she volunteers -unsuccessfully - to pole dance around the pillars, I double up in hysterics.
Slipping away to get some rest before the next day of activities, I am stopped en route by none other than B-Sharp’s amiable wife, Luna.
At such moments, I could believe that perhaps I am exactly where I need to be.
Soundtrack: Chet Baker Sings + The Legendary Riverside Albums
On an otherwise uneventful morning in late January, I receive a notification from the Belgian tax authority that I have some incoming correspondence. Unnerved, I log into the convoluted electronic system to see what awaits me. To my horror, I discover that according to the Kingdom of Belgium, I owe 1200 euros for the tax year 2022.
I search the document for any inconsistencies. (Even in English, it would be difficult wading through the jargon). Surely, there must be some mistake. I was unemployed for the whole of 2022, when I wasn’t on sick leave for suspected burnout. I’m thrown into a panic. I plan to call the tax office at the nearest convenience. In the meantime, I message the leader of my church home group to ask for some well needed corporate prayer and any practical advice. A few members contact me privately. Aussie Joe sends me information about a department that takes care of expat enquiries. Alana, originally from Germany, reassures me that this sort of thing has happened to her a number of times before. Don't worry, she says, it has always resolved in her favour.
Alas, I am not so fortunate. Apparently, even unemployment and incapacity benefits are taxable in Belgium beyond a certain threshold. The irony is, when I was employed, it was the state that consistently owed me. It’s perhaps an even bigger irony, or rather a flagrant contradiction, that only last year I was considered eligible for assistance with essentials like commuting costs, precisely because my income fell below a certain threshold. How can I be too poor for one but ‘comfortable’ enough to be taxed for the other? This bloody country. Its notoriously eye-watering tax rates would be tolerable if residents could see where the hell the funds were invested. Instead, basic infrastructure such as pavements are in a sorry condition (step out at your own peril), state departments are underfunded (as I have discovered, to my detriment) and Brussels has a chronic homelessness problem.
I am so distraught, I burst into tears on the phone. I am told that even if I am able to pay in instalments, it’s still to be settled within a year. The timeframe could possibly be extended but not without filling out a lot of paperwork. In any case, it’s already been a struggle recently to stay on top of my most important bills. How am I supposed to find the extra cash to settle this unjust debt? The customer service agents offer no consolation. At least they are professional and polite; not a given in Belgium.
I am at a loss. For a variety of reasons, I don’t want to burden my family with this. (I do eventually open up to them. I'm not great at hiding things.)
I feel stifled by the pressure. I start to experience a violent resentment towards the country that has been my home for the last three and a half years. Before, when asked what I thought of life in Belgium, I would hesitate to answer. So much has been framed by relocating here during the early days of the pandemic and various other challenges. There were things that I felt were far more retrograde than the UK - for all its faults - as is the case for much of Continental Europe. And yet, nowhere is perfect, I would say. At least I don't have to live like a perennially broke student in Mainland Europe, with rent and commuter costs far more approachable than in the Big Smoke. There are also aspects of Brussels living that I have enjoyed and indeed, remind me of the best elements of London life.
After this tax debacle, my feelings move from ambiguity to ambivalence, if not outright animus. It feels like Belgium has taken from me more than I had to give. On almost every significant metric, be it personal, relational or professional, I have experienced more disappointment than I care to mention. Basta. At what point do I start to accept it’s been a failed experiment? That perhaps God's will has moved in a different direction and left me behind? Maybe the time has truly arrived to start planning an exit strategy, albeit with reluctance. At this juncture it would be a leap into the unknown and not in the optimistic sense.
To add to the growing list of ironies, an acquaintance who works for a local arts and entertainment channel finally uploads an interview he recorded of me a year ago. The timing of its release couldn't be more strange. Not only is much of the information now out-of-date, if not obsolete, it's edited to look like I'm having the time of my life in Brussels.
Unconsciously, I return to the melancholy œuvre of Chet Baker. As he croons The Thrill has Gone, I can’t help but think how apposite it is to my current life season. Likewise for Everything Happens to Me.
Not for the first time, I weep hot tears in my therapist’s office. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to book an appointment because of my straitened circumstances, that I have a stockpile of grievances to work through. Earlier that week, I also share my discontent with my life coach, Pieter. In a rare show of unguardedness, he intimates his own strong reservations about Belgium. Being a Dutchman, I assumed it would be less of a culture shock for him. I couldn’t be more wrong. The differences between Holland and its neighbour are as stark as night and day, Pieter explains. As we try to work out together how I move on from this life impasse, his suggestions give me much food for thought.
I wish I could say I find solace at church. The continued silence over, if not implicit support for the murderous campaign of the Israeli government in Palestine has become untenable. I am even more selective about what church activities in which I participate at this sensitive juncture. I avoid anything that might provoke a strong reaction.
Still, the risk remains of exposure to some inanity about geopolitics. At the end of a prayer meeting in early February, we’re asked to pray for Israel, the ‘peace of Jerusalem’ and the release of Israeli hostages. Nary a word about the potential annihilation of Gaza. I am disgusted not only by the blatant bias of the request but the equally misguided response. Of course, I attempt to bring a corrective with my own prayers but it’s telling that I should have to. I hotstep it out of the meeting ASAP. I choose not to hang around for phatic conversation with those for whom I’m rapidly losing respect.
