Stories that remain too often untold/ Histoires oubliées
02-06-2010
FACING BRUSSELS - Bobo Brussels
While the last rays of sun filter through to the square below and the market stalls pack up their unsold wares, well-to-do ladies and gents drink Italian bubbles on the pavement. They debate the best address for sushi and enthusiastically discuss the stock sale of this, that or the other fashion designer. A little further, their fellow citizens sit with laptops open. They are looking after themselves with organic apple juice while they update their Facebook pages. Welcome to Bobo Brussels, the city of bourgeois bohemians. Linguistically and territorially, the Bobos are divided into Dansaert Flemish and Chatelain Frenchspeakers, named after the streets where their lifestyles can be deduced from the contents of the shop windows and their prices. They are usually hard-and-fast career makers but consider themselves fundamentally alternative, green and independent. Their children have read the Little Prince by the time theyre six and they are proud of the fact they pay lots in tax, sings the French singer-songwriter Renaud with some degree of sarcasm. Sounds reasonable. But what I find most conspicuous is that these men and women have chosen Brussels. Carrying a degree like a free pass to another life, free of compromise, they still embraced the city, warts and all. They applauded its diversity and caressed its scars, somewhat naïve in their conviction that the love and care of deliberate civility could cure this place of all its ailments. The reality is somewhat less conducive. After small successes follow unfortunate regressions and above all, often sur place. Giving up, however, is not an option. In the meantime, they have seen their children born here, and hence also their own fate bound to that of the city. The Bobos persist, despite regularly banging their heads against Brussels. They see the city in their own terms: as an opportunity, a bubble of oxygen, an escape. A city of freedom too, that belongs to no one, property of neither lion nor rooster. These men and women found Brussels and invented her anew. As a bobbing island of youth, fantasy and diversity, in a tired nation that, on its one hundred and eightieth birthday, doubts its own right to exist. However, beyond the country, the city or its history, they also reinvented themselves here in versions that become more and more grotesque as the evening progresses and the empty wine bottles stack up. Some fled the whip of regional unemployment and collective depression. Others ran from the suffocation of introverted, suburban small mindedness. They have jettisoned yesterday and acquired now and later, without so much as looking over their shoulder. With great tolerance, fed by their studies, foreign friends and regular travel abroad. The city feels like a heavy burden at times but theirs is more resilient than others. Bobo Brussels is full of potential. It is a light version of the metropolis, one which most resembles the image depicted by the glossies, travel guides and in-flight magazines. Washed, shaven and dressed up. People explore in Mini Coopers, dine in newly opened restaurants and reside in more or less renovated merchants houses that were bought years ago for peanuts. It is fantastic but somehow photoshopped and reconstructed. And yet still real.
Around the same time her thin strip of
bright-red lipstick comes into view, her approach is announced with a
waft of perfume. Call it her shield against a merciless world.
She looks close to ninety, according to
my estimate, although her choice of wardrobe seem to be resistant to
age. Spindly legs are clad in expensive, fancy stockings and pretty
but slightly worn shoes. Over that, she wears classic skirts, white
blouses with an upright collar, jackets from better times and antique
jewellery.
This walking anachronism would not dare
leave home without a hat and at every opportunity she discretely
checks to see whether the feathers or other ornaments have not been
tilted out of balance. With an economy of effort, she declares she is
Bruxelloise. At least, she became one. She sighs. Her heart, history
and half her fortune were left behind in the St. Petersburg of nearly
a century ago. With an embroidered handkerchief, she regularly dabs
her eyes, subsequently reassuring herself with the aid of a mirror
that her make-up has not been compromised.
Luxury is a burden, so goes the saying.
But less so, when it can stare in the face of its own downfall. The
story of the Russian dame meanders from the realm of the tsars, mowed
down, their blue blood flowing a deep red, to a Brussels biotope of
elegant establishments and well thought out arrangements.
Things never came good again, she
proclaims in expensive French, despite the fact that she spends much
of her time in the patisseries of the Sablon and the restaurants of
the Avenue Louise. On rainy days she orders delicatessen and wine by
telephone from the supermarket Chez Rob. From time to time she
enjoys 17th or 18th century repertoire pieces in French at the
Théâtre Royal du Parc. And weather permitting, she will buy fresh
cut flowers from a florist on the Place du Chatelain. However, she is
still only a countess in her own mind and in the reflections in shop
windows along the Rue de Namur, where she is sometimes inclined to go
shopping.
She shakes her head. For people of
social standing, these are tough times. She should know. It is an
arduous task to manage the remnants of a fortune wisely and who says
that the current crisis is to be the last? It is not easy to greet
todays society with a well mannered smile and at the same time
distinguish friends from the endless array of opportunists. Greed,
deception and envy are king. The old countess puts it gently but
decisively. She tells me that some of her acquaintances leave their
identity card at home when they go to a party, while others
deliberately leave without money or bank cards. A question of
avoiding abuse, you see. One must always be wary.
Even though the battle has been lost,
the noble lady belongs to an endangered species with frail shoulders
and an even more fragile ego. They crack under the pressure of
history, more so than under the weight of a family tree to which she
alone ascribes distinction. Luxury is indeed a burden. To be born by
such spindly legs in fancy stockings.
He calculates, door
to door from his own door in a suburb of Ghent to that of his
office in the centre of Brussels one hundred and five minutes. A
daily eternity, one way. By bus to the station, train to
Gent-Sint-Pieters, railway to Brussels and
then metro or on foot through the streets of the city.
Nor are they the
most pleasing pavements or the most
beautiful houses that greet him on the way. But rather a tired old
station quarter, battered by the haste of time-conscious travellers
and above all, by the megalomaniacal office buildings recently
erected according to the iron-fast principle of good accessibility.
Two hundred and ten lost minutes, two and a half football matches
every day. Oh well, its not so bad, he says. After 19 years
hes used to it. Only phenomenal delays and breakdowns in
communication are enough to tip him off balance. Then he cusses and
curses as the others do. The train is
always a bit like a holiday, sneers
one, to which the others snigger in reply.
At such unhappy moments,
he imagines the motorways, inhabited by thousands of men and women
locked inside prisons on wheels of varying grades of luxury and
comfort. They get annoyed, pick their noses but dont budge an
inch.
While the landscapes
scarred by cottages and subdivided roadsides glide past the train
window, he considers himself lucky. He has the time to quietly read
his newspaper, to find out whats on the box later on or just
peruse the main headlines. Sometimes he runs into a familiar face in
his carriage, a man or woman who would otherwise probably not strike
up a spontaneous conversation about the weather, work, the kids but
now feels compelled to do so.
Door to door. He wouldnt
dream of swapping his door near Ghent for one in the capital of
Europe. Not for all the money in the world. He will never love
Brussels. (He hasnt managed to in the first half of his life.) And
how would he? His Brussels is a fusion of windswept rubbish,
aggressive motorists and high-testosterone youth. A city of beggars
who every day ask for a cigarette as soon as he exits the station
looking for his lighter. He turns them down. They swear. A daily
ritual. He shrugs his shoulders. Brussels is no place to hang around.
Hell soon be back on the train.
His Brussels only exists
on weekdays. It has no nights, no standing still, no enjoyment. It is
condensed into a cluster of stations that are unworthy of a European
capital and depressing metro stops where the aroma of Liege waffles
forms a mélange with that of old urine. Ask him which of the citys
parks he likes best and hell reply with an empty gaze. Or take the
fairytale Chinese Pavilion, the sultry greenhouse in the Botanical
Gardens, the world-famous furniture of the Horta House, the fabulous
view from the roof of the Musical Instrument Museum, the panoramic
public life that descends from the Palace of Justice to the Marolles.
