On Race, Washing Machines, and Being a St Martiner
As I am writing this I am sitting in a Laundromat in the northern Belgian city of Antwerp. I have just put in two weeks worth of clothes in the washing machine after scraping together three euros to afford paying for the wash. In the corner to the far left three Belgian ladies, about forty or fifty years old (when they reach that critical age it becomes difficult to tell how old they really are) are watching me as if have I just stepped out of a spaceship clad in a shiny space suit the color of an American quarter. They probably are amazed because A: I have just finished reading a Belgian newspaper so apparently this foreigner can not only read Flemish but is actually interested in what is happening in this country and B: I am now writing in a notebook so apparently this foreigner not only can read but (gasp) can also write.
It may not seem amazing that I have just put two weeks worth of clothes in the machine unless one comes to realize that I have actually been here for two months. I can see some of you cringing; “yuck da young man been wearing de same draws for alla da time!” And some may ask themselves what in gods name am I doing in (gasp) Belgium and what on earth does that have to do with St. Martin(ers)?
Well, the reason I am here is because I am waiting on my papers (the generic island term for passport, ID card etc.). Simple as that. I am waiting on my papers for almost eight weeks. One and a half months ago I registered myself as a Belgian (because after all my father is one so by birth so am I and I would like to vote for the European parliament next year) and I am still waiting to get my passport and ID Card and the reason this is important for St Martin(ers) is that without an ID Card I am nothing in this country; I can’t open a bank account, I can’t go to the gym, I can’t do anything without having an ID. Right now I am a foreigner; a low down, good for nothing foreigner hoping on social welfare to buy a can of sardines to eat for dinner. I am 24 years old and four months ago partied until the sun came up because I graduated from an American university. I wasn’t happy because I accomplished something great and because I made myself and my family proud. I celebrated because I could finally leave a country in which I meant nothing. I wasn’t even allowed to rent a DVD in Blockbuster because I wasn’t a US citizen. And now, months later with a degree in my hand I cannot wait to escape a city where I spent a great deal of my childhood and where in all likelihood I will pursue my post graduate degree.
Antwerp is often called the hope of extreme right in Europe, and for a moment it seemed as if it would be one of the first major European cities to have an extreme right wing mayor. Thank goodness a mayor was reelected two weeks ago that has ambitions to eradicate extreme right, racism, and prejudice in the city. I feel the city now breathing easy, yet I still sit on a tram and feel people staring at me, angry that I am not white and that I speak English on the telephone when I get a call from home.
Throughout the mayoral campaigns I used to listen to the racist candidates and be amazed that this type of polemic, which one hoped would have gone out of style with the end of Hitler and the Nazis, was being propagated again and again. I heard slogans such as “the Flemish for the Flemish! Our own people first! Immigrants get out! A pure race for Flanders!” I was appalled and scared, as I am sure you would agree I had all right to be.
Sadly, this morning, before I went to do my laundry, I read the opinion section of a local St. Martin newspaper in an internet cafe. I was dismayed, crushed, hurt. I read between the lines; “ St. Martin for St Martiners! Our own people first! Non belongers get out! I cried tears for an island that is so confused, and so out of touch with its own situation and identity that it turns fear and anxiety into discrimination and xenophobia. I read how people who I know from young who know only St. Martin, who would die for St. Martin, were being labeled as non belongers, foreigners, and who knows what else.
What has happened? Is there really a tidal wave of evil, grimacing immigrants on the island, waiting to rape and ravage and steal and plunder. Or is the situation a product of our own doing. Are our jails full of ‘foreigners’ or is it packed with disillusioned local youngsters who have been let down by society and cannot channel their frustration into work or art or whatever would advance our culture. Is our island being ruled by people who don’t care or don’t we, us so-called St. Martiners, care. It is impossible for a people to be respected by immigrants, who are present in any economically prosperous society, if said people don’t have respect for themselves. Are we to blame for starting a trend in which our land and our heritage have been pimped off to the highest bidder? For many years St. Martin has had more respect for the dollar than for its own culture, and now because we are confronted with this in our own faces by people who don’t care about this island and just mimic our own actions we get upset. And we get even more upset when people, who may have been from somewhere else but have invested their hearts and souls in this island, stand up and speak out louder for this island than any ‘Local’ ever has.