Even a basic Sunday service is a struggle to sit through, nowadays. Last year, Pastor Mike seemed to be turning a worthy corner. Lately, with the church growing exponentially, he's resorting to soundbites, oversimplification - or worse - thoughtless generalisations.
Meanwhile, as I participate in secular political events, I witness people who, whether they have a faith or not, are to my mind, doing God's work. Nobody is perfect. Yet, in these contexts I am surrounded by people who care deeply for justice, the way that Christians are called to do throughout scripture. These spaces seem more real to an extent than the churchy enclave on a Sunday.
I open my heart in a candid email to one of my spiritual mentors, Vinoth Ramachandra. He is also exasperated by the mainstream Church’s reaction to the injustices in Palestine…
"...I'm really struggling on an existential level with all of this" I write "particularly the complicity of the mainstream Church... Of course, there are exceptions and I'm blessed and comforted when I come across Christians showing solidarity with Palestinians. I respect Pope Francis for calling a spade a spade. However, as you know, it's shamefully rare, even amongst some Christians who'd otherwise consider themselves on the margins. Apparently, even the leader of the biggest Christian denomination speaking up isn't enough. I think of the double-standards regarding the reaction to Ukraine. I'm sickened and disillusioned. I feel more isolated from and disenchanted with the capital-C Church than ever. It's not so much a crisis of faith, as a crisis of belonging and community.
…I'm struggling to engage at all... My pastors are of mixed heritage from South Africa. Both grew up under Apartheid, so it's not unfamiliar to them, although they would have been very young. They are certainly old enough to remember the before and after. The husband won't even use the word Apartheid to describe the regime under which he lived; he tiptoes around it with euphemisms.
...[Neither of them] - to my knowledge - has openly commended the honorable actions of their native country nor spoken out in solidarity with the Palestinians and denounced Zionist ideology… There is also at least one member of my church of Palestinian origin. What about his people? His humanity? Church feels like a charade; a bubble disconnected from the real world and real life concerns. When I'm on [Palestinian] solidarity demos or in similar spaces, there's hardly a Christian presence, if at all. Attending church these days feels like I'm an accomplice to the madness...It's not as simple as switching to a different fellowship. It's not as if I don't visit other churches for a change of scene. The mainstream Church seems to be so co-opted by Babylon, moving elsewhere won't change that. It's not a decision I take lightly but if I had a genuine alternative, I would seriously consider it.
My pastors are decent people with good hearts. Unfortunately, I've long detected a lack of courage, such as the rather restrained response to other valiant protests - if not tacit hostility. I'm highly frustrated by this apparent cowardice and hope for a time to speak to them about it tactfully.
All it takes for evil to prevail...
Anyway, thanks for being one of those refusing to keep silent or justify the unjustifiable. It truly helps keep me sane and hopeful…"
What small spiritual comfort I find is experienced in more intimate settings; my own personal prayer time or one-to-one with friends in the faith. If I'm disenchanted with the Church, my conviction that Christ is a loving Saviour who values the life of all people equally is stronger still. I pay a couple of visits to Alana, who is recovering from a nasty skiing injury she suffered over the festive period. I nevertheless studiously avoid talk of the Middle East. The German state’s historically complicated relationship with the Jewish people and Israel, as well as its disregard for Palestinian life, has had a noxious effect on the mindset of much of its population. Germans with otherwise ‘progressive’ views, leave a lot to be desired when it comes to Justice for Palestine. I’ve learned the hard way.
Returning to the tax scare, there is some reprieve when I receive a one-off commission courtesy of a good acquaintance of Pieter's; by sheer coincidence, or rather God-incidence. This client is unaware of my tax woes. He merely has a lot of money to spend before the funding deadline closes on his latest social entrepreneurial project. After some negotiation, we agree on a fee that just about relieves the tax debt, even if there's not much left over for anything else. Thank God for small mercies, and all that.
The hectic Christmas period is already a somewhat distant memory. As usual, I
don’t know whether to be melancholy or relieved.
The
outbound journey to the UK for the first half of the festive period
is more hectic than it should be. After a two-day postponement, the
coach company with which I’m originally supposed to travel cancels
my journey the day before departure. I miraculously book a
last-minute replacement; by coincidence with the same Eastern
European company with which I’m scheduled to return to Belgium.
They arrive over an hour late, without an apology. The driver takes
another one hour break. All the announcements are in Polish, catering
to their main clientele, whilst ignoring that they are an
international company with non-Poles on board. This is all the
more disorientating given that we travel the same day that operators on the French side of the Eurotunnel call a wildcat strike. Desperate drivers re-route
to Calais port to catch a ferry. We’re gridlocked for hours. We
manage to secure places on a ship that will arrive in Dover by
midnight. It’ll take another couple of hours to reach Victoria
station. Mum calls on the regular for a sit-rep. She and sis – who
has arrived a few days earlier – can’t really sleep knowing I’ll
arrive in the wee small hours. Eventually, the coach reaches London eight
hours behind schedule. We pass my mother’s neighbourhood en route.