These things do not even appear on the map in his head. He comes to
Brussels every day but never touches it. He thinks door-to-door but
the door to his heart forever remains locked tight.
Trembling hands, callused
and covered in sun spots. And higher up: bony shoulders, a shrunken
stature. But behind that fragile façade lies hidden a silent
heroism. Listen to the stories. They draw from the dark depths of
child labour and sleeping on empty stomachs. Not complaining, not
asking, but hanging on. Or they take root in the iron fist of
dictatorship. Not speaking, not believing, but suppressing. It lasted
until a chance came along. A way out, a way here. And often no way
back. For a long time. Until the leaders lived no longer, until
poverty threatened or until only the grave lay waiting.
Some came to Brussels in
the 1950s, the others a decade later, the last of them just
yesterday. With nothing but the shirt on their backs and the dreams
in their heads. Travelling on nothing but luck and worn sandals.
The opportunity was
a letter from a cousin, about excellent wages and wanted labour, in
times when progress seemed unstoppable and papers didnt mean a
thing. Sometimes it was little more than a whispered rumour, a house
built in the village from the ground up on overseas money. He
must be doing well there, otherwise hed never be able to build
such a mansion Someone elses
chance becomes theirs. He who dares, wins.
For once it is the
state that gives chances, that officially invites. That resettles.
With people from camps and stranded political refugees, that is,
after years of war and years of waiting. A new life given.
For the children,
above all, for the next generation. The present one is torn. It has
had to leave its predecessor. Will I
ever see you again, dearest mother? Will they come get you if they
cant find me? Will the money I send make up for my absence?
Crushing choices,
yesterdays long shadows cast over the years to come. I
couldnt bring you with me, can you forgive me?
Guilt, regret, despair. There was but one chance. My chance. Dont
complain, dont speak, silent heroism behind a fragile façade.
A barely audible
sigh. And then gratitude towards the new homeland. For the education
these men and women could often only dream of in their country of
origin but can now offer their children here. For the housing, too,
which they have managed to acquire with their arduous labour and
humble lifestyle. And for the freedom and security of a democratic,
just society. Am I from here or from
there? Wings or roots? Oh, I dont know. My country is a patchwork
of memories, words and thoughts. My country is in my head.
Festivities define us. As inhabitants
of a country caught up in the fever of Olympic gold or as the
imaginary kin of a winning national football team. As (great)
grandchildren of these or any other prophets or as followers of a
claimed superior religion or conviction.
They display us as Muslims who
celebrate the circumcision of their sons with festivities that will
be talked about by those present forever. Or they confirm our
identity as Christians who jump from fish on Fridays to Christmas
turkeys, from martyrdoms to resurrections, Easter lambs and palm
branches. Brussels plays host to them all. Or at least almost. It is
rare for such traditions and national commemorations not to be
celebrated in the city, be they joyful or solemn and in most cases
based on somewhat twisted historical facts and regardless of where or
when they took place.
You would hope that festivities would
bring us together, that they would transcend our race, nationality,
ideology or faith. You would hope.
What and how we celebrate, however,
define us like some kind of social passport. They classify us, lead
us back to a past when the idea of making up ones own mind was yet
to be invented. To our communities of origin, regardless of how
enormous or how limited our present-day loyalty may be.
Moreover, what inspires joy and
affirmation in one man will not uncommonly inspire discontent in
others. Listen to the petty remarks around the office about
colleagues who observe Ramadan. The bad temper of temporarily
abstinent smokers, the eternal fatigue, the burgeoning instances of
sick leave. Ask the homosexuals who say I do to their chosen
love at the Town Hall only to be booed by narrow-minded youth just a
few streets further. Consider the despair and dispossession in the
Messianic churches and read the destructive sociological studies
about such intolerable forms of manipulation and deception. And
read the street humour: every time king football appears on the
screen and monopolises the minds of millions, the hooting glory of
one side ends in the sleepless frustration of the other.
Brussels celebrates everything, come
rain, hail, fog, snow or shine. We are spared no mystery. Families
celebrate, clubs celebrate, neighbourhoods celebrate, communities
celebrate. They mainly do it in compartments, though: alongside and
gratingly against but never with one another. And often with disdain
for one another. Brussels celebrates but so rarely, as in the Zinneke
Parade, together. My Zinneke, your Zinneke, our Zinneke. A parade
from heart to heart, through and of the city. A celebration for the
Brussels of our dreams.
FACING BRUSSELS II - Coming and going, impossible to keep track
Coming and going, impossible to keep
track
Little
red man. Little green man. He is obsessed with them, at least when
she isnt home. She goes to the shop, there and back: thats four
little men. To the bank: just two. To her girlfriends: thats
ten. He peers out of the window at the people waiting by the bus
stop. His wrinkled hands tremble. In his thoughts, he is with her,
amidst the unpredictability of the little man: green before you know
it and red even faster.
I
see her across the road. She looks up and hesitates. She momentarily
waves her walking stick in the air, and shuffles over the asphalt.
Two steps of white. Two not. Concentrated, she looks at the ground
and heaves herself forwards. She hasnt realised the little man has
turned red until a discotheque on wheels approaches.
The
little men are boss of the zebras. They, too, are newcomers to
Brussels. There were many rats, a decent number of cats and dogs, a
hamster here and there and a few goldfish that had survived the trip
from the fair back home. But no zebras.
Oh,
I suppose the same goes for many things. For metro lines,
skyscrapers, road rage, MP3 players, non-European languages and
people, internet cafés and ironing centres. So much has come, you
cant keep track. And even more has gone.
The
Brussels of her youth became the Brussels of Europe. Appropriated.
Holes appeared in the city, construction sites that swallowed up
whole houses and the lives that used to inhabit them. And the things
that have come in their place make no sense to her.
The
past is gone, packed up, out of reach. No little men or zebras lead
there. Thats the way it is. First the lives disappear, then the
memories.
They
cant complain, she constantly tells him. But it doesnt help.
Coming and going have become a nigh impossible negotiation. In his
steadily shrinking world, there is not an inch of space. No room for
new words or things, or even the names of things and loves gone by.
Everything shrinks, his stature as much as his future. Between the
table, the sofa and the bed, he sails. His world has been reduced to
just a few square metres.
Only
on Saturdays and Wednesday afternoons do they leave the house
together. The taxi driver rings the bell at half past twelve without
fail and they make their way to Chez Madeleine. To the past, that is,
and a few familiar rituals.
They
greet the regular guests with a kiss, one by one. Even before theyve
finished their lap of honour, the dry martinis and the mans
favourite snacks are on the table. Then come the dishes of the day,
the glasses of white wine, two each, and to finish: coffee and cake.
On Wednesdays, they play a round of cards with old friends, on
Saturdays she dances with men more steady on their feet than her
husband.
At
around five oclock, the taxi brings the tipsy couple back home. That
ought to keep us going, she says in parting with the driver, who
helps her husband out of the car.
They
cant complain. Certainly not on Madeleine days and no more during
the week. She says it a bit too often for his liking. She wants
things he cant do. He can rattle on a bit about his hip and his
memories, about the little men, the price of things in euro and the
growing insecurity on the streets.
Things
dont get better. Sometimes its as if the tear-off calendar of
his life has reached its last few crumpled pages but continues to
hang precariously from its hook.
Everything
passes, she says with a sigh. Comes and goes. But they are happy with
every day they are given. Those with and without martinis. Those with
each other.
TV
news shows depict a pitiful side of Brussels. Ratings axioms and
mental laziness have reduced the city to a conglomeration of troubled
youth, lawless murderers and trigger-happy gangsters. Now and then we
see a Muslim extremist appear before the camera, sporting a Santa
Claus beard, white tennis socks and a purely auxiliary person dressed
in niqab.