Define local by the way. My last name is BERVOETS. Many of you probably will be saying; “Da foreigner come here an tell we how we have to run we country!” My father came here when he met my ST MARTIN mother (those of you who know me, know my St Martin heritage) who was studying in Belgium and who everyday was confronted with racism as she struggled to get her education in that country. My father came here with my mother and taught drama at local schools; he became head of the Cultural Center, organized a theater company with local children, was the only white man on the French Quarter football team (in fact I think he was the only white man in French Quarter at that time) and became a religious Guavaberry drinker. When I talk to him now all he mentions is the island; its green hills, beautiful and intelligent people, blue water, and burgundy Guavaberry. Yet some people would say; “No not he, he is a non -Belonger an he jus use dis island to get some sun an get a chile with a local gyul!”
Another example: My closest friends on the island are a family that lives in Guana Bay. The husband is of Mexican heritage and his wife is Dutch. There are few people on this island who deserve the label of ‘St Martiner’ more than them. The husband has shown me more things about my own island and subsequently about myself than any ‘local’ ever will, and both work effortlessly and selflessly to preserve the few specks of natural beauty still connected to this island. But again many will say; “but dey ain from here!”
But who is from here actually. The Caribbean has traditionally been a place of immigrants and migrants. The Amerindians arrived here in their canoes and were snuffed out by the Spanish and later the rest of Europe who arrived here in their boats. Africans arrived in those same boats in a terrible way, and were later followed by Indians and Chinese and the Polish and Greenlanders and many others from the four corners of the globe. What defines a local though. Not me I don’t think. Though my mother’s ancestors arrived here by boat some three hundred years ago that Guavaberry drinking French Quarter Belgian just messed it up for me so I don’t think I qualify, though I was born in Marigot, went to school in Town and South Reward, live in Ebenezer, did a government internship, and love to listen to Soca.
But are you from here? “My mother from Aruba, St Kitts, Guadeloupe, Holland, the States, Statia, Nevis, Curacao”. “My father from Dominica, Jamaica, Trinidad, Haiti, Santo Domingo.” By the way; many of our great and great great grandfathers were able to build their houses and provide for their families because the Dominican Republic allowed them to work and settle in San Pedro de Macoris. St Martiners worked on Dominican soil and sent their wages back to their families. Sound familiar? So when someone from up the islands does the jobs ‘locals’ don’t want to do anyway and sends money to their families, do we have the right to scoff at them?
Granted: the island is small. But we should not label ourselves as small minded. St Martin markets itself as a cosmopolitan destination. St. Martiners, and I am talking about belongers and non belongers (whatever that may mean) have the duty to respect themselves and appreciate their own culture before they can comment on the way people respect them. For too long it has been in our culture to let people knock down slave walls and build housing projects on plantations. For too long it has become a given to destroy the Pond and the Lagoon and to build houses in Cay Bay which most people know locals can’t afford. For too long we have worked in foreign owned hotels as beach boys and bartenders instead of managers. If anyone would come to a place like this they would act in the same disrespectful manner because the people who belong there act as nonchalantly as them. We have never used commonsense to build the things a society needs to function, such as a good immigration policy and cultural awareness and activities which would make immigrants and visitors aware that the island they are on is unique. Instead, we have let the dollar be our culturally deciding factor and that was our mistake. And since that has now become part of our reality many of us are fostering the same type of polemic Hitler and Goebbels and Himmler fostered sixty five years ago. We should make St Martiners a proud people, and demand respect from foreigners because of our cultural and national pride. Instead we don’t have any respect for ourselves yet we still demand respect from others.
I hear the washing machine beeping so my wash is finished. I will try and call the Belgian government offices so I can get my papers and return to my sweet St. Martin land and my family in Ebenezer, my friends in Guana Bay, and the sea that surrounds us all. In the meantime I’ll put my clothes in the dryer and listen to the rain and the cold wind. I stare back at the old ladies and hope, deep within myself, that St. Martin and the world will not continue to stew in hatred, self pity, and fear.
