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, it’s not so bad,’ he says. After 19 years he’s 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 don’t 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 what’s 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 wouldn’t 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 hasn’t 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. He’ll 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 city’s parks he likes best and he’ll 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.

26-05-2010 om 16:35 geschreven door Catherine Vuylsteke  

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 didn’t 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 he’d never be able to build such a mansion… Someone else’s 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 can’t find me? Will the money I send make up for my absence?

Crushing choices, yesterday’s long shadows cast over the years to come. I couldn’t bring you with me, can you forgive me? Guilt, regret, despair. There was but one chance. My chance. Don’t complain, don’t 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 don’t know. My country is a patchwork of memories, words and thoughts. My country is in my head.

22-05-2010 om 00:00 geschreven door Catherine Vuylsteke  

Les festivités sont un révélateur de nous-mêmes. Ressortissants d'un pays qui fête une victoire olympique, parents imaginaires d'une équipe de foot nationale qui gagne. (Arrière-)petits-enfants de tel ou tel prophète, fidèle d'une religion ou d'un culte qui se prétendent supérieurs.

Elles nous présentent comme des musulmans, qui célèbrent la circoncision de leurs fils au cours de festivités qui laisseront un souvenir impérissable à toutes les personnes présentes. Elles nous confirment dans notre identité de chrétiens, qui louvoient entre vendredi saint, dinde de Noël, agneau pascal et branches de buis bénit.

Bruxelles les subit toutes. Ou presque. Les traditions, les fêtes nationales, joyeuses ou malheureuses, et dans la plupart des cas, les événements historiques un peu sacrés qui ne sont pas fêtés ici, peu importe quand et où ils se sont déroulés.

Il est à espérer que les fêtes fédèrent les individus, qu'elles dépassent les clivages des races, des nationalités, des idéologies ou de la foi. Espérer.

Ce que nous fêtons et la façon dont nous le faisons sont comme un passeport social. Ils nous cataloguent, nous font revenir en arrière, à une époque passée, où il fallait encore poser des choix individuels conscients, aux communautés dont nous sommes originaires, que notre loyauté actuelle envers elles soit grande ou non.

Ce qui incite les uns à se réjouir et à s'affirmer, suscitera souvent le mécontentement des autres.

Il suffit d'écouter les commentaires désobligeants des autochtones à l'encontre de leurs collègues qui pratiquent le ramadan. La mauvaise humeur des fumeurs qui doivent s'abstenir temporairement de leur cigarette, la fatigue perpétuelle, l'augmentation de l'absentéisme. Interrogez les homos et les lesbiennes qui se disent oui à l'hôtel de ville. Souvent, leur cortège qui traverse les petites rues est hué par des jeunes désœuvrés à l'esprit étroit.

Voyez le désespoir et la soumission dans les églises messianiques et lisez les études sociologiques sur ces formes intolérables de manipulation et de charlatanisme. Captez l'humeur de la rue: chaque fois que le ballon rond monopolise le petit écran et les pensées de millions de spectateurs, les coups de klaxon de joie des uns valent aux autres des nuits blanches et des frustrations.

Bruxelles est de toutes les célébrations, sous la pluie, dans le brouillard, sous la neige, le soleil ou la grêle. Aucun mystère ne nous est épargné. Les familles, les clubs, les quartiers, les communautés font la fête. Ils le font chacun dans leur coin, à côté, tout contre mais jamais ensemble. En râlant sur les autres.

Bruxelles fait la fête, mais si rarement comme Zinneke, ensemble. Mon Zinneke, ton Zinneke, le nôtre. Une parade au cœur à cœur, par la ville et à travers elle. Une fête du Bruxelles dont nous rêvons.

21-05-2010 om 00:00 geschreven door Catherine Vuylsteke  

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 one’s 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.

19-05-2010 om 22:26 geschreven door Catherine Vuylsteke