Oh
well. What do you expect? The glorious summer terraces, the beautiful
squares with benches and ancient trees, the glowing lawns of
wide-spread parks, the renowned art collections and the overwhelming
array of culinary delicacies from all over the world are not
newsworthy anywhere else either. Those highlights of Brussels
however, do explain why the city comes in fourteenth in the list of
the most agreeable cities to live in. Just under Amsterdam but 18
positions higher than Paris and 24 above London. And yet, it is no
easy love affair. Grim yet grand, posh yet poor, grey and green,
delightful and depressing, this city is all that.
Brussels
is like a mosaic of shards of glass, each reflecting varying degrees
of light, depending on how you look at it. As a tourist, commuter or
resident. As homeless, aristocrat or eurocrat. Those born here look
at things differently than migrants - from near and far - of first,
second or third generation.
The
city is plural. My newly arrived gay Algerian boyfriend Ali lives in
a different Brussels than me. He tells of the looks and insults his
colourful shorts inspire in Kuregem and of the young girl next door
from Liège whose smile is interpreted by neighbours as whorishness.
This
is where I want to live, he says, while watching the pedestrians on
the zebra crossing in Ma Campagne in Elsene. Teenage girls in hot
pants and brightly coloured stockings discuss recent conversations
with lovers, an African grandmother shuffles laboriously across the
street and the owner of an alternative restaurant is flirting with a
friend.
This
new Bruxellois describes his city as an archipelago, a cluster of
island communities surrounded by lots of water but few bridges. I try
to explain that his judgement is too hard, too quick, too simple. I
recount the story of an 11 year old adopted Haitian girl. She
followed a week-long course on the outskirts of Brussels. Only on the
second last day, she assured us, did the group of otherwise entirely
white people treat her normally. In my Brussels, she claimed with
absolute certainty, such things do not happen. There, they know that
black is not the colour of your heart.
Her
Brussels is mine. The city that is and the city that becomes. The
city made by mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers,
teachers, rubbish collectors, tram, bus and metro drivers, citizens
and people without papers. With ourpoverty, our blindness, our
arrogance, our tyranny. And with the opposite of all this.
Being gay in Morocco - the englis translation of a chapter of my book 'Amongst men'
Chapter 9 Between God and Paid Sex
Sexuality is often used to determine where civilisation begins and ends, and for homosexuality that cuts both ways.
(Robert Aldrich (Ed) From All Times, In All Cultures, 2006).
Marrakech's new district of Guéliz is all but deserted just after sundown. The shops are closed, the only passers-by are tourists. After fourteen hours of Ramandan-fasting the ftour has finally arrived. The whole city is hunched over dishes of dates and bowls of harira, devouring hard-boiled eggs, plates of bread and cakes dripping with honey. The countrys dietary experts might very well warn of the digestive problems that a third of those fasting face, it's to no avail. What should be an exercise in piety and sobriety, complains one doctor on his website, has in practice degenerated into a phenomenon of sleepless nights of partying and excessive eating that can seriously engender peoples health. It makes me think of Abdelhak Serhanes famous first novel Messaouda, in which he virulently criticises the collective devotion of the ninth month (of the Muslim year). He sees it as a charade - the communal aspect and the mandatory abstinence from eating, drinking, smoking and sex have no fundamental content or impact. After the month of Ramadan, piety once again takes leave of absence. The whore Messaouda returns and the men once again devote more time to their organs than to their children. He becomes deaf and dumb and His holy word is once again stashed away with the prayer mat and prayer cap.
My atheist friend Jamal (33) has invited me to his tasteful apartment for his version of the ftour. The uncorked bottle of red Boulaouane is on the living-room table next to an ashtray and two recently dried wine glasses. Here, drinking is all about anticipation, since the sale of alcohol is forbiddenfrom the month before the start of the fasting. Jamal has brought in a nice little supply and he wasnt the only one. Im convinced, he says, whilst taking stock of the wine, that the Assima warehouse does record business in the eighth month, almost exclusively due to the astronomical increase in alcohol sales. You should look into it some time. Jamal, who graduated in medicine in France, fills up the glasses and lights a cigarette. He sighs, he never thought of establishing himself in Paris. He is at home in Marrakech, although the hypocrisy and schizophrenia that characterise this society are increasingly repugnant to him. You would think that you would get used to it, and that probably also goes for the majority of my compatriots. They dont have my exceptionally liberal parents, followers of Descartes who believe in sincerity and principles. Quite simply, most Moroccans have been forced into the shackles of conformity since childhood and rarely ask any questions. The young doctor empties his glass and serves himself again. He is clearly getting into his stride. Believe me, this country is ripe for collective psychoanalysis, it's a pity we don't have enough experts. Until recently, one couldn't study psychology or psychiatry. King Hassan II really didnt like shrinks. During his rule there was no room for truth and real feelings. Terror and silence reigned supreme. I swear that if I were the Minister of Health, I would start straight away with the schools. One afternoon on the psychiatrists sofa would be made obligatory for all students. Its a truly revolutionary thought, but I like it. Whilst Jamal gets lost in contemplation about the abject mental health of the Moroccan psyche, my mobile phone rings. The young man who will shortly be waiting for me at the train station wants to know whether I have forgotten about our meeting. His text message is exceptional. Generally, Im the one who has to remind my promised interlocutor about our appointment half an hour after it was supposed to have started. However, this man doesnt seem to be taking any risks. Despite my confirmatory answer, he sends several more text messages. You are already a minute late, runs the last one, you are still coming, arent you?
In front of the run-down train station, there is a somewhat loutish young man, looking conspicuous in a brand-new G-Star shirt. He keeps on pushing his glasses up and just above his slightly feminine mouth beads of sweat are starting to form. They are attributes of his nervous, insecure nature rather than a result of the already much more bearable heat. Lets go, I dont like to be seen on the street with a foreigner. That could give wrong ideas - people like to talk, you know. Finally, he manages to flag down a rare taxi that will take us to a recently built block of flats a few streets further on, where his parents, who live on the coast, bought an apartment for their children in school. I ask whether he would like to choose a name. The student in engineering looks shocked. How could he have forgotten this. The peace that he had gradually rediscovered on his way back to his trusted living room is suddenly replaced again with anxiety. He asks for time to think, he doesnt want to come across as just any old mug. It will take until the end of the evening before he even comes back to the question. The name, he suddenly says softly. Call me Saâda, Arabic for everything that I have never had but which Ive always yearned after terribly happiness. Simple human happiness. Maybe this can be the start. Saâda looks at me with hope in his eyes. As I listen to his lifes story, I realise that he actually had ample choice for a name. He could just as well have opted for the Arabic translation of Friendship, Trust or Warmth, or even for any of the fifty Arab nouns for Love. From the unstained Mahabba to the passion of Jawa, all are foreign territory for Saâda. This young man with his soft, insecure look is the second of four children. He worships his one-and-half-year older sister, even to the point that he followed her in her choice of study. No-one is as intelligent, modest, studious and kind-hearted as she is. At the moment, shes studying in Rabat and I miss her terribly, but shes working for her future and I understand that. He can't explain why, and God knows how long he fretted about it, but Saâda has always had a problem with boys and football. As a toddler, he was inseparable from his mother, later he was fascinated with the games that the girls from the neighbourhood played. He loved their calm, civilised interaction, which stood in stark contrast to the manners of the boys on their respective stomping grounds. By some distance, Saâda chose the girls shady inner court, protected from violence and obscenities, over the lewd as well as unsafe, scorching hot pavements of the boys. He says that he wants to show me something and cautiously opens the large orange folder that is lying on the corner of the living-room table, nicely arranged behind the serviettes, glasses and bottles of fruit juice and mineral water. There are quite a few small, numbered scripts with smooth, laminated covers. They seem to be perfectly devoid of human weakness. Not a single imperfection disfigures the modest threading together of Arabic words. On page after page, the structured, orderly world of Saâdas childhood secrets is revealed. It contains poems and self-composed songs, images of bears and boy scouts. Nice, arent they? He says it with the earnestness of a child, as if hoping for praise for the idealised and chaste creatures that he so carefully cut out of magazines and whose shiny surface he stroked with his fingers on numerous occasions. They were his best friends, he says quietly. I was eight years old when I began this. Saâda points to a carefully aligned little story next to a pretty stamp that he patiently steamed off a letter. Ive always had the feeling that unwritten reams of paper were waiting for my words. They seemed to be encouraging me to trust them, to pour out my heart. Above all, they were important during the terrible years at the boys grammar school.
