Writer's Retreat

Nose to the grindstone, pedal on the metal, pen to paper... Voila!

Throwback post: The Tunisian revolution in Brussels

15 January, 2011. The morning after the night before. Almost two thousand miles north of Tunis, the capital of Tunisia, bold expressions of solidarity are being made in support of the country’s people. Yesterday, the people succeeded in bringing down a president. Today, revolutionary fervour has erupted in Brussels.

A rowdy contingent is gathered outside Bourse, an historic symbol of Belgian capitalism. The old stock exchange and speaker’s corner is the scene of many a weekend protest. No point being at the Berlaymont when the Eurocrats are away for two days, probably off in their home countries or holed up in the suburbs. Bourse, behind Grand Place and at the heart of Brussels' tourist trade, is the perfect place to draw attention to your cause. And these demonstrators are here to be heard.

“One, Two, Three / Viva La Tunisie!” they intone in full-throated chorus, over and over again, about two hundred of them in unison. Their slogan may not be catchy but it’s powerful nonetheless and everyone on the busy shopping streets surrounding the popular landmark is stopping and taking notice.

***

This isn’t, strictly speaking, a protest. It’s a party. The people are here to celebrate the people’s uprising in their homeland, which has resulted in the downfall of Tunisia’s president of twenty-three years, Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali. They used to call him “Ben A Vie” meaning president for life, an ironic soubriquet for the man who claimed to have won three successive elections, each with over eighty per cent of the vote. Now they call him “Ben A Degagé”, Ben is out and they’re elated.

“I’m here because I’m happy,” beams Mohammed, a middle-aged father of three who’s come from the other side of town to be part of the action. “In the beginning I didn’t believe it, until now. I’m Tunisian and I’ve been in Belgium for thirty years. I saw some things on television that I didn’t like and I want to be here to say that we can be happy now. I hope for good things for Tunisia and Tunisians. Fiesta! Voila!”

The North African sun has finally set on one of the region’s most repressive dictators. After days of protests, the autocrat has been pushed out of power by a surprise revolt that started almost a month ago and gradually gathered pace. It began with the deed of one man who, reduced to selling fruit on the street because there was no other job for him, set fire to himself when he was forbidden from doing even that by police. This incident ignited a series of events that led to the first successful Arab world uprising in thirty-one years. And that is why we’re here.

***

The red and white of the Tunisian standard adds colour to the austere grey of the Bourse. Young men straddle the giant lion sculptures on either side of the imposing neo-classical building, erecting flags. Rodin had a hand in this place. Now they do too.

A large crowd on the steps below excitedly pump placards high in to the air. The Tunisian flags fly alongside Algerian ones, the old enemies united in optimism, and there’s the odd Moroccan one thrown in for good measure. Banners expressing solidarity with the Ivory Coast are waved zealously beside Che Guevara motifs. The local socialists have also infiltrated the party, handing out leaflets proclaiming the imminent fall of capitalism. Revolution is in the air.

***

If this is supposed to be a party it doesn’t feel like it. Emotions are high yet, amid the jubilation, there’s a bristling tension. “Saudi government, shame on you! Fuck you and your oil. Bastards!” spits one man, aggressively jabbing his finger in the air. Along with their relief at Ben Ali’s exit, there’s resentment as to why they’ve had to endure years of despotic rule while the West stood idly by as the situation in Tunisia was allowed to deteriorate.

“L’Europe etait complice du dictateur,” reads a sign and its bearer is in no doubt as to who’s to blame for Tunisia’s agony. The man with the condemnatory placard is fulminating against the European and American governments: Ben Ali is guilty of murder, repression and corruption, he says, and the West is guilty of turning a blind eye to it. His invective is so boisterously impassioned that people begin to move away from him, creating a space for his imaginary soapbox as he expounds his theory using every part of his body. He charges the West with being complicit in the suffering of the Tunisian people for their own gain. It’s the same story, just a different state.

***

Because of Ben Ali’s support to the West as a bulwark against Islamic extremism, and his cosy relationship with various European leaders, his heavy-handed rule has long been tolerated. France, Tunisia’s former colonial power, even threatened to send troops to Tunis to help restore order. For the West, it’s been a case of better the devil you know. Not so for the Tunisian people, who’ve been sacrificed in the process, considered collateral damage in the war against terror, like the innocent Pakistanis killed while they slept in drone attacks or the Afghan civilians cut down on the street by misguided bombs.

“Memoir a nos martyrs de la liberté”. Those who have died, like Muhammad Bouazizi, the self-immolator, and the dozens of others killed in the days of rioting, are considered freedom fighters here. Their deeds have made them martyrs. “Power to the people”. “Ben Ali doit payer pour ses crimes”. “Arretez le massacre”. “Dignité, egalitié, paix pour la Tunisie”. The demands, declarations and accusations by way of banners and placards keep on coming. They’re written in French, Dutch, Arabic and English. This is, after all, an officially bilingual, international city, the capital of Europe, and they feel - they hope - that Europe, if not the world is watching. But, whatever the language, the message is the same: We’ve suffered enough. This is our time. Carpe diem.

