It is time to write about manifs, again.
For the past five days, there's been a helicopter humming over my apartment here in Ixelles. It's been pretty annoying, and I've been wondering why it insists on staying over Flagey. Since it's Christmas, and since I'm profoundly obsessed by European Christmas markets, I assumed it was covering preparations for the Flagey Christmas market, which happened this weekend.
At the same time, I've been reading about the elections in Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), which took place last week. The elections were the second since DRC was established after the fall of Mobutu and since Zaire became DRC. I'd been receiving flyers since mid-November advertising and campaigning for Tshsedeki, the opposition candidate and the most viable competition for Kabila, the current president. I found it charming (and fascinating) that my Congolese neighbors in Matonge were handing out flyers for their pre-election manifs and distributing fact sheets about candidates to the white students wandering down their street; clearly we couldn't vote and knew little about the election, but they wanted their voice to be heard.
I took the flyers, read them, and folded them nicely in a stack of research on Congo, thinking nothing more of the interactions.
Last week, I started hearing reports from the RMCA's monitoring team, which had gone to Kinshasa to monitor the election procedure in DRC's capitol. Things were, unsurprisingly, not going well; there had already been multiple accusations of election fraud, several injuries from violent clashes between protestors and Kabila's guards, and a sinking realization that, whether he deserved to or not, Kabila would be reelected. The reports from the RMCA team and in the news worsened as the week went on. My hopes of going to consult archives and interview elderly Congolese about their experiences in the Belgian colony were dashed; and what was worse, things didn't look good for Kinshasa at all.
This Friday, some friends and I went to a movie in Bozar, the pretty little independent cinema in the whitewashed neobaroque world that is Leo II's Mont des Arts. To get there, we walked up Chausee d'Ixelles, a broad street filled with H and M's, C et A's, sports equipment stores, oversized banks, and one three-story Leonidas outlet. Normally the Chausee is bustling around 8 pm, full of shoppers struggling with bags, working sorts headed out for cocktails, pairs of young expats awkwardly venturing on first dates, and bands of students passing extra-large cans of Jupiler back and forth. Friday, however, it was almost silent. A few people walked purposefully. Most stores had turned off their lights.
We hypothesized that perhaps all the Christmas lights on the Chausee (Belgians love Christmas lights, and string their streets with them) had blown a power fuse.
By the time we saw the abstract metal claws of the sculpture at Porte de Namur, however, we realized that this was no festive power outage. Storefronts were singed; the streets were fluffy with bizarre white foam; the huge ING bank glowed an eerie blue. Police with the round clear riot shields I'd seen at Steenerkozzel stood shoulder-to-shoulder across the Chausee. Behind them, huge white police wagons rolled slowly. Rows upon rows of silhouetted heads moved inside. I turned, and saw a sign; I didn't pick it up to read it but saw the word "KABILA" scrawled in angry red.
That's when I realized that the helicopter, the news articles, and the RMCA reports had come home, to my home, to Porte de Namur and the Chausee and pretty little Ixelles. We asked the police what was going on; they mumbled something about "sans papiers" (illegal immigrants) and told us to go around the long way to get to Bozar. We did, and saw car upon car with smashed rearview mirrors, countless shattered bottles, and more of the weird foam that looks like Christmas tree flocking but definitely isn't.
I later learned that Matonge, the Congolese quarter not far from my house, has been in uproar since Wednesday. The Congolese who so hopefully handed out pamphlets on Tshisedeki are now angry; they want Belgium to divest from Congo, to refuse to recognize the new Kabila government; to send Belgian soldiers to oust a man they see as dishonest, fraudulent, and directly responsible for many of the horrors that have gone on in eastern Congo for the past half-decade (not to mention the almost complete lack of infrastructure that persists in his big, wealthy, profoundly underdeveloped country). They are bitter at a country that they believe (and somewhat rightfully so) colonized, reorganized, brutalized, and abandoned them; they are frustrated that the Belgians (and the Americans; they protested at the US embassy, prompting the US to respond with reinforced concrete barriers and a few razor wire barricades. American hospitality at its finest) seem largely unconcerned with the election results and are doing little or nothing to prevent Kabila from remaining in power.
I've admired these protestors; have agreed with them (I would like to see Kablia gone, and potentially extradited to the Hague for war crimes); have wanted, like them, to see a new president and maybe (tho doubtfully) a new era for DRC. It wasn't until today, however, that I realized that ideological solidarity is not enough. Today, I walked home from a conference about the ethics of neurological enhancement down Chausee d'Ixelles. The tinsel-covered shops were glowing blue again from the lights of the police cars lined up. (This, I suppose, means it's currently a blue Christmas in Ixelles.) A small group of Congolese protestors were standing around a little bonfire they'd made near the metro station; they were singing, banging on some drums (or trashcans?) they brought, and periodically throwing something that popped like a gunshot into the fire. Curious, I watched them, hiding in the shadow of the metro station. Fascinated by their song, which had something to do with Kabila, I took out my iTouch, hoping to record it so I could figure out the lyrics once I got home. One of the singers looked over and saw the quiet glow; he walked over to me and said none too politely "Why are you filming this?" I responded that I actually hadn't started filming, and that I was curious; I wanted to know what the lyrics of the song were. "No," he said, "you don't, you will use it to hurt us." No, I reassured him, I wouldn't; I was a student, and not even Belgian (couldn't he hear my American accent? I asked smilingly), and was doing research on Congo. I wouldn't film him, I reassured him, putting the iTouch back; but could I watch to learn more?