Saâda stands up and runs to the window. I would really like to sincerely thank you. You dont understand what it means to be able to talk nor how much I need your undivided attention. You know, I generally try to forget those years, the numerous beatings, the violence I was systematically subjected to. Me, a perfectly innocent child. Or should I consider it a crime that I loved to study, admired the teachers and earned their respect by generally turning in my homework flawlessly. Did I deserve to be spat on and booed at repeatedly, just because I refused to cut school and often tried to prepare the following days exercises at home? You see, my sister did exactly the same, how come she received prizes and praise, whilst my only reward was punches and curses? I often complained to my mother about it. She said she didnt have time for an appointment with the headmaster and that I should try not to provoke my classmates. But tell me, why is bragging about lewd escapades greeted with sympathy, whilst the sincere, eagerness to learn of a shy, earnest boy like me generates feelings of hate and hostility? I sometimes think that I had to be like that, that God wanted to test me and that in this manner He wanted to show me the Light of the Right Way. It is in my suffering that I found Him. He and He alone helped me, gave me the strength to offer my head to the tyranny of my classmates. He who knows everything, sees everything, understands my sadness, He who gives us life and takes care of our parents, He who created all the good in the world, He who taught me to pray, to turn to Him in moments of desperation, to kneel. It was prayers that calmed and soothed me; they were the ointment for my wounds, then and every day since. Saâda shows me the diaries from when he was fifteen. Pictures of the Saudi Arabian Medina and a faded photo of a popular Egyptian preacher whose Islamic ideas exerted extreme influence on this young spirit. The scripts, to which he entrusted the stirrings of his soul on a daily basis, follow one after the other. Along the way, the Islamic symbols make way for stickers of footballers, mainly of young men celebrating, with their shirts in one hand and the cup in the other. Saâda says that I am his psychiatrist and that its not easy to talk, but that he is convinced that he has to do it. With a somewhat dreamy look in his eyes, he stares at the naked torsos of the football stars, his fingers stroking each photo. I was about sixteen, he begins, when I caught myself being attracted to mens bodies. The image in his head is that of an Egyptian film on TV with his mother and sister sat next to him on the sofa. Theyre commenting on the actors. Just look at his eyes. And the mouth, Mama, I hope I get onto the marriage boat with a man like that. His sister excitedly grabbed her mothers hand. They were laughing hysterically, allies sharing a common guilt. They had absolutely no idea what was happening a few centimetres further down the sofa. They were so taken up with their own hormones that they didnt notice how the boy next to them was seizing up. Saâda remembers the warm glow that moved through his body and the confusing combination of delight and panic which overtook him when watching the bathroom scene with the crooning protagonist shaving, naked from the waist up. He became infatuated with the sensual lines of the protagonists delta muscles, intermittently taut and supple, from top to toe, under an olive-coloured shiny skin. Whilst the shaving knife went up and down, Saâda began to feel unwell, victim of a chemical process that he had never experienced before. I asked them to change channel with the argument that we really didnt need to watch such frivolous entertainment. Both his mother and sister protested they thought that he was being ridiculous and sent him to his room to study. However, the images were irresistible and the boy was unable to get up and leave the room. He felt his blood pounding and remembers to this day how fervently he called out to the Lord that evening. It didnt help on the contrary. Barely a week later, alone at home and in front of the TV, Saâda is watching an Arte documentary on the making of homoerotic films. He cant believe his eyes. What he assumed that only he thought about in the darkest recesses of his heart was unfolding in reality, shamelessly, almost endlessly, and whats more, under the watchful eye of a camera that didnt eschew a single physical sensation. Initially, Saâda was horrified and wanted to switch the TV off, but the warm sensation in his loins and the singing in his heart prevented him from doing so. As a result, the boy locked the door and burned the succession of images into his memory. Even during the closing credits, he sat mesmerised in front of the screen, which is when he discovered the www-way, access to the Internet of hidden desires, with a name of a site. Something to do with gay, I dont recall exactly anymore, but I used to think that it was just the English word for boy. The Arte documentary, broadcast in the autumn of 2003, was the 9/11 of my youth. I knew straight away that nothing would ever be the same again. For a whole year, Saâda daily visited an Internet café, relentlessly Googling all possible combinations with the word gay, thus becoming infatuated with the photos that left little to the imagination and even finding a few sites that contained free films. At the same time he grew more and more afraid of being discovered and so painstakingly erased all traces of the sites which had him dreaming all day. Still, the yearning got the better of the feelings of fear and guilt that kept him awake at night. Or at least, thats how it was initially. If I could, he sighs, I would cut that year out of my life to rid myself of the shame attached to it. The virtual reality had completely colonised Saâdas spirit. It had succeeded in eliminating the studious boy who for years had stowed away the gaping void of loneliness with facts plucked from Al Jazeera, maths tables and certainties from the world of physics. With a simple click, Saâda had been reduced to a character in a pornographic game. He looks at me and sighs. Time and time again I asked God for redemption, but increasingly my prayers ended in tears. He understood that the Almighty wanted to test him, to sharpen his faith and to arm him against sin, but the ever-cerebral young man was paralysed. The seed of his youth and of his betrayal had dishonoured his prayer mat. Broken promises had destroyed it, the mouse mat had conquered the prayer mat. I was unworthy of the Merciful Lord and on certain days that knowledge made it impossible for me to pray.
He lays his glasses on the table, rubs his eyes and remains sat down with his back bent. A pious young mans version of capitulation. The worst of it, he says softly, is that I became a zamel, a filthy homosexual, in the way people around here understand it. A good-for-nothing, a sex maniac who lays his hands on the first body offered to him. I couldnt look at myself in the mirror anymore. Dark days and even darker nights, the equally satanic and non-erasable 2004 was the last year that Saâda would spend in his place of birth. In the meantime, he came to Marrakech, a city of ochre, liberation and MSN. Marrakech turned the zamel back into a young man, a soul yearning for words, friendship, understanding and affection. There was as a click of the mouse that differed very little from the previous one. And yet, the first click took the young man to worlds of porn and desperation, whereas the second one brought him to two French homosexuals to Anthony from Marseilles and next to Arnaud, a Parisian. You could call the latter his guru. In slightly less than a year of almost daily chatting, Arnaud ordained his Moroccan friend in the secrets of love between men. He shared his experiences and feelings with Saâda and taught him to talk about desire and tenderness. At nineteen to the dozen, he told him about the discussion in French society about homosexuality and about the theories on the Oedipus complex. Arnaud spoke about homoerotic books and films, about cafés, bars and annual gay processions in the capital cities of Europe. In an almost jaunty tone, he described his coming-out to his parents and teachers and the success of their process of acceptance didnt even seem to surprise him. They were more or less the same age, but the distance between their worlds was greater than the 2,130 kilometres, as the bird flies, which separated them. Saâda knew that he could never bridge that distance, but the knowledge that Arnauds world existed changed him completely.Initially, Arnauds jauntiness and carefree attitude took him completely by surprise and his tales went completely over and beyond Saâdas comprehension, although he tried to not let it show. For a while, he even thought that Arnaud was making them up to cheer him up. Later, they even laughed about this together. Gradually, the young Frenchman became the centre of Saâdas life and his improbable self-confidence even began to rub off on him.
