Thorns of Water and the Rust of Diamonds
They are the wondrous ones—the loyal exiles, the brilliant creators, the anonymous poor, the
idle dreamers, the cunning thieves, the distant strangers, the inert, the useless—yet somehow,
the very inspiration for dreams of those yet to come. They are everything. They are nothing.
They are… They are… They are… This is what is whispered of them in the shade. They were
born migrants. The cherished wombs of their mothers were but ancient resting places in the
savannas, deserts, and the blue mountains—leaving behind their thrones beyond distant seas.
They nursed on the milk of dreams and the longing for life. They crossed the Mediterranean
like swarms of bees carrying within them the honey of healing and the sting of tears.
They are half-dead, scented with salt and the dryness of sweat clinging to their skins, branded
by despair and a sorrow too visible to ignore. And yet, half-alive too, with troubling hope and
an unsettling vigor that disturbs those who wish they would simply disappear. Always in the
lowest tier, they are classified last—in skills, in worth—except when it comes to crime,
deceit, violence, stupidity, ignorance, and their alleged stench. This, at least, is how they are
first judged—by imagination polluted with prejudice.
They dream endlessly—of anything that might keep them alive. They walk, like ants, in long
processions until their dreams make them drunk. The lands they once called home have
dissolved in memory—no longer outlined by maps or the old chronicles of sultans, with their
boasts and tyrannies, nor by tales of Ali Baba and his donkey and the thieves of time. They
have flowed from lands with complex identities—much like Belgium itself in its diversity.
They came from Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Congo, Afghanistan, Tibet, Syria, Iraq,
Liberia, Sierra Leone, Zimbabwe, Libya, Mali, Haiti, Lebanon, Iran, Palestine… and the list
goes on. Their memories remain like fountains, veiled in soft fringes, to which they retreat in
moments of reverie—wrapped in the roses of borderlessness and washed in the dialectics of
survival, beyond the metaphysics of identity or the tragedy of departure.
Like hundreds of lost autumn birds surprised by a harsh winter, they feed on the salted crumbs
of forgotten songs, staggering through pale fields and harvested orchards—among quiet,
lovely villages scattered between the towns of Tienen and Sint-Truiden, nestled into the
undulating green hills of South Limburg. These hills welcome wave after wave of shattered-
winged refugees, searching for work in fields already picked clean at the close of last autumn.
They scramble to gather the old fallen apples and the pears covered in dry grass and stacked
hay, lined along fences of snow-dappled farmland. These rituals are etched into
memory—like songs glowing from the depths of distant souls, cravings soaked in eternal
longing, and a heartbeat flavored with soft, wandering dreams.
They walk in small groups along rural roads, some riding worn-out bicycles, others on foot in
threadbare winter coats, greeting the stretching sunlight of a morning tinged with both hope
and despair. They inhale the brittle snow scattered across the horizon.
And at day’s end, they return running—to the “camp,” a former military base still painted in
green, bearing symbols and military insignia. A wide courtyard encircled by rectangular
buildings and long barracks—interconnected, yet divided by wooden partitions, like the
chambers of a beehive.
From Shadows to Apples: Tales Beneath a Foreign Sky
Beyond the refugee camp—once a forgotten military base, now breathing new lives—stretch
rural roads winding toward a small airstrip. Cargo planes descend now and then, unloading
silence. Across the road, towering cold storage warehouses hoard apples and pears, loaded by
fair-haired, heavyset drivers with quick tongues and slow movements. The contrast is
striking—against them, refugees march silently through fields, breath crystallizing in air they
never knew, chasing warmth in bowls of thin vegetable soup, mashed potatoes soaked in salt
and butter, and a tired, spiced meat patty that promises nourishment but delivers little.
Their day ends in long queues, ID cards in hand, silence in their throats. The dining hall hums
with the collective fatigue of men, women, and children. Then—a loud announcement cuts
through the air, in twisted Dutch:
“Miss Ardonus, ID 55667, report to administration immediately!”
Eyes lift. Something important is unfolding.
But Ardonus is across the bridge, at the secondhand shop, choosing worn shoes with her
friend Helen—the radiant Ethiopian with full curves, wide eyes, and a sway like a goose
teasing the water’s edge. She laughs, she sings, she dances when alone.
With them is Abkar, a tall Sudanese man of sharp intellect and tangled fate. A philosophy
graduate and ex-prisoner of Sudan’s infamous Kober Prison—his crime: protecting his
brother’s failed rebellion. He speaks English like a storm, in a Scottish lilt, but falters in
French and Dutch. Women fascinate him, yet courage fails him. Every chance missed
becomes a melancholic prologue to a new search.
Alongside them walks Jack—the Congolese former French teacher with a boat-like waddle
and a knack for mispronouncing guttural letters. His thick speech clashes with his ambition to
master Dutch. Behind them is Rinzen, the Tibetan tech wiz with a calm face and volatile
heart. A computer engineer from India, Rinzen is easily provoked—especially by Jack, who
denies Tibet’s existence.
“You’re from China,” Jack insists mockingly.
“I am from the Roof of the World!” Rinzen fires back. “We pluck sky-roses and milk rain-
birds. The earth is our sacred rug, and our sun rises golden through clouds. His Holiness the
Dalai Lama is our true leader.”
Jack scoffs, “No UN recognition, no country.”
“Then Congo is a myth too, parrot of Beijing,” Rinzen spits.
The air stiffens. Truths dissolve into mockery. Identities become battlegrounds.
Yet amid absurdities and pain, they walk on—toward another day, another field, another soup.
Holding onto dreams like embers in winter, they remain exiled souls under borrowed skies.
"Of Flags, Fire, and Frozen Fields"
(A continuation of the refugee camp vignette)
Jack chuckles dryly and puffs up:
“We are the land of diamonds, gold, water, ebony, teak, mahogany, copper, and uranium! The
world knows us. Have you ever heard of Patrice Lumumba? Don’t compare him to your Dalai
Lama, you foolish boy. Even the camp