Dear Paris,
I bear the name of the Republic; that bare-chested allegory wielding a tricolour flag, symbol of liberty, equality, fraternity. But since its inception this triumvirate of principles has been put to test through wars waged and threats received.
Nightmarish atrocities that our very own Amelie Nothomb couldn’t pen or dream up took place last Friday. I was left appalled, sad, and deeply frightened; why us, why here, why now? How can we nurse a disease that is so abominable that we, the people of Europe, would have never thought it possible?
I am not French. Now living in London for creativity’s sake I was born and bred in Brussels, Belgium to Cameroonian parents. My memories of Brussels are fond; my memories of Brussels are frightening. Brussels is verbal oppression for exhibiting visual inadequacy as a woman, but also (much like Paris) a vibrant nightlife, food, and people.
Brussels is home to my favourite music venue in the world, Kew-like botanical garden Le Botanique, which sits only a couple of kilometres from Molenbeek (a suburb now associated with radicalism), and has a cultural legacy as significant as Le Bataclan’s. Our Brussels isn’t the same as the Abdeslam brothers’. Our Brussels is not one of hatred.
Brussels has always been an alternative Paris. Beer instead of wine, nonante instead of quatre vingt dix, waffles and fries instead of coq au vin and cheese. Of course, we have our own TV channels but we grew up to the same Claire Chazal (retired TV broadcaster) and silly programs, watching your world-renowned films, nodding to your rappers.
As a French-speaking Belgian national of African descent, French culture is inescapable, and ultimately foundational; France is our kin. Oh, there is rivalry, alright, but the rivalry is ultimately frivolous. Our Leffe beats your Kronenbourg, and whilst you have baguette there’s nothing like a good pain de campagne with Belgian pâté. We notoriously bicker. But somewhere something went really wrong.
Inside the middle class bubble, it’s easy to forget. Forget how Brussels and Paris as political entities once went abroad boasting the better life to be had back home, renaming villages and cities, re-writing history books, assigning new languages and leaders; in our parents’ lifetime. It’s easy to forget how through casting those narratives of what perfection means, Brussels and Paris created hope in those living elsewhere. Brussels and Paris took resources along the way (did you really think cocoa came from Belgium?), many resources, then fled back.
Somewhere along the way Brussels and Paris decided to rescind our invite, to overfill social housing and screen names on CVs based on their foreign feel. Brussels and Paris decided the guestlist was full. Brussels and Paris angered some, erased others. And someone else was there to offer solace in a radical way, to prove that our social contract is flawed; that somewhere along the way the people had become less important than The Republic. And so, the rest of us got caught in the crossfire.
We, the people (Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Atheists, Agnostics) did not sign up for this. Our friends and families’ warm bodies did not sign up for this. Our hearts and bodies were not prepared for this.
Friday’s attacks were not aimed at a race, but at the idea of a nation—a carefree nation, with people from different hues, beliefs, and origins hoping to live together harmoniously. Let us ask ourselves why those men from Molenbeek feel this ideal to be so alien to them and identify more with annihilation than harmony. But let us not cast stones at those who share our values and see in religion nothing more than an opportunity to meditate.
Let us not marginalize those who don’t look or speak like us any further. Let us not discard those men whose first names aren’t Jean, François, Nicolas, or Michel. Let us return to your founding principles: liberty, equality, fraternity. Let us prove them wrong with unity.
From Brussels, with Love.
Original Source: http://www.konbini.com/en/lifestyle/brussels-paris-love/