Its thanks to Arnaud that Saâda existed, that he was able to invent himself as a young homosexual man. The almost graduated Frenchman gave him the courage, understanding and virtuous words that were meant to protect him against the vitriol that would always be his lot in Moroccan society. Arnaud and Saâda were friends and became lovers, virtually at least, and verbally. We were hatching plans to meet up. Arnaud had been to Marrakech once, had liked it and the prospect of being able to come and visit me made him very happy. Saâda was imagining how he would receive Arnaud in this apartment, what he would cook for him and how he would make love with him. For the first time in his life, his lips would touch anothers and his hands would be able to survey every centimetre of his lovers body. There were just another three or four months to wait, an eternity for someone as impatient as Arnaud but barely more than a second for those such as Saâda, who have been waiting their whole life. Arnaud would be my first lover - that was my most fervent wish. A shadow of immense sadness comes over Saâdas face. He gets up, turns the already barely audible Mozart off and sorts the scripts with the orange cover by date. There is a heavy silence in the air and I deduce that Arnaud never came. Saâda admits it can be read in different ways. He mutters that two terrible things happened on that bright January day in 2006. It was early evening, when, by digital processes he couldnt comprehend, he lost Arnaud from his MSN friend list for good. Within a few hours, whilst looking for a diversion in Jamaa el-Fna square, a pick-pocket made off with his mobile phone and with it the only chance he had left of contacting Arnaud again his phone number. My whole world collapsed that evening. For days on end, Saâda tried in vain to get back in touch with his friend. He attempted all possible alphanumerical combinations of his e-mail address, launched SOS calls on other sites and dialled untold numbers with the few digits that he still remembered from his previous phone call with Arnaud. I knew that it was pointless. His mouth twists into a bitter shape. He sits down and stares at his hands. It was a punishment from God. He, and He alone, knew my sinful intentions. He wanted to lead me back to the righteous path, Im convinced of that. History was more or less repeating itself. It went from the mouse mat back to the prayer mat, from a world of nimble happiness to one of unbearable guilt. Arnaud was reduced to a cyber mirage and with him disappeared the ideals that they had so lovingly nurtured together. Saâda began frequenting the mosque again. He prayed to God for forgiveness, he begged and cried, but something had changed. However unreachable Arnaud had become, he existed and his legacy couldnt be erased. The question wasnt whether Saâda would return to the Internet café, but when. He believes that he stayed away for about three months, but he had to go back. To live, to fill the void that Arnaud had left behind, even if he knew he was just indulging in pure hallucination. Saâda then discovered the Moroccan gay sites. He chatted with a man who immediately set up a meet as soon as he discovered that Saâda had his own apartment. By the following afternoon, they had already met in the park next to the petrol station. After about five minutes, the man asked whether he had any condoms, he was in a rush and was hoping that Saâda didnt live too far away. Without further ado, they went upstairs. Next, the man wanted to know where the bathroom was, gesticulating to the shy virgin that he should already get undressed. Saâda says that he can still remember a few seconds of the encounter, despite himself, as he would actually prefer to erase it from his memory. He knows that the alarm bells starting ringing in his head as soon as they went into the apartment, but his voice failed him. Mainly, he knew that it was too late. He heard the toilet being flushed and saw the man coming into the bedroom. It was awful - bestial actually.
For years, Saâda had dreamed of the Act, he had imagined caresses like the ones Arnaud had promised him and remembered those from the gay porn he had seen in cyberspace. He had hoped for gentle strokes, tenderness and passion. He had called to mind all kinds of scenarios, but he hadnt thought of the few words with which the Act starts and which said everything. Turn around. Even if it had sounded less like an order, Saâda wouldnt have dared to put up any resistance. He felt a wave of panic rushing through his body and closed his eyes. It didnt last more than a few minutes. Saâda remembers the mans shouts and how he then disappeared to the bathroom and mumbled something by way of saying goodbye. The door closed and a feeling of immediate sadness took over him. He thought of Arnaud and cried all afternoon. He felt like a girl who had been raped by a macho brute of man. He says that he doubts whether the man was gay. In any case, he was only interested in sex. That evening he returned to the mosque again. He promised God that this would be the last time. Saâda sighs and shakes his head. I dont understand. He doesnt know what, barely a week later, took him back to the Internet café, and much less why he invited a man from Rabat to spend that very night with him. He went to pick him up at the station at five past ten and brought him the following morning for the seven oclock train. He was handsome and friendly, Saâda thinks, but he immediately made it clear during the chatting that he only wanted sex and no relationship. He heard himself lying to the man that it wasnt a problem and that he was also only interested in a fling. He thought of Arnaud, of the Paris in his imagination and of the words that they would one day whisper to each other.
In the ensuing months, he concentrated on his studies and went home for the summer holidays and only returned to Marrakech at the start of autumn. He had undertaken to avoid the cybercafé, but even before the first week was over, he had already arranged to meet someone from one of the citys outlying districts. The man in question was a singer of popular songs who supplemented his less than royal salary by walking the streets. He didnt beat around the bush for less than ten euros, he would be Saâdas, if need be for the whole night. It was the end of the month, a student couldnt spare that kind of money. The singer was an understanding man, he would even come along for less than half the amount. It might perhaps sound pathetic, but how can you feel happy when paying for sex? However, this was my only positive experience, Ismaël being the first and only man to give me a good feeling. I felt complete in his arms. A while later, they happened to bump into each other. Saâda asked whether the singer felt like coming to visit him. Ismaël really wanted to and even said that he loved him. They were all-too-cheap and rash words, they defiled love in Saâdas eyes and he had scornfully asked the singer whether from now on he would do it with him for free or whether he was merely using a ruse to guarantee himself a fixed customer. Ismaël became angry and walked away. Saâda stares out in front of him. He says that a man like himself can only find sex in Morocco but not love.