It may not seem amazing that I have just put two weeks worth of clothes in the machine unless one comes to realize that I have actually been here for two months. I can see some of you cringing; “yuck da young man been wearing de same draws for alla da time!” And some may ask themselves what in gods name am I doing in (gasp) Belgium and what on earth does that have to do with St. Martin(ers)?
Well, the reason I am here is because I am waiting on my papers (the generic island term for passport, ID card etc.). Simple as that. I am waiting on my papers for almost eight weeks. One and a half months ago I registered myself as a Belgian (because after all my father is one so by birth so am I and I would like to vote for the European parliament next year) and I am still waiting to get my passport and ID Card and the reason this is important for St Martin(ers) is that without an ID Card I am nothing in this country; I can’t open a bank account, I can’t go to the gym, I can’t do anything without having an ID. Right now I am a foreigner; a low down, good for nothing foreigner hoping on social welfare to buy a can of sardines to eat for dinner. I am 24 years old and four months ago partied until the sun came up because I graduated from an American university. I wasn’t happy because I accomplished something great and because I made myself and my family proud. I celebrated because I could finally leave a country in which I meant nothing. I wasn’t even allowed to rent a DVD in Blockbuster because I wasn’t a US citizen. And now, months later with a degree in my hand I cannot wait to escape a city where I spent a great deal of my childhood and where in all likelihood I will pursue my post graduate degree.
Antwerp is often called the hope of extreme right in Europe, and for a moment it seemed as if it would be one of the first major European cities to have an extreme right wing mayor. Thank goodness a mayor was reelected two weeks ago that has ambitions to eradicate extreme right, racism, and prejudice in the city. I feel the city now breathing easy, yet I still sit on a tram and feel people staring at me, angry that I am not white and that I speak English on the telephone when I get a call from home.
Throughout the mayoral campaigns I used to listen to the racist candidates and be amazed that this type of polemic, which one hoped would have gone out of style with the end of Hitler and the Nazis, was being propagated again and again. I heard slogans such as “the Flemish for the Flemish! Our own people first! Immigrants get out! A pure race for Flanders!” I was appalled and scared, as I am sure you would agree I had all right to be.
Sadly, this morning, before I went to do my laundry, I read the opinion section of a local St. Martin newspaper in an internet cafe. I was dismayed, crushed, hurt. I read between the lines; “ St. Martin for St Martiners! Our own people first! Non belongers get out! I cried tears for an island that is so confused, and so out of touch with its own situation and identity that it turns fear and anxiety into discrimination and xenophobia. I read how people who I know from young who know only St. Martin, who would die for St. Martin, were being labeled as non belongers, foreigners, and who knows what else.
What has happened? Is there really a tidal wave of evil, grimacing immigrants on the island, waiting to rape and ravage and steal and plunder. Or is the situation a product of our own doing. Are our jails full of ‘foreigners’ or is it packed with disillusioned local youngsters who have been let down by society and cannot channel their frustration into work or art or whatever would advance our culture. Is our island being ruled by people who don’t care or don’t we, us so-called St. Martiners, care. It is impossible for a people to be respected by immigrants, who are present in any economically prosperous society, if said people don’t have respect for themselves. Are we to blame for starting a trend in which our land and our heritage have been pimped off to the highest bidder? For many years St. Martin has had more respect for the dollar than for its own culture, and now because we are confronted with this in our own faces by people who don’t care about this island and just mimic our own actions we get upset. And we get even more upset when people, who may have been from somewhere else but have invested their hearts and souls in this island, stand up and speak out louder for this island than any ‘Local’ ever has.