***

Like their compatriots in Tunis and other towns and cities around Tunisia, most of those here celebrating are young men in their twenties, some Belgian-born-and-raised, others more recent arrivals. There are also a decent number of women and older people in the throng, whole families - fathers lift small children on their shoulders so they too can bear witness - as well as non-Tunisians of various backgrounds. They’ve all come to share in the moment, to watch history in the making.

“I live here in Belgium,” says Ali, a man in his late thirties, in strained but perfect English. “Unfortunately.”

He’s holding aloft a double-sided placard which reads: I call all Arab nations to get rid of their dictators on one side and Yes We Can Too on the other. Both sides declare: I’m proud and Tunisian so that no one is in any doubt. 

“Why unfortunately?” I ask.

“Because I wanted to be there,” he says. “This is my way of expressing solidarity.” And without missing a beat he insists: “And I’m ready to die for it.”

When someone looks you in the eye and tells you with complete conviction that they're ready to die for their country, you don’t flinch, so unnerved are you by their devotion. There are a million questions you want to ask but none make themselves available. You begin to see the person in a different light. All of a sudden, he becomes more real, not just another stranger but an actual human being with a past and a present. His future becomes questionable. He becomes vulnerable. So do you. You realise that he could be your brother or your cousin and you feel protective of him. You empathise with his wanting to be at home and yet having to be far from it, desperate to play a part in shaping his country's future. You feel it about Britain, in the wake of some of the severest cuts that the country has experienced in a generation, and I feel it about Ghana, always.

“I want to talk to the people of the Arab world because the Arab leaders are all stupid and dictators,” Ali says. “I want them to have a revolution and show all the leaders that we are stronger than them.”

There’s something completely sincere about Ali, and something wholly naive. He looks an anguished man. His lips speak of revolt and his eyes convey suffering. Though this is the first time I’ve met him, and it will probably be the last, he begins to mean something to me. Something in him reflects something in me. I feel I know his struggle. I identify with his frustration. Maybe it’s the Africa connection.

My mind wanders back to what it must have been like in Africa at the dawn of independence, when sweeping change was on the horizon and the anticipation was so high it was electric. There was no knowing what the future would bring but that was half the excitement, the unfolding of events. It makes you think about the cost of freedom and those willing to pay its price. Perhaps you would give your life for your family or even a good friend but for the men and women you don't know, many of whom are yet to be born? These are the revolutionaries, the sacrificial lambs. It’s in their hands that the future lies.

Most of the protestors know that, while they’ve come to the end of a long battle, they’re just at the beginning of another, one of uncertainty but not fear because this time, at least,  they’re in control of their own destiny. “Ben Ali has been the “president” of Tunisia but actually he’s a dictator and he’s been oppressing people for over three decades and now finally he’s gone,” says Ben, a twenty-year-old Belgian-born Tunisian while hastily handing me a sign to wave. “But we don’t know what’s going to happen next,” he admits. “The most important thing is that he’s gone.” He pauses briefly to think about what he’s said and, with more than a hint of caution, adds on reflection, “For now.”

And that’s all they have – “for now”. How long is now only time will tell. For the moment, there’s unbridled happiness that will soon be tempered by cautious optimism. But that, like all killjoys, can wait until the morning.

Reading is the best teacher

In my quest to become a serious writer, I’ve discovered somewhat late in life what every serious writer knew practically from birth - that reading is the best teacher. 

• Read out of your comfort zone. 
• Read omnivorously. 
• Read voraciously. 
• Read the classics. 
• Read the modern classics. 
• Read fiction.
• Read non-fiction. 
• Read poetry and plays.
• Read science and philosophy, anthropology and sociology.
• Listen to the written word.

The poet, Nikki Giovanni recently said that the US education system needs a rethink:

I’m really just so against grades. …We now are in a fight for grades which means that … a kid like me today would not take a class in physics because I would not do well and it would bother my GPA. That’s crazy. …I’m a poet, I should be taking physics, I should be taking astronomy,… chemistry for sure.  I should be taking things that I know I can’t get an A in but that will enhance my learning.  So if we can move ahead into the 21^st or actually 22^nd Century and say okay, grades are going to be different. [Source]

This is true. Education should be wide-ranging and holistic. Children should be encouraged to learn for the sake of expanding their store of knowledge and opening their eyes to the world rather than learning by rote with the aim of passing exams. 

In a culture where the practice of reading comes second to video games, television and the internet, statistics show that many children no longer own books let alone read them. Which is why libraries remain an absolute essential, a non-negotiable part of our cultural offer. Libraries are a lifeline for those who can't afford to spend £20 on  new release, or wouldn't otherwise be inclined to do so.