I cant help thinking of my friend Jamal, who, just as I was about to leave, said that I should enquire as to Saâdas voting behaviour in the parliamentary elections which took place at the beginning of September 2007. Only 1 out of 3 people eligible to vote actually exercised their democratic right, he said. Thats how little people here expect from parliamentary delegates. And you cant blame them. The King is so mighty that he has nothing to fear from elections. Saâda cast his vote on the first Friday of the month. He voted for the Islamic Party of Justice and Development (PJD), a political entity that would actually prefer to see people of his sexual orientation stoned to death, such as the sharia foresees for recidivists. Oh, I just voted for a woman that I know, is how he initially defends his choice. Shes very dynamic and sincere, not just another complacent kleptomaniac like most of the representatives in this country. I argue that individual kind-heartedness and incorruptibility can achieve little in parliament, that its all to do with the dynamics of a group and with political ideas that are defended or rejected. A party like the PJD will never stand up for Saâdas interests, on the contrary. Women striving for emancipation and parity can also expect little from its Islamic social project. I ask whether it is fair that daughters inherit 50% less than sons, whether women who do not wear the veil really want to be raped on the spot - and what must his own life be like under an Islamic regime? At that moment, something inexplicable happens. Even before I have finished speaking, our relationship has broken down. The timid young man who, for the last five hours, has considered me an ally, who took me to never-before-visited places in his soul and who for the first time in his own house was able to formulate the unspeakable in words and sentences, has gone. The fragile boy who seemed to exist only in fear, uncertainty, doubts and guilt and whose dreams hadnt yet definitely been written off as unrealistic, has also disappeared. The man now sitting in front of me has a callous expression on his face. He has straightened his back, lifted his chin. The tone and rhythm of his voice have changed, his words those of a stranger and of God. He is blind, deaf and impervious. The boy has become a man who has become a robot. At most, 55 kilos of skin, hair, flesh and bone, but twenty tonnes of Koran assurance. He looks at me hard. He tells me straight off that Ive understood nothing. Islam, for him, is not a system of values, it is not morality you choose from a menu, nor is it a cerebral function which can be switched on or off depending on the circumstances. This person that I no longer know says that he lives in Islam. For an eternity. God doesnt need him, but he needs Him. Without Him he is nothing. I often wondered about it later on, but cant for the life of me work out why, at that moment, he brought up the cartoons in a Danish newspaper, those caricatures with the Prophet as the protagonist. Hundreds of thousands of people across the world took to the streets, he says, men, women, even children. At one with the Lord, they expressed their indignation. They didnt allow themselves to be put down, not then, not ever. The water between us is getting ever deeper. What really amazes me, I answer, is that acts of cruelty in the world, from Darfur to Burma via Sri Lanka, have never got the masses out of their seats. I say that I cant understand what a possibly offensive cartoon means in comparison to the death of unnamed innocent people, of someones children, someones mother and father, someones uncle, aunt, nephews or nieces, someones friends, someones loved ones. He doesnt let me finish my sentence and repeats that I dont understand anything. How can I compare mere mortals with the Prophet who mediates with God on the admission into heaven of believers such as himself? I would do anything for the Prophet. I would give my life. Shouted words, shocked silence. I cant help thinking of Jamal, of the schizophrenia which he so loves to hate and of my role as an untrained on-the-spot psychologist. Is there a place in heaven for Saâda? Will the pearly gates be opened for homosexuals? He roars that he has always been a normal person in every respect, except for one, the sexual deviation which he suffers from. Its an illness, an ordeal. He will however overcome this obstacle with the strength that God will give him. There is no doubt in his mind that he will go through life as a normal, worthy person. Its already way past midnight. He accompanies me downstairs and hails a taxi. Saâda seems to have returned. He says that he is sorry and asks whether I can forgive him. Youve meant a lot to me.
Between October 2005 and May 2006 De Morgen-journalist and sinologist Catherine Vuylsteke made three journeys throughout China accompanied by photographers Dieter Telemans, Tim Dirven and Jimmy Kets. They visited elderly peasants in their emptying villages in western China and accompanied rural migrants on their train journey to a better life. In Kunming they talked with pimps and prostitutes, in Shanghai with the newly rich and in Beijing and Chongqing with impoverished city dwellers. Their findings first appeared in the newspaper De Morgen and were published in book form on 1 March 2007 by Meulenhoff/Manteau.
China - What happens to the children of long term convicts in China?
Innocence murdered
Its a misty Wednesday morning - or is it the smog playing tricks? In the hills around the old Chinese imperial capital of Xian, at the entrance to the hamlet of Milu, lies the Childrens Village. A series of houses is visible from behind the green iron gates. The vegetable gardens that surround them are dead and frozen at this time of the year. A dirt track goes past latrines with plastic-coated walls to a boiler room, a canteen and four identical bungalows that have recently been built with funds received from western companies and embassies.
Inside are a barely heated living room, two dorms for up to twenty kids, a laundry room and toilets that can only be used at night, and a small room for the live-in care provider.
Seventy-six children have found a new home here.
Childrens Village is a strange world, as layered as an onion. From the outside, it resembles an ordinary Chinese school, ringing out with careless laughter and quarrelling voices in equal measure. I hear girls getting worked up about a hairpin and boys screaming in an dispute over the ownership of a football.
Beneath all of this are the hushed-up stories of the adults that work here, tragic tales of mothers that were taken away in shackles, of women that simply disappeared when their husbands were put behind bars or of others that made their children witness horror scenes, condemning them to endless nightmares or incurable bed-wetting.
Blood, violence and, in most cases, guilt have a stranglehold on these lives. Some people became transfixed on images of blunt axes, of kitchen knives in the hands of the desperate or of bowls of rice laced with rat poison. Others on the sight of unrecognisable family members - drunk, enraged, crying madly or having become motionless, stiff and cold.
The inner layers are only rarely visible and even then only for those in whom the children confide. They consist of silence, sorrow, anger and an utter sense of incomprehension. In short, they are made up of all those things for which kids often dont have words and for which Chinese adults usually dont want to provide them any. For they are not convinced of the nurturing effect of balancing dangerously above the gutter of the past in an often futile attempt to understand. Bie ku, guoqu jiu guoqu ba, is their mantra. Dont cry, let bygones be bygones.
Childrens Village came into being about ten years ago at the behest of a few judges that first dispensed with the lives of men and women that were deemed incorrigible or unforgivable, only to find themselves stuck with the orphans they left behind. For the first time, boys and girls, whose future became uncertain after their past was executed, did not end up on the streets but in mini-institutions. Four in total, with fifty kids in each of them. Only the mercy of the judges didnt last - three years after their creation, three of these centres had been closed down, leaving the last one all but doomed.
It is Big Brother Koen, as the kids call the equally idealistic and cuddly Belgian who works here, who saved the place. If youd ask the eight-year-old Guo Lin, shed attribute that miracle to Guanyin, the goddess of mercy that she always carries in her trouser pockets, but actually it was sometime during 1999 that western friends of the then NGO-worker Koen Sevenants enquired if he had any idea on what they could spend a remaining budget of 15,000 euros. He thought that money had to benefit the most needy, those that society and the state had spat out and removed from view. If you realise that one in six of the nine million people that are behind bars worldwide are Chinese and that, according to figures provided by Amnesty International, 3,797 people were executed in China in 2005, then you get an idea of how many children are serving their own terms here.
A lot had to be done. The basic needs of the children were barely taken care of, most of them didnt have legal papers, which for example made it very difficult to go to school. Visiting mum or dad in prison rarely happened and there was no psychological counselling to speak of. Sevenants confirms: We worked very hard and are proud of what we achieved. And whats more, Morning Tears, as weve called our organisation, aims to become an international organisation consisting of and serving the children of long-term prisoners and executed people. We dont just want to provide charity - these forgotten youngsters must be put on the agenda worldwide so as to force governments to assume their responsibilities.
It wasnt easy. Sevenants explains that at one stage in 2003 he had wanted to give up completely because emotionally he couldnt handle it anymore. Sometimes you have to turn kids away. You see, we only have a limited capability and there are at least two hundred children of some one thousand female prisoners in Xian who urgently need shelter. That makes for some hard choices and, on top of that, success is not immediately guaranteed. One of the very experienced workers of Childrens Village once told me that she was sure that one third of the children would make it, another third could turn out fine provided adequate support was given and that the last third was lost. She might have exaggerated a bit but I dont think she was entirely wrong.
International research comes up with similar conclusions. The chance that children of prisoners end up behind bars themselves is six times higher than with ordinary kids and they are also much more likely to suffer mentally.
Yet Sevenants was unable to quit. I couldnt leave those children behind, children with whom I had spent so much time. I had to see them grow up, he concedes with a smile. In the meantime, he redoubled his efforts to find donors amongst companies and he even managed to convince the governments of two Belgian provinces to commit to this project on a long-term basis.
At the same time, he established confidential ties with the Chinese government that would enable him to launch three more pilot projects with youngsters.
Forty euros a month Miss Fang (50) hangs up the laundry next to bungalow number three, where she lives with some fourteen boys and girls of between three-and-a-half and seventeen years old. Her life isnt easy. She earns less than forty euros a month, can only visit her husband and daughter every other weekend and isnt entitled to any form of entertainment. Fang took up this job four years ago, when the state factory, where she had worked for decades, closed its doors.