No. He promptly informed that the Congolese didn't need any more whites researching their country, adding that Americans were as bad as Belgians, and that the proper place for me was across the street by the H and M. He wasn't violent or even hostile, but he wasn't exactly polite, either. Sheepish, I retreated across the street, watched for a bit more, and walked home. I felt a bit stupid about the interaction, and a bit resentful of his gloves-off handling of the situation. As I kept walking, however, I realized that deep down part of me agrees with him. I don't know that we need more YouTube videos of the manifs (they're easy to find); I don't know that we need more scandalous photos of burning cars showing up in Le Soir (Brussels' biggest newspaper); I don't know that we need more broadcasts of violence in Kinshasa. All it does is reinforce our stereotypes: those Africans, they can't be peaceable, they can't get democracy right, they can't protest the right way, they just become violent and irrational and messy and rude to student researchers.
The reality, of course, is much messier. In Kinshasa, people are protesting out of hunger as much as out of anger. In Matonge, they are advocating for families that could easily die of post-election violence or starvation. Both groups protest violently because they've tried the democratic option (voting) and they've tried the diplomatic option (contacting diplomacies) and gotten no response. They know that they'll be a side show until something dramatic happens; and they know they need something dramatic to happen if their country is ever going to improve from its close-to-or-actually-last-place spot on world development and democracy indices. The protestors in Matonge are brave souls; many of them are sans papiers themselves, which means that if arrested they are not only jailed for a few nights but quite possibly deported back to a country in turmoil. And they're out there anyway.
I was going to write something about how context matters and is vital, but I think I'll just say this. There's more to any story- whether a helicopter over your house, white flocking on your street, or riots on Porte de Namur- than meets the eye. And no one's going to understand any story beyond the stereotypes they already have if they don't make the intellectual (and, sometimes, actual) leap into others' shoes. That's one of the most beautiful things about Christmas and the Christmas story: it's fundamentally a story about radically seeing life from another perspective, about giving up power, position, and privilege in order to fundamentally change one's perspective, about expanding one's capacity to advocate and care by quite literally seeing life through others' eyes.
That's the goal, anyway. For now, I'll be watching the Matonge protestors from the other side of the street.
For the past five days, there's been a helicopter humming over my apartment here in Ixelles. It's been pretty annoying, and I've been wondering why it insists on staying over Flagey. Since it's Christmas, and since I'm profoundly obsessed by European Christmas markets, I assumed it was covering preparations for the Flagey Christmas market, which happened this weekend.
At the same time, I've been reading about the elections in Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), which took place last week. The elections were the second since DRC was established after the fall of Mobutu and since Zaire became DRC. I'd been receiving flyers since mid-November advertising and campaigning for Tshsedeki, the opposition candidate and the most viable competition for Kabila, the current president. I found it charming (and fascinating) that my Congolese neighbors in Matonge were handing out flyers for their pre-election manifs and distributing fact sheets about candidates to the white students wandering down their street; clearly we couldn't vote and knew little about the election, but they wanted their voice to be heard.
I took the flyers, read them, and folded them nicely in a stack of research on Congo, thinking nothing more of the interactions.
Last week, I started hearing reports from the RMCA's monitoring team, which had gone to Kinshasa to monitor the election procedure in DRC's capitol. Things were, unsurprisingly, not going well; there had already been multiple accusations of election fraud, several injuries from violent clashes between protestors and Kabila's guards, and a sinking realization that, whether he deserved to or not, Kabila would be reelected. The reports from the RMCA team and in the news worsened as the week went on. My hopes of going to consult archives and interview elderly Congolese about their experiences in the Belgian colony were dashed; and what was worse, things didn't look good for Kinshasa at all.
This Friday, some friends and I went to a movie in Bozar, the pretty little independent cinema in the whitewashed neobaroque world that is Leo II's Mont des Arts. To get there, we walked up Chausee d'Ixelles, a broad street filled with H and M's, C et A's, sports equipment stores, oversized banks, and one three-story Leonidas outlet. Normally the Chausee is bustling around 8 pm, full of shoppers struggling with bags, working sorts headed out for cocktails, pairs of young expats awkwardly venturing on first dates, and bands of students passing extra-large cans of Jupiler back and forth. Friday, however, it was almost silent. A few people walked purposefully. Most stores had turned off their lights.
We hypothesized that perhaps all the Christmas lights on the Chausee (Belgians love Christmas lights, and string their streets with them) had blown a power fuse.
By the time we saw the abstract metal claws of the sculpture at Porte de Namur, however, we realized that this was no festive power outage. Storefronts were singed; the streets were fluffy with bizarre white foam; the huge ING bank glowed an eerie blue. Police with the round clear riot shields I'd seen at Steenerkozzel stood shoulder-to-shoulder across the Chausee. Behind them, huge white police wagons rolled slowly. Rows upon rows of silhouetted heads moved inside. I turned, and saw a sign; I didn't pick it up to read it but saw the word "KABILA" scrawled in angry red.
