“filled with echoes” Brussels, Pedro Páramo, and
a lingering feeling
"Everything passes except the past," the
words greet you at the Africa Museum in Brussels. I’d been spending the weekend
exploring, looking at the messy history of this place, its entangled
relationship with colonialization and decolonization, some art, hanging out
with my ever-supportive comrades, enjoying frites and beer at the brasseries
here, away from the crazy USA, but never far from what got us here.
I arrived on Friday.
It's a ten-minute ride from the airport to town. A
grey fall day, the morning train took us past an old world landscape near Flanders,
where the world burned, bodies enveloped in ditches some hundred-plus years
prior. That “war to end all wars” left us with still more wars, between
nations, ideologies, economic systems, ever-expanding inequalities, conflicts,
immigrants and asylum seekers ever moving between borders. I’m trying to understand how the pieces fit
together and separate, ever-clashing and connecting, fissures reappearing after
repairs.
I get off at Gare du Norde. A quick glimpse, you can
take in the world outside this dingy train station, Romanians working the
windows, Moroccans and Sub-Saharan Africans selling their wares, inquiring if
you want anything, European diplomats and Brussels bureaucrats strolling
looking for something on their way to catch a train. Sometimes it feels
abundant, this mix; others, there’s something amiss, a feeling that someone is
being cheated, displaced or left behind, chasing a buzz, hoping to hold
oblivion at bay. People are everywhere, from everywhere, women in burkas, with
kids in strollers, an African vibe, a desultory feeling, the space ever mixing,
“people of foreign origin making up the region's population. Approximately 32%
of residents are of non-Belgian European origin, and 36% are of other
backgrounds, mostly Moroccan, Turkish, and Sub-Saharan African.” Outside the
station, bodegas drape flags from Morocco, Albania, and here; groups of men
fill the street, finding their way. In Afropean: Notes from Black Europe, Johny
Pitts recalls a trip, with two such men, apparently from Morocco, trying to mug
him there. I think about the lives they live, not quite seen, or embraced.
The 2005 riots in Paris testify to that sense of neglect and dislocation, invisibility
and stigma, in Europe but still not welcome, working but not feeling a part of progress,
wanting a better life, not just more work, still seen as threats. Walking through
the train station, I think about the immigrants arriving, who’ve been part of
this story, subject to their own sense of contestation. Reactions and counter-reactions
with greater intensity election after election, from the US to Germany. Mix
this with a brutal colonial history; it's a
long shadow, ever stretching, backward and forward, connecting
a cruel past to present migrations,
inequalities, labor, and politics. “Living
and breathing, and deeply embedded in its society’s hierarchies, lurking just
out of sight, haunting its systems,” writes Pitts, reflecting on his own trip
here, thinking about the colonial system fashioned after the Berlin Conference
of 1884-5, mapping European colonization of
Africa during the New Imperialism period, with millions of
casualties, murdered, maimed, lost hands, starved in the Congo under Belgian
rule. All the while Leopold II claimed to be helping, civilizing the people, as
the Belgians plundered, extracting resources, ivory. Another 100,000 were massacred
in the battle for liberation in the early 1960’s, with pre-colonial tribal
conflicts taking shape, and ethnic identities renewed, followed
by still more conflicts and subsequent genocide in Rwanda. Living
in San Francisco then, I recall reading about the quarter million people who
had died in Rwanda in a month alone in 1994. That was as many as had died in
the previous dozen-plus years of years of AIDS in San Francisco, with the scars
of those years, death, wasting syndrome, KS lesions. Many argue that the roots
of the genocide, with its conflict between the Tutsi and Hutu, can be
located in Belgian colonial rule. “The
minority Tutsi (14%) were favoured over the Hutus (85%),” during those years. They were given privileges and Western-style
education, while the Hutus were the oppressed masses. In 1959, the Hutus
rebelled against the Belgian colonial power and the Tutsi elite, forcing some
150,000 Tutsis to flee to Burundi….” I had no idea. That felt real,
like something to figure out.
In Black Masks and White Faces, Franz Fanon writes
about the wounds he saw in colonized bodies, the restrictions, the mechanisms
of social control, as a sort of double consciousness took shape. “Sometimes
people hold a core belief that is very strong,” he writes. “When they are presented
with evidence that works against that belief, the new evidence cannot be
accepted. It would create a feeling that is extremely uncomfortable, called
cognitive dissonance. And because it is so important to protect the core
belief, they will rationalize, ignore and even deny anything that doesn't fit
in with the core belief.” You see this in the US,
In The Souls of Black Folk, W.E.B. Du Bois
writes about the strange feeling of navigating more than one social
identity. For W.E.B. Du Bois, this was its own double or dual
consciousness.
For a while there during the war, Fannon defended the colonists,
only changing his mind when he saw the Black soldiers returning as second-class
citizens once the war was over. Fanon realized he had fought to liberate
France, but not himself. He came to see himself as a citizen of the world, not
necessarily France. “I am black,” he said. “I am in total fusion with the
world, in sympathetic affinity with the earth, losing my id in the heart of the
cosmos … I am truly a drop of sun under the earth.”