Seeing her busy with the clothes pegs makes me think of what Zhang, the institutions accountant, had said hours before. She didnt make much of a fuss about it, but claimed that only those who cant find other jobs are willing to work here. Older workers that were laid off or pensioners with not much to do, like me, she said.
Fang says shes very happy with her job. The love that the children give me is invaluable, she says shyly. Moreover, they badly need our attention and understanding. A normal person can scarcely imagine what these boys and girls have been through, often at a very early age. They dont speak about it, but you cannot escape from the past. I remember that time when the older boys had been playing with red paint in the old building where we used to live. Seeing the red marks on the wall, one of the children fainted. She cant stand the image of blood anymore. It reminds her of that evening, when her mum hacked her father to death and made her hold the bucket to collect the blood. The woman was executed by firing squad but her daughters nightmare continues.
When they first get here, most children are very anxious but in the end they get to like this place more than their own family. Fang: When I recently punished a thirteen-year-old girl who has been here for three years now, she said she didnt mind. At least you scold me for a reason, she explained, at home I used to be punished all the time without anyone ever explaining what was wrong. You know, Auntie, she continued, I prefer this place a million times more than my own home. I never want to leave you again.
We also notice during prison visits. Some children dont look at their parents, they dont even answer their questions. They are consumed by feelings of hatred, towards those they hold responsible for ruining their lives. Those moments are very painful, especially if you take into account that for most of those detainees a visit of fifteen minutes three or four times a year is all they get.
Others are very fond of their mum or dad who is behind bars. They give them drawings and as soon as they hear that a visit is being arranged, they start saving up the desserts or cookies that they get, as these will make a nice present.
The first children have come back from school. They say hello politely and take a good look at us newcomers. Finally, the most daring member of the group asks where we come from, which makes the others laugh nervously. They must be from Belgium, just like Big Brother Koen.
They put their schoolbags in their rooms but keep their coats on all day. There is no heating in the village primary school. Although its freezing cold, windows and doors are open all day, birds fly through the class rooms and even at the centre its really icy in the dorms and the canteen. Auntie, dont you have long underwear? a boy asks me later in the day, when he sees me glued to the only heater that works in the canteen. I say I do and show him the three layers of clothing that have to protect me against the cold. He shrugs and says that Ill get used to it.
After lunch, the girls jump up and down with an elastic thread while the boys play football. Will you join us? An enterprising girl with two ponytails takes my hand and smiles. It will be the first of many games that we teach each other. Kids songs from Holland, 'telephone', puzzles and many finger games fill the spare hours that we spend together over the next few days.
The girls definitely prefer Big Bad Wolf, in which I play the part of the dangerous, growling animal that devours one screaming kid after the other, while the others run about wildly, trying to avoid being captured.
I want the children to talk about themselves but as soon as I enquire about the pros and cons of living at this centre, I get nothing more than silence, alarmed glances and a most dismissive body language. And indeed, why would they confide in me?
Days go by. I have been promoted to be the platter of many a girls hair, I teach most of them how to do wheelbarrow races and establish a firm reputation as one who will forever suffer from the cold and the most relentless hunter of all Big Bad Wolves. Will you be here tomorrow?, has become the standard phrase with which each night-time departure ends. And the day after tomorrow? And when youre back in Belgium, will you forget us or will you come to see us again?
Guo Lin (8), a girl from a poor farming family in the nearby Gansu Province, whose mother disappeared after her father was sentenced to twelve years for armed robbery, insists most of all. At what time will you arrive?, she wants to know, while her fingers explore my hand, as if they were some big insect. If you leave on Monday, how long will it be before youre back? This summer? Im supposed to go and see my Aunt for a couple of days then, but if I know that youre coming, I wont go. Guo Lin laughs, shes gauging my reaction. The only person that has ever been so sweet to me as you have been, she says on the last day, was my grandmother. You know, it wasnt that nice at home.
The child of a prisoner herself There are few other confidentialities. But then, what should you expect from boys and girls that have yet to learn their times tables? Still, at times, stories surface unexpectedly. At least, thats how it went with Kou Wei, Sevenants English interpreter, whose commitment to Morning Tears is even more radical than his. He says shes never revealed her past to anyone, except to him, that is, and now to me. I never thought Id get so involved in this project, says a visibly nervous Kou Wei, while she sips soothing chrysanthemum tea. At least, not before I became the child of a prisoner myself.
Shes not too sure where to start. Maybe it would be a good idea to summarise my youth for you. It was an era of constant fear, ever unexpected blows and never-ending nightmares. I dont think my father was ever nice to me or to my mother. We only had peace of mind when he was out. The outside world knew him as a quiet, friendly policeman. And as the worthy son of his father, the party secretary in our district capital. Only their neighbours and relatives ever saw his true face. For those that lived nearby, it revealed itself in the all too frequent, desperate cries of Kou and her mother, while the members of the family got to see the bruises with which their bodies were more often than not covered. As soon as he started picking a fight, I ran off to the neighbours. During all of my childhood, I found comfort in the arms of the woman next door. But she couldnt help me. Im sure you know the Chinese saying. It is better, it goes, to destroy ten temples than to tear apart one family. She used to say that it would pass and that shit happens. It is our fate.
But Kous mother, a doctor, wasnt willing to take it lying down. She filed many complaints at the local police station and repeatedly turned to the Peoples Court to request a divorce. That only made his anger worse, says Kou. My grandfather, whom you could easily compare to the Almighty, was always informed straight away and for him such a disgrace was utterly unthinkable in a family like ours. Kous words get stuck in her throat. You know, my mother was really a good wife, although she had a very demanding job. She cooked my fathers meals every day and kept the apartment very tidy. I am convinced that my fathers rage had to do with something else, with his unfulfilled dream: he wanted a son, you see, not a daughter like me.
I can tell that she considers it as being her fault. I should have protected my mother much better, only I didnt know how. After Id left to study English at the university in Xian, I often lay awake all night. What would he do to her? Before I left, I had made her promise that shed wait for me. As soon as I graduated, I would take up a well-paid job in Beijing and then wed live together. But it wasnt meant to be.
The nineteen-year-old Kou was in the third year of university when the call came from her best friend. Could she come home? He had to talk to her. A couple of minutes later, her mum called, saying she had to leave for a training course. She instructed her daughter to go to her grandmas place during the holidays. It would be the last sign of her mother. The next time she saw or heard from her was seven months later, in court.
I had a premonition. The night before it happened, I had woken up all of my fellow students in the dorm with my screams, dreaming that I was being killed with a knife.
Theres not much that Kou remembers of the day itself, apart from the conversation with her friend. He said her mother had killed her father when he tried to get hold of the money she had put aside for Kous education.
During the following three days, her uncle would tell her afterwards, Kou was in a permanent state of shock. She wasnt aware of what people said to her and only after the doctor had managed to inject a tranquilliser did she fall asleep.
The only one who got to see my mother in all that time was her lawyer, who was to pass on the message that I was to be kept out of all of this at any cost. However, my uncle explained to me that I was the only person who could save her life. Grandfather would not rest before he had dealt her a final, deadly blow and nobody in the outside world knew what we had gone through for the last twenty years.
I handed over my diaries, in which I had written about the horror at home, year after year. Making them public, sharing them with a lawyer that I didnt even know, was very hard. But for the sake of my mother, I would have done anything.
During the trial, Kou took to the witness stand three times. She could hardly bear the image of her mother standing trial, and on the day of the verdict she didnt show up. My uncle went, while I was waiting at home with a knife. If she were to be sentenced to death, then so would I.
By now, tears are running down Kous face. She says in a stifled voice that a thousand people have signed a petition of sympathy for her mother, such was her popularity.