That's when I realized that the helicopter, the news articles, and the RMCA reports had come home, to my home, to Porte de Namur and the Chausee and pretty little Ixelles. We asked the police what was going on; they mumbled something about "sans papiers" (illegal immigrants) and told us to go around the long way to get to Bozar. We did, and saw car upon car with smashed rearview mirrors, countless shattered bottles, and more of the weird foam that looks like Christmas tree flocking but definitely isn't.
I later learned that Matonge, the Congolese quarter not far from my house, has been in uproar since Wednesday. The Congolese who so hopefully handed out pamphlets on Tshisedeki are now angry; they want Belgium to divest from Congo, to refuse to recognize the new Kabila government; to send Belgian soldiers to oust a man they see as dishonest, fraudulent, and directly responsible for many of the horrors that have gone on in eastern Congo for the past half-decade (not to mention the almost complete lack of infrastructure that persists in his big, wealthy, profoundly underdeveloped country). They are bitter at a country that they believe (and somewhat rightfully so) colonized, reorganized, brutalized, and abandoned them; they are frustrated that the Belgians (and the Americans; they protested at the US embassy, prompting the US to respond with reinforced concrete barriers and a few razor wire barricades. American hospitality at its finest) seem largely unconcerned with the election results and are doing little or nothing to prevent Kabila from remaining in power.
I've admired these protestors; have agreed with them (I would like to see Kablia gone, and potentially extradited to the Hague for war crimes); have wanted, like them, to see a new president and maybe (tho doubtfully) a new era for DRC. It wasn't until today, however, that I realized that ideological solidarity is not enough. Today, I walked home from a conference about the ethics of neurological enhancement down Chausee d'Ixelles. The tinsel-covered shops were glowing blue again from the lights of the police cars lined up. (This, I suppose, means it's currently a blue Christmas in Ixelles.) A small group of Congolese protestors were standing around a little bonfire they'd made near the metro station; they were singing, banging on some drums (or trashcans?) they brought, and periodically throwing something that popped like a gunshot into the fire. Curious, I watched them, hiding in the shadow of the metro station. Fascinated by their song, which had something to do with Kabila, I took out my iTouch, hoping to record it so I could figure out the lyrics once I got home. One of the singers looked over and saw the quiet glow; he walked over to me and said none too politely "Why are you filming this?" I responded that I actually hadn't started filming, and that I was curious; I wanted to know what the lyrics of the song were. "No," he said, "you don't, you will use it to hurt us." No, I reassured him, I wouldn't; I was a student, and not even Belgian (couldn't he hear my American accent? I asked smilingly), and was doing research on Congo. I wouldn't film him, I reassured him, putting the iTouch back; but could I watch to learn more?
No. He promptly informed that the Congolese didn't need any more whites researching their country, adding that Americans were as bad as Belgians, and that the proper place for me was across the street by the H and M. He wasn't violent or even hostile, but he wasn't exactly polite, either. Sheepish, I retreated across the street, watched for a bit more, and walked home. I felt a bit stupid about the interaction, and a bit resentful of his gloves-off handling of the situation. As I kept walking, however, I realized that deep down part of me agrees with him. I don't know that we need more YouTube videos of the manifs (they're easy to find); I don't know that we need more scandalous photos of burning cars showing up in Le Soir (Brussels' biggest newspaper); I don't know that we need more broadcasts of violence in Kinshasa. All it does is reinforce our stereotypes: those Africans, they can't be peaceable, they can't get democracy right, they can't protest the right way, they just become violent and irrational and messy and rude to student researchers.
The reality, of course, is much messier. In Kinshasa, people are protesting out of hunger as much as out of anger. In Matonge, they are advocating for families that could easily die of post-election violence or starvation. Both groups protest violently because they've tried the democratic option (voting) and they've tried the diplomatic option (contacting diplomacies) and gotten no response. They know that they'll be a side show until something dramatic happens; and they know they need something dramatic to happen if their country is ever going to improve from its close-to-or-actually-last-place spot on world development and democracy indices. The protestors in Matonge are brave souls; many of them are sans papiers themselves, which means that if arrested they are not only jailed for a few nights but quite possibly deported back to a country in turmoil. And they're out there anyway.
I was going to write something about how context matters and is vital, but I think I'll just say this. There's more to any story- whether a helicopter over your house, white flocking on your street, or riots on Porte de Namur- than meets the eye. And no one's going to understand any story beyond the stereotypes they already have if they don't make the intellectual (and, sometimes, actual) leap into others' shoes. That's one of the most beautiful things about Christmas and the Christmas story: it's fundamentally a story about radically seeing life from another perspective, about giving up power, position, and privilege in order to fundamentally change one's perspective, about expanding one's capacity to advocate and care by quite literally seeing life through others' eyes.
That's the goal, anyway. For now, I'll be watching the Matonge protestors from the other side of the street.
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