What’s a friend? Is it the person who makes you laugh the most… or the one who laughs the hardest at your jokes? Is it the one who’s there when you want to cry, or the one that makes you cry because he/she’s not there? Is it that person you’ve been meaning to send an email to in months, years perhaps, but just haven’t found the time to reply? Because really, you want to tell them so much about yourself and ask them so many questions about their lives, that you think it would take you ages to get it down on paper. So you don’t. And you grow further apart.
Is it the one that’s really there for you when you need them – or the one that understands it when you’re not?
The one that speaks of the same things you do, but in a different language? Or the one that speaks the same language, but thinks differently?
Is it the person you’ve known since childhood, or somebody you met on the train yesterday?
Is it the person that sends you a Christmas card every year? Or the one who never does?
The one that pushes you – even if you don’t like it? Or the one that just lets you be?
Someone who doesn’t want you to change? Or someone who encourages you to?
Or the person you just shared a beer and some stories with…
All I know is that I want to be a person that lifts others up. To be there when someone needs me. Bring out the best in them, not the worst. Share laughter, as well as tears.  The twist is that I don’t expect a stranger to return this kindness, but from my close friends, I do. So much for unconditional love… Demanding? Yes. Selfish? Maybe. Waterproof? No.
Home can be a feeling (sand between your toes), a song (‘Gorecki‘ by Lamb), the first thing you see in the morning (he’s asleep next to you) or the sound of wood against wood (those Balinese wind chimes). Home is in between places, traveling from one to another. The warmth of the sun on your skin. Hearing laughter of friends and loved ones. Waves crashing to shore. Writing. Piano keys. A hug.
We are always home. Whether we anchor down or roam about. Whether we are vagabonds or wrap ourselves in a villa. Like turtles and snails, we carry home with us, on our backs, in our heads. Truth is the compass that points us there. Between perfect and now.  There truly is no place like it.
A while ago my best friend surprised me with a very thoughtful post about our country. I’ve been mulling it over in my head ever since. What if Belgium suddenly no longer existed? What would I be?
Though Bram and I have been contemplating getting the Australian nationality, it is only on the condition that we can also keep our Belgian one. If we had to choose between the two we would stay – and always will be – Belgian.
But lately I’ve felt nothing but shame. Â What does it say about us if my best friend cannot call her country home because her mixed race is met with equally mixed response? On our first evening in Wellington, Bram and I talked with our Somalian taxi driver about fleeing his country. His refugee status. His long wait for a new country to call home. And then more hardships as he tries to build a new life in New Zealand. His silence, when we said we were Belgian, spoke volumes. Of course I wasn’t the one who hurt his people. But my people did.
And then more recently, talking to our local Belgian baker. Both excited to be Belgians abroad sharing a connection. And in my enthusiasm I didn’t understand what he was trying to ask me, in Walloon. And he could not understand my Flemish.
Us Belgians are famous abroad for our language skills. But something else has been added to that list now: our new world record. The longest time taken to form a new government. It even has a Wikipedia entry. I bet if we had been told at the start that democracy would be so slow, nobody would have voted. But as life seemingly goes on, the ‘absurd’ becomes the ‘normal’. Â The old government continues to deal with the on-going tasks and nobody notices that science funds are drying up or new companies are no longer interested in investing in the future. Â And I have been guilty of total apathy myself. Who still understands Belgian politics? With only as many inhabitants as London’s metropolitan area, our country has at least 50 ministers (all of London only has one mayor). I know it’s only a simple comparison. But nobody can argue the political system has become so big it can no longer come to an agreement – remind anyone of parasites slowly killing it’s host? Brussels especially being at the center of the feeding frenzy.
But there are also times I am proud of my country. Â When Denis Mukwege’s work was recognized with the King Baudouin prize. When that said king died, and everyone in the country lined up to pay their respects at his funeral. When the whole country united to march for justice. Â Why can we not do this now and fight for our country and a more efficient government? I have to say I was in limbo for the longest time about Belgium. Did I care whether or not it split? It didn’t make sense surely, but what was it to me? I’ve never had a passion for politics. History, science, maths and music yes. Politics no.
Then yesterday one of our Australian friends gave me a present for our national day. Â Partly in jest I’m sure. Truth is, Australians go all out each year on January 26th. Australia Day. Â Barbecues galore. Parties. Waving the flag. I can’t remember ever having celebrated July 21st that way. I woke up last night and mulled over it a bit more. Then this morning I read the King’s speech. This is not a crisis. It is a cancer slowly killing a people. It would have been easier if there was an economic crisis. Then at least people would know what to protest.
As Aung San Suu Kyi said after she was freed in November: “The people themselves must want change enough for it to happen, it cannot be up to the politicians.” It’s always the people.
I have made up my mind. I will fight for Belgium. Personally that means more effort in reading Walloon newspapers again, instead of staying up-to-date with the Flemish ones. It means voting for whichever party says they will simplify the governing structure, because really that is what is killing us most now. It means defending our new cross-culturalism to my father, who like so many Belgians feels threatened by the influx of African and East European asylum seekers. It means going to talk in French to my baker again this weekend – I don’t care whether he speaks Flemish – and together lament the state of OUR country. Because to be honest, us Belgians are good at complaining. If this post hadn’t already convinced you 😉
Below something to lighten the mood, I can’t help but feel Dennis was getting to something important at 1’00 …