I've just ordered this:

It may be in danger of preaching to the converted but we all, even the bibliophiles amongst us, need a reminder that there's no substitute for the practice and simple pleasure of opening a book and becoming lost in its words/worlds.

Writing tips from Christopher Isherwood

Please bear with me while I continue to indulge my Isherwood obsession... Having read and re-read the Berlin Stories (Mr Norris Changes Trains and Goodbye to Berlin) and Christopher & His Kind here, condensed, are some words of wisdom regarding the practice of writing as gleaned from Isherwood himself:

• Be honest
• Write from experience
• Write from the heart
• Expose yourself / lay yourself bare on the page
• Feel the fear and do it anyway
• Use real characters as the basis for fictional ones
• Take a brain dump – shame yourself and give yourself something to work with
• Write in public
• Take inspiration from the everyday practice of life
• Make the mundane interesting, make the interesting mundane
• Revel in the company of other writers

More to come on a new subsite soon.

The Helped

Last night I went to see the much buzzed about movie, The Help with great reluctance. The film is based on the best-selling book by Kathryn Stockett, which was a literary phenomenon when it was published in 2009. It tells the story of a young white woman, Skeeter, who sets out to document the stories of black maids working in white homes in Jackson, Tennessee. The purpose is to expose the hypocrisy of how atrociously they’re treated.

Sure enough, within the first five minutes, every fear I had about the film was confirmed in the opening scenes. And throughout, every stereotype about black people was put on view - from fried-chicken eating, fat mammies to physically abusive husbands and impoverished wives with multiple children.

There were, however, some redeeming features. The relationship between the boisterous maid, Minny and Celia, the ‘white trash’ outcast, was endearing if not an obvious narrative device designed to once again reinforce the mammy stereotype and the bond between two undesirables who find their strength in their friendship based on exile. There was also the relationship between Skeeter and her mother and Aibileen and the child she was employed to look after, a parallel that tied the threads of a multi-layered story. The Help was helped by its excellent ensemble cast, which included stellar cameos from Sissy Spacek and the almost unrecognisable Cicely Tyson. Which leads me to another point…

The film should really have been called The Helped. That would have been a more appropriate title since it wasn’t so much about The Help as those they Helped, those who were the perpetrators rather than those who were perpetrated against. How much did we really learn about Aibileen, Minny and Yule-May in comparison to what we knew and were made to feel about Skeeter, Hilly and Celia? What we learnt is that stereotypes persist in the movies and to present anything different would be a challenge too far, taking the audience out of its established narrative comfort zone. Was it a surprise that, at the end of the screening, the audience broke in to spontaneous applause? Why? Because they got what they came to see. They left redeemed and restored, with their consciences intact knowing that they were good guys, really, despite it all. They will overcome someday and, thanks to the movie, they have.

This new, proposed title also adequately covers those that the film was aimed at – white women. The Help is essentially a chick flick. I’m still unclear about what the merit and purpose of the film ultimately is? Can anyone offer any Help?

Following in the footsteps of Christopher Isherwood

22 rue Adolphe Max, Brussels: sometime home of Christopher Isherwood

The photo above is of 22 rue Adolphe Max in the centre of Brussels. Nothing distinctive about that, you might think, except if it was in England it would certainly be graced with a blue plaque in honour of its one-time inhabitant. The late, great British writer Christopher Isherwood briefly lived here in 1932. Isherwood is probably best known for the adaptations of his beautifully written novella, Sally Bowles, which became Cabaret on film, starring Liza Minelli and a successful Broadway production, starring Julie Harris. Recently, the Oscar-nominated film adaptation of A Single Man, starring Colin Firth in Tom Ford’s directorial debut, brought Isherwood’s work back into the spotlight.

Having recently read Isherwood’s Berlin Stories - the subtly sinister Mr Norris Changes Trains and the surreally evocative Goodbye to Berlin - I am officially in thrall to his genius. A master of prose, his delicate re-creation of character and events makes the reader feel as if they, too, have lived his life and been a party to his times. This feeling of intimacy is further enhanced on reading Christopher and his kind, Isherwood’s autobiography of his Berlin years, from 1929 to 1939. Against the encroaching political backdrop of Nazism, and in the final days of the Weimar Republic, Isherwood captures a period of decadence and impending, unstoppable loss. Rather than joining any of the political movements that were prevalent at the time (although he flirted with Communism, he was never really committed), Isherwood contributed to the cause and halted time the best way he could - by documenting it in his inimitable, timeless style.

An honest, unselfish writer, Isherwood gives us an insight into how he used the people and events of his life by explaining the fictionalisation of his novels in Christopher and his kind. The sections that explain his creative and literary process are invaluable to the novice who, like me, is struggling with the indistinct line between truth and fiction. The struggle continues but, thanks to Isherwood, the line is a little bit clearer.