Queuing with my work-lunch-sandwich at the counter of the
local supermarket, I’m browsing the “Summer-Bestsellers!”- rack next to
the chewing gum and mobile pre-paid cards. A title stands out amidst the cooking and fitness books : “l’étrange suicide de l’Europe”
(“the strange death of Europe”) . Another
WWI book? No, a current affairs book, apparently, about the transformation of
Europe through migration. Leafing through the book, reading some paragraphs here & there, depression and
guilt descend upon me. I read how my
generation of Europeans is “squandering the
only home we Europeans have”, how we are betraying the world that has been bequeathed
to us by our forebears. Here and now in the local supermarket in this
European neighbourhood of Brussels, however, the world still turns : the
supermarket staff of various descent is as friendly and efficient as ever, around
me the lively bustle of ambitious eurocrats, busy business people , excited tourists and giggling teenagers (all of various descents) belies any intimations
of an imminent death.
The early summerdays in Brussels are often filled with
summits – this year we had the European migration summit, the NATO summit, … Summit-time
means that streets are cordoned off and black limousines speed by, enveloped in a continuous buzz of police sirens
and flickering blue lights. One of those
barricaded hotels with VIP summit guests looks out over a square with a nice little
park where I like to take my lunch break walks.
The little park is quite a way off
from the North Station (“BXLS Calais”) where many migrants gather, hoping to
catch a clandestine ride en route for
the promised land (UK). Nevertheless, in
the little park, too, a few people have now taken up semi-permanent
residence. Each occupying separate
corners. One has built a temporary home with cardboard under a tree - he mostly
sleeps during the day. Another has chosen a bench - orderly stowing his possessions
beneath it in the morning - at noon he often sits there reading. In a single glance, a VIP guest standing at the
hotel window could take in the European parliament in the distance and, almost
under his or her nose, the park with its migrant residents.
4 comments:
Crushing reality indeed.
But we're still writing, and looking, and wondering.
Just like Bruegel in Brussels kept on painting.
and, luckily, Bruegel colloquiums (with excellent keynote speakers :-) ) continue to be organised!
Soms voelt men zich bijna moreel verplicht om elke dag zijn portie onheilspellend nieuws tot zich te nemen - maar wie heeft er wat aan als we vervolgens als verbijsterde konijnen blijven staren in het felle licht van de voortdurende gebeurtenissen & commentaren?
Volgende paragraaf trof mij in een geschiedenisboek over Europa (door Norman Davies, geschreven in de jaren negentig): "One of Mozart's greatest qualities, however, was to place himself above the passions of the world around him.[...]His music, though composed in the world, was not of it. Though he was highly travelled, having spent twenty years touring the courts of Europe, there is not the slightest trace of politics of his day"
Ja, dat is een citaat om over na te denken.
De laatste tijd voel ik me wel minder en minder verplicht om de dagelijkse dosis rampspoed in te nemen. Een trage bevrijding.
gewoon al de tijd en de energie die daardoor vrijkomen!
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