The doctor is sentenced to a stay of execution, a measure which, according to Human Rights Watch, is applied in one in four murder cases. It means that she gets two years to successfully prove her mental rehabilitation, two long years during which death is constantly lurking around the corner. For if your behaviour is not judged satisfactory, the bullet is still waiting and in the best-case scenario, twenty years will still have to be spent behind bars.
The worst thing is that the judge himself said to my uncle that he would have been inclined to pass a sentence of twelve years, the minimum penalty for murder. But the pressure which my grandfather exerted was too overwhelming.
Finally, it took twenty-six months before Kou could meet her mother again. Two years and two months of silence: no letters or calls. My uncle made me promise that I wouldnt weep. He said it would destroy her and that I had to maintain my composure. During those first fifteen minutes we were given, we only talked about other people, about things that didnt really matter.
It took months before we were able to bring up that dreaded day and the incident. My sweet, sweet Mum says she doesnt regret it, the only thing thats eating away at her is the fact that she made me unhappy and that I became the child of a criminal.
It may seem odd, but I find it much harder to come to terms with her sentence than she does. She doesnt deserve any punishment, her whole life has been utter penitence. She tries to convince me that shes doing well. On weekdays, she works in the prison clinic and she teaches on Saturdays. Nobody does me any harm here, believe me, she said. Im being respected. Actually, I have a much better life than before, the only things that are lacking are you and freedom.
Kou Weis mother has been behind bars for more than seven years now. She gets along very well with the prison authorities, to the extent that she can receive her daughter within the walls of her own cell, sometimes for over two hours. Its not yet clear when shell be released. Maybe in nine years time. Shell be 62 by then.
The luxury of a hotel Its Friday night and were going for dinner with some of the older girls in a Sichuan-style restaurant in Xian. The atmosphere is great, the food is terrific and the night is still young. The teenagers feel like going bowling, or at least to some cosy bar and theyre looking forward to the idea of spending the night in a hotel. With a television, that is, with an endless amount of channels, with mattresses into which they can sink deeply, and with unlimited amounts of boiling hot water. The next morning, they confess with small, sleepy eyes that they only got to sleep at four oclock.
As a good host, the seventeen-year-old Zhang Xiangyu sorts out the most exquisite bits of food for us. She says she greatly admires journalists, reads every newspaper she can lay her hands on and definitely wants to become a writer later on. Or rather, she has already finished her first book on ten years spent in the Childrens Village. Its currently being translated into English.
A few days before, the accountant of the centre spoke of her as a model child. Shes very bright and has quite well psychologically with the family drama, the woman said. According to her, Zhangs father was a boozing and womanising neer-do-well who even kept on harassing her mother after they got divorced. During one of those unwanted visits, Zhangs mother and brother conspired to kill him. The boy has since been released, his mother still has more years to serve. My first and foremost hope, says Zhang softly, is that my book brings about more empathy.
The worst thing about a childhood spent in Childrens Village is not so much the absence of parents but rather the fact that you continually have to say goodbye to all those that you love. I told myself time and again that I wouldnt care about people anymore, for when they leave, its as if a little part of you dies as well, and part of your life disappears. Her friend Zhang Hao nods. You never know how long a person will stay. If one or the other uncle or aunt gets it into his or her head to take you home, you have to obey.
Even children that are unwilling to go back to violent or totally undesirable family situations are being physically forced to leave with their family members. The only thing we can do, says Sevenants, is to try to stay in touch. We therefore teach them how to make a phone call and provide them with some pocket money so that they can call us if need be. But whether or not they manage to do so... Besides, legally we have absolutely no right to stick our noses into their lives once theyve gone.
Saturday afternoon. By the time we arrive at the centre, the oldest boys are busy preparing the wood for that evenings bonfire and are quarrelling about the privilege of being the outdoor-DJ. A couple of teenage girls want to know if Auntie likes dancing. You see, they love to dance themselves, only they dont really dare to. Xiang Kepeng (16) has been given a special task. He has to make sure that the youngest kids dont run around the fire too wildly and that they manage to get through the evening without any accidents. He says he feels honoured, which I can well imagine. For the boy is still in primary school, where the teachers consider him to be a lost case, and Zhang the accountant doesnt appreciate him much either. A couple of days before, she pointed him out as an example of the lost third and said that everyone was already happy that he had stopped wetting his sheets a couple of months ago. But now were worried about the fact that hes discovered cigarettes and alcohol. I want to ask her what adolescent has never tried a drink or a cigarette, but Mrs Zhang doesnt like to be disagreed with.
Xiang is a softly spoken, quiet young man who has lived here for six years and who dreams of a career in the army. He sees it as a matter of making himself useful for his country. And I know, he continues, that my mother would be very proud of me. The woman that is, who killed his father and who gets no other visitors than him, three or four times a year, each visit lasting no more than fifteen minutes. Her eldest son has of course tried to visit her, but as he doesnt have any identity papers, hes not allowed into the jail. I know shes innocent, she told me so and I believe her. Shed never lie to me. As soon as she gets out, Ill take care of her. Thatll take at least another ten years but Ill wait for her.
The boy stares off into the distance while he talks about the drama that destroyed his family. We used to be well off, my father was the village chief. He got along fine with my mother and my brother and I used to come home from school every weekend. We were a very happy family, believe me. I often wonder what could have happened that day but I dont understand a thing. When I ask my mother, she says that we should let the past rest. Guoqu jiu guoqu ba. Let bygones be bygones.
I remember it was the day before the start of the holidays. My mother had called the school, asking for us to come home straight away. I was nine, I understood that something serious had happened, otherwise we wouldnt have been brought home in the school bus. To this day, I often dream about the moment we entered the house, the image of the room, my fathers dead, stiff body, my mum sobbing. Then the police came. They handcuffed her and dragged her along violently. That image still haunts me, after all these years it still numbs me.
Ten days later, my brother and I were allowed to visit her in the local district prison, where she was awaiting trial. She looked terrible. Her body was covered in bruises and there were many burn wounds on her hands and arms. No wonder she had confessed to her so-called crime. Later, we heard that my uncle from my fathers side had given money to the police. He wanted her to confess to the murder at all cost. We think he was after our house and our land.
In the first year after the death of his father, Xiang lived with a relative. It was absolutely terrible. We couldnt go to school anymore, we had to toil from morning till evening and were barely fed. My brother ran away and later on I followed him. Finally, I got a place in this centre. At first, I was very much afraid but I didnt cry. Boys dont cry, do they?
The bonfire is a big success. The kids have played and danced for hours on end. This was the most beautiful night of my life, says Guo Lin, when I take her and her friends to their bungalow around nine oclock. She squeezes my hand softly and wants to know at what time well arrive the next day.
Sunday, our last day in Childrens Village. Countless adventures of the Big Bad Wolf and stories based on Dutch kids songs until everyone is exhausted, and hours of drawing and making cards for the Chinese New Year.
When we get ready to leave after nine oclock that evening, Guo Lin puts a card in my hand. Dont show anyone, she says in a firm voice. And dont read it until youve reached your hotel room. I made a card for her too, clumsily and artistically average, but sincere and well intentioned. Shes visibly happy with it and immediately puts it underneath her pillow. Will you send me envelopes with your address on it? she asks in a small voice, almost pleading. I cant write very well yet, but Ill practise a lot, I promise. Then Ill be able to write to you often. All of a sudden, this strong-willed little girl of eight seems very fragile. Dont forget me, Auntie.
While the other girls are still saying goodbye, Guo Lin goes straight to bed and turns her head to the wall. Aunties last goodbye remains unanswered.
In the hotel room, I get out the card. It says I love you, Auntie, I want to stay with Auntie and play together. I think Auntie is super. Promise me that youll take good care of yourself, as I will, so that well surely meet again.