Walking about looking for the way to the museum, a
conductor inside gives me train directions, South to Rogier to Arts Loi station,
and East to Montgomery, where I catch the 44 tram East across town, yellow
leaves strewn about, through the suburbs. It takes almost an hour, with a
detour to a bus, before arriving at the last stop, Tervuren. Outside I see a
sign for the Africa Museum, long known as the Royal Museum for Central Africa.
Walking the vast expansive, manicured lawns, toward what looks like a palace,
it feels like Versailles. I’m reminded of the feeling in Hong Kong, wondering
about the unknown workers, who carried the bricks, to create these colonial
grounds. The museum has only recently reopened after a long renovation, with new
a self-conscious reflection on itself, as a sort of museum inside of a museum.
“The museum’s origins,” says a sign at the entrance.
“The 1897 Universal Exposition in Brussels gave King
Leopold II an opportunity to promote his colonial project through an exhibition
and a human zoo in Tervuren, 267 Congalese, seven of whom lost their lives,
were put on display.”
Human zoo, I cringe,
recalling similar human zoos, with living people on display in museums, including the Bronx Zoo and others across the US.
In 1910 the museum opened as a home to Leopold’s colonial
propaganda thinly veiled as a “scientific institution.”
“Today, the museum is a place of memory for this
colonial past…” says the renovated language at the entrance.
Inside, display cases are filled with animals in formaldehyde,
an elephant skull, mounted butterflies, and depictions of colonial rule; exhibitions
trace histories of the slave trade extending from Europe to Africa, the Caribbean
to the Americas, lost stories, and efforts at remembering and reconnecting.
Despite its makeover, an old colonial stench remains. It's hard to scratch it
out, or take it in.
And back to Louise, I travel to find my hosts.
Away from the crazy USA, with its own feelings of
occupation and double consciousness, it's hard not to think about what happened
the week prior.
On the way out of town, I got word about my friend
Morgan, who left this life for a living theater, communing with the dead, the
earth, and the stars.
I think about her playing a storm, playing Sandy,
years prior.
What a wondrous soul. So many magic moments. Godspeed.
Goodbye friend. RiP Mogan.
The night before Jay Walker stood up at the mic,
reminding us to stay organized at the Center.
And our two little ones, looked out at the world,
discussing the news of the day.
Mom and Shannon and I reflected on The Blind Leading
the Blind, the painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder.
We looked at found objects in the Gowanus as fires
burned in Prospect Park.
And went dancing at the Poppers Party at C'Mon
Evrrybody.
And I walked, thinking about the moment, thinking
about the week before.
Displaced in place says the graffiti on Saturday in
the East Village.
Across the city, people were meeting and trying
to make of the strange deja vu gripping the city.
I join my heartbroken colleagues to hit the streets
for the Protect Our Futures March. People carry signs with the words,
solidarity is the solution. We have to look our for each other, for the
vulnerable, for each other, to continue to inquire and connect, and see each
other, and support each other, without letting anyone go, hold everyone’s hands.
“People are not going to die,” says Karen, my friend
from ACT UP and WHAM!
I know. I know.
Looking about members of my union were out, along with
climate activists, sharing space, a little solidarity. Lots of hugs, lots of connections.
We walk from the West Village into the East, past a
torn Ukraine flag, wondering about what the future has in store for us, over
soup at B and H Deli, stopping by Village Works, finding respite in the magic
bookstore, and the cool cat who lives there.
Later that afternoon, we unpack a ghost story. Juan
Rulfo writes:
"I came to Comala because I was told that my
father, a certain Pedro Páramo, lived here. My mother told me so. And I
promised her that I would come to see him as soon as she died. I squeezed her
hands as a sign that I would do so, for she was about to die and I was in the
mood to promise everything. "Don't forget to go and visit him," she
recommended….”I'm sure he'll be happy to meet you." So I couldn't do
anything else but tell her that I would do so, and after telling her so many
times I kept telling her even after my hands had a hard time getting away from
her dead hands."
Arriving, our protagonist notices: "This town is
filled with echoes.” Everyone seems to know something about Pedro
Páramo. A woman, Damiana, leads Juan Preciado, through the empty, eerie, otherworldly
Comala. He hears more cries, more echos: “It's like they were trapped
behind the walls, or beneath the cobblestones. When you walk you feel like
someone's behind you, stepping in your footsteps. You hear rustlings. And
people laughing. Laughter that sounds used up. And voices worn away by the years”.
Someone is behind you, ahead of you. A story that came
before. Juan listens to story after story. Everyone knows his father, has
something to say about his cruelty. His
name “rock” and “barren plain.” A picture starts to take shape of a landowner, a
harsh, feudal lord, a womanizer, who owns
much of the land around Comala, who nonetheless left the community with little
to nothing, just ghosts, and lingering resentments.
“It's a story about our current moment,” says Mark.
That night, we met at the baths, thinking about stories
as the blue sky turned to water, lives in flux, hot water turning to steam, evaporating
into the sky. The giggling continued long into the night, into our dreams, trying
to avoid another exploration, another reconciliation with a reality that seemed
very dark, very banal.