The driver refuses to stop.
There are small mercies to make the
inconveniences more bearable. A half-Polish, half-Belgian woman who
sparks conversation. A Polish lass based in Lille who speaks
excellent French and English and offers to translate announcements.
Her French friend who attempts unsuccessfully to arrange a ride to my
mum’s place. A Belgo-Congolese couple, one of whom spent a
significant period of his formative years in the very same South-East
London where I grew up. By some pleasant happenstance, we’re all
heading towards South London after the coach drops us off. The couple
and I travel on the same bus for part of what is, ironically, the
most straightforward aspect of the trip home. I lose sight of them at
New Cross. Ships passing in the night.
What
is supposed to be a week’s stay is truncated into a long weekend.
It’s nonetheless relatively serene, if intense. By some good fortune, I am able to rearrange all my
appointments. I have my first check-in with the dentist in two years. I catch up with a few friends. Christmas with family is
mercifully drama-free and there’s a fair bit of mirth. Sis prepares
a sumptuous Yuletide feast, experimenting with new recipes. In
between the festive elements, I work on my latest commission, from my
old employers, TTUO, of all places.
A stain-glass window in the Koelgelberg Basilica
I
head back to Belgium on 27 December. I have a couple of days
before mum and sis visit. There’s little time to catch my breath. These days soon fill with activity and I find it difficult – as usual –
to slow down.
Hosting
mum and sis is a relative success, albeit less carefree than my time
in the UK. The weather and normal festive closures limit our activity.
There’s also something about the trio dynamic that becomes overwhelming
at times. I feel, or am made to feel, like the odd one out. Negotiating my younger sibling’s moods means sometimes expending more mental and emotional energy than I’d like. Being where I am in my own wellness process, I’m all
the more sensitive to certain behaviour. By
the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, I am thoroughly miserable and
disillusioned with life. I have little appetite to pray. Only timely wisdom by some Catholic clergy helps lift me out of my funk. I am
recovered enough by the next morning to prepare New Year’s Day
dinner.
Mum
and sis stay for longer than the previous year and yet, I still
regret all that we don’t have a chance to see. Sis’ visits are
only annual. For now, she has no plans to visit before the following Christmas.
When I suggest we gather at mine for Christmas Day 2024, sis vehemently refuses. Mum, much more open to the idea, is stunned
into silence. Angered by sis' tirade, I protest but with less vigour than I would were it just us two. It'll irritate me for days to come.
If sis can only visit once a year, the festive period is
both the best and worst time. There’s an undoubted magic to the
city during that season, yet other aspects are on hold for the
holidays.
On a more upbeat note, sis accompanies me to one of my favourite Zumba classes. Her natural dance skills shine through, attracting compliments. The penultimate day of mum and sis' stay, we pay a late visit to the
Koekelberg Basilica followed by a leisurely stroll through central
Brussels. My guests catch up on some chocolate shopping.
Any
loneliness I’d feel on their departure the following day is staved off by being
thrown back into activity.
A week into the New Year, my church FWM launches 21 days of prayer and fasting which I embrace with zeal.
I’m involved in organising some of
Intal’s political education events this quarter, the planning of which involves successive meetings.
There are more pro-Palestine demonstrations to support. The weekend
of a Global Day of Action, Brussels holds a (belated) rally. There are cheers for
South Africa’s decision to bring charges against the state of
Israel for war crimes at the Hague (below). Palestinian
journalist,
Omar Abu Karem, a familiar face at these gatherings, is on hunger strike until a ceasefire is called. At the time of that demo, he's abstained from food for 15 days and counting. Abu-Karem joins other activists around the world, literally putting their bodies on the line. I can’t imagine that degree of
self-denial. Whether or not he is a Christian, he exemplifies what Christ declared to be the ultimate demonstration of love. As much as I endeavour to live by the principles of my faith, I don’t know if I have that level of
self-sacrifice in me. The actions of Abu-Karem and others inspire,
challenge and put to shame. I once again reflect on the many
Christians who remain complicit; either through actively supporting Zionism
or worse still, by their silence. It’s
all the more deafening after the viral success of Palestinian
minister, Rev. Munther Isaac’s outstanding Christmas message, Christ
Under the Rubble. It's the sound of crickets when I mention the sermon during an early morning prayer
meeting at FWM one Sunday. I’ve never felt more on the fringes of the
Church than at moments like these.
I
reconnect with Pete, my life coach for a very candid reflection on
the Christmas season. That weekend, I’ll welcome one of his
friends, Lesley. We're now integrating into each other's circles following an introduction by Pete. It’s the first time I’ve hosted anybody since
2022. After being knocked off my perch for a while by the various
relational mishaps that year, I am determined to resume my
hospitality efforts. Glory be, dinner
with Lesley goes well. We discover we’re both Stevie Wonder and Sade fans. Lesley recognises a
portrait of the soulstress on my coffee table. Freshly recovered from
COVID and with a reduced appetite, she nevertheless enjoys the fish pie I've prepared. She seems to like the company even more.
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