Define local by the way. My last name is BERVOETS. Many of you probably will be saying; “Da foreigner come here an tell we how we have to run we country!” My father came here when he met my ST MARTIN mother (those of you who know me, know my St Martin heritage) who was studying in Belgium and who everyday was confronted with racism as she struggled to get her education in that country. My father came here with my mother and taught drama at local schools; he became head of the Cultural Center, organized a theater company with local children, was the only white man on the French Quarter football team (in fact I think he was the only white man in French Quarter at that time) and became a religious Guavaberry drinker. When I talk to him now all he mentions is the island; its green hills, beautiful and intelligent people, blue water, and burgundy Guavaberry. Yet some people would say; “No not he, he is a non -Belonger an he jus use dis island to get some sun an get a chile with a local gyul!”
Another example: My closest friends on the island are a family that lives in Guana Bay. The husband is of Mexican heritage and his wife is Dutch. There are few people on this island who deserve the label of ‘St Martiner’ more than them. The husband has shown me more things about my own island and subsequently about myself than any ‘local’ ever will, and both work effortlessly and selflessly to preserve the few specks of natural beauty still connected to this island. But again many will say; “but dey ain from here!”
But who is from here actually. The Caribbean has traditionally been a place of immigrants and migrants. The Amerindians arrived here in their canoes and were snuffed out by the Spanish and later the rest of Europe who arrived here in their boats. Africans arrived in those same boats in a terrible way, and were later followed by Indians and Chinese and the Polish and Greenlanders and many others from the four corners of the globe. What defines a local though. Not me I don’t think. Though my mother’s ancestors arrived here by boat some three hundred years ago that Guavaberry drinking French Quarter Belgian just messed it up for me so I don’t think I qualify, though I was born in Marigot, went to school in Town and South Reward, live in Ebenezer, did a government internship, and love to listen to Soca.
But are you from here? “My mother from Aruba, St Kitts, Guadeloupe, Holland, the States, Statia, Nevis, Curacao”. “My father from Dominica, Jamaica, Trinidad, Haiti, Santo Domingo.” By the way; many of our great and great great grandfathers were able to build their houses and provide for their families because the Dominican Republic allowed them to work and settle in San Pedro de Macoris. St Martiners worked on Dominican soil and sent their wages back to their families. Sound familiar? So when someone from up the islands does the jobs ‘locals’ don’t want to do anyway and sends money to their families, do we have the right to scoff at them?
Granted: the island is small. But we should not label ourselves as small minded. St Martin markets itself as a cosmopolitan destination. St. Martiners, and I am talking about belongers and non belongers (whatever that may mean) have the duty to respect themselves and appreciate their own culture before they can comment on the way people respect them. For too long it has been in our culture to let people knock down slave walls and build housing projects on plantations. For too long it has become a given to destroy the Pond and the Lagoon and to build houses in Cay Bay which most people know locals can’t afford. For too long we have worked in foreign owned hotels as beach boys and bartenders instead of managers. If anyone would come to a place like this they would act in the same disrespectful manner because the people who belong there act as nonchalantly as them. We have never used commonsense to build the things a society needs to function, such as a good immigration policy and cultural awareness and activities which would make immigrants and visitors aware that the island they are on is unique. Instead, we have let the dollar be our culturally deciding factor and that was our mistake. And since that has now become part of our reality many of us are fostering the same type of polemic Hitler and Goebbels and Himmler fostered sixty five years ago. We should make St Martiners a proud people, and demand respect from foreigners because of our cultural and national pride. Instead we don’t have any respect for ourselves yet we still demand respect from others.
I hear the washing machine beeping so my wash is finished. I will try and call the Belgian government offices so I can get my papers and return to my sweet St. Martin land and my family in Ebenezer, my friends in Guana Bay, and the sea that surrounds us all. In the meantime I’ll put my clothes in the dryer and listen to the rain and the cold wind. I stare back at the old ladies and hope, deep within myself, that St. Martin and the world will not continue to stew in hatred, self pity, and fear.
posted by Tadzio @ 7:29 PM
2 comments
2 Comments:
Big ups...those are powerful words Tadzio...about a very real situation on our sweet St. Martin...and I believe that to solve the problem we must initiate the discussions...
Lysanne (Citizen of Saba/St.Martin/the world)
Well said.
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