Harvard ethics professor Christopher Robichaud put it:
“Everyone in the days and weeks ahead will use this
loss as an opportunity to seek validation for their own hobby horse complaint.
Harris lost because she campaigned with Liz Cheney. Harris lost because she
didn't embrace Gaza. Harris lost because she didn't choose Shapiro. Harris lost
because she wasn't progressive enough. Take a good hard look at the map, my
friends. Trump has won the popular vote. Trump ran the table. Explaining that
with your hobby horse issue isn't going to cut it, tempting and consoling as it
may be. The problem isn't the electoral college. The problem isn't that we
didn't have a full primary. The problem isn't Harris. The problem isn't that
Dems didn't have the right message. The problem isn't even inflation or the
border. The problem is so much worse than any of those things. Those are all
technical problems, with straightforward expertise fixes. If only it were so!
No, our problem is not technical. It's very much adaptive. A party that
embraced the Big Lie, supported an insurrection, and has been selling
conspiracy-addled madness for years was widely and enthusiastically embraced.
Voter turnout was profound! People didn't sit this out. Simply put, the
problem--as some of you have rightly posted--is cultural. America, culturally,
has completely abandoned a politics of decency and respect and has embraced
instead a politics of resentment, revenge, false nostalgia, and bullying.”
It was a good time to get away.
I planned the trip months before I knew the results.
But was glad to have the opportunity to leave. James and Jarno were in
town. Over the last few years, I’ve come to Brussels many times for my friendship
research. This trip would be no different. Stopping on the 93 Tram stop at
Palais, I look for Bozar, the arts center, where a poster announces, “Love is
Louder.” It is on exhibition, along with “Friends, Lovers, Partners” about Hans
and Sophie Arp. Each concerns questions about romantic love, intimacy and
romance, kinship and friendship, as well as community and solidarity. Take
a long loop, exploring them both, the guard tells me. I read about the multilayered
story of Hans and Sophie Arp, as artistic collaborators, supporting each other,
and finding notoriety, before the bombs start falling. They’d been partners for
as long as he could remember. They met after one of her opening on the 6th of
February 1916, collaborating for the next quarter century, before the war. The
two decide to stay in France, rather than go into exile in the US. In 1943,
Taeuber-Arp missed a tram home. Instead, she slept in a summer house covered in
snow in Zurich, Switzerland, where carbon monoxide poisoning killed Sophie
Taeuber-Arp on January 13, 1943. “Sophie Dreamed Sophie Painted Sophie Danced,”
Jean wrote after Sophie perished. Jean was left to remember and carry on, both
her work and his, poem after poem:
“Sophie
Hearts are stars
Blooming in men.
All flowers are heavens.
All heavens are flowers.
All flowers glow
All heavens bloom.
I speak little everyday sentences
Softly to myself
To give myself courage,
To deceive myself
To forget the great suffering,
The helpless, in which we live,
I speak little everyday sentences.”
I walked between the two
shows all afternoon, visiting the Arps and contemplating the questions about
love and friendship,
We keep walking into the night, wondering about what
happened to that love and kinship.
Trying to figure it out, we drive through a gorgeous
fall day to Aachen, near Germany’s borders with Belgium and the Netherlands.
Arriving, we looked to get a glimpse inside the Aachen Cathedral where
Charlemagne's throne is said to sit. But I wouldn't know. The door guard turns us
away, while letting in locals for a kid’s book reading. It was like we were
back in line for the techno clubs in Berlin. The more I begged and told him we
came from the USA, the more he hardened his line. One of many comical moments
on the road. We did get into the Domschatzkammer
(treasury), to see the medieval artifacts and shrines of Charlemagne, who was
buried there in 814 A.D. Even more lucky for us, we got to see the ulna and
radius from his right arm. I do love seeing the remains from such notables.
Back in Brussels, the ridiculous fun continued with a lovely birthday meal at
La Quincallierie, a classic Belgian brasserie. For the next few years, I'm not
so sure we are going to be as welcomed here. After dinner, we heard Biden
released restrictions on US missiles sent from Ukraine. Things feel like
they are heating. They are lining up the clown car, a health secretary who
doesn’t believe in vaccines. And a defense secretary who doesn't believe in germs.
Europe is little weary. So are we.
We stay up late talking about it all, the violence in The
Vegetarian, the novel by Han Kang, a
parable on social expectations and the pressure to conform, within South Korea I
read on the way, the cruelty of Pedro Paramo, a brutal landowner, ever
displacing and eluding justice, the colonial system of inequalities that never
quite goes away, casting shadows, the ghost of Damiana, leading Juan Preciado
through Comala, the 44 tram East to Tervuren, where that the Human Zoo was on
display not that long ago, the possibility of the sign at the demo, “Love is
Louder” and the mishap which robbed Jean of Sophie, leaving him to remember
her, the poison that ended the affair in the novel, the missiles flying to and
from Ukraine, conflict reverberating, the view of Flanders Field.
“This town is filled with echoes…”
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