As a Brit, and in spite of a little Brexaustion, I hold a certain romanticised view of central Europe. I know I am not alone. It is, I am sure, a place of high culture, animated coffee shop conversations, and romantic walks through cobbled streets. The sun is always warm, and life plays out at a more relaxed pace than here in Britain – as three flags flying in Brussels’ Grand Place confirmed for me, it is a place to ‘love’, ‘live’, and ‘unite’.
As they muscled towards us, in mixed Islamic dress, liberally spitting at our feet, we struggled to respond
With a weekend to kill in Brussels, I did what any single gay man would: I downloaded the apps and arranged a date. Perhaps it was the magic of the city, a beautifully relaxed metropolis, or the breezy beauty of the botanical gardens, where we had met, but things went well. Emerging from the gardens, I revelled in my own little European romance – all things were possible, I knew, and the sun was shining. And then, as we emerged from the park, carefree and hand-in-hand, we were assaulted.
To someone who has never experienced it, it is impossible to describe the bewildering emotions of a confrontation like this. First there is the confusion, tinged with a little disbelief – one forgets that this is a thing that happens, and even the reasoning that underpins the aggression feels alien. There’s then the gut-wrenching awareness that you are in danger, along with an instinct to protect the boy holding your hand. You count the numbers, in our case six versus two, and vainly search for a way to diffuse that incomprehensible aggression. If you’re lucky, you back away, ashamed of your timidity, but knowing in that moment that there is no other option. We were lucky to get away unharmed, but we struggled with the experience for days afterwards.
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Our crime? Their French was broken, but, when hate is shouted loudly enough, language ceases to be a barrier. There were children in the park, our behaviour was both disgusting and immoral, and we must leave immediately. As they muscled towards us, in mixed Islamic religious dress, liberally spitting at our feet, we struggled to respond. Raising our hands, and with a show of contrition, we retreated. Thankfully, they followed us only half way down the road. Now walking quite distinctly apart, the streets took on a different aspect. Searching for safety, we walked for three blocks before we again found a street that looked like Brussels.
As we looked for safety, I felt in my gut what is often said in the abstract and which had felt abstract until that moment: that a way of life, and its values, are under direct threat. It feels very much more real when your own liberties are being forcefully curtailed under the direct threat of violence.
Over the next few days I shared my story with everyone from local politicians to barmen. Their faces showed the same weary resignation. They were sorry to hear that it happened, but not surprised. ‘That part of the city isn’t safe after dark, anymore,’ said one. ‘It happens all the time’, I was told.
The accusation of immorality is the one that lingers; it’s novel by the standards of good old-fashioned British homophobia. Call me a ‘fag’, if you like, but ‘immoral’ feels altogether more insidious.
A deep-rooted sense of moral superiority is hard to shift – and yet that is what the chimeric ‘integration’ would require. Could I have convinced those boys that embracing my immorality would be a virtue?
Could I have convinced those boys that embracing my immorality would be a virtue?
Viewed through their limited – in scope, but not in conviction – moral lens, Western permissiveness isn’t something to emulate: it’s something to denigrate. We are all immoral.
All this can pull us very easily towards a feeling that integration is failing, and that the landscapes of our cities and of our lives are being rewritten around us. Indeed, perhaps that freedom of expression, easy equality, and the ability to live openly that I grew up taking for granted, are no longer guaranteed. I feel that current now, and the sense of acute disillusionment that it brings, because it confronted me in Brussels.
What hit me most strongly that day is that the threat doesn’t feel real until it’s you being threatened – until it’s your liberties and your safety at risk. Those protesting today across the UK and Europe, against failures in social integration, are beginning to resort to violence, out of a frustration and anger that they are being ignored. Perhaps though, they are just the first to feel as I did in that moment, because it is their communities that are being confronted with those failures.
Whether it’s your street that’s no longer safe after dark, or you that’s accused of moral indecency and forced from the streets of Europe’s capital, one thing becomes disorientatingly and confrontingly clear: something must be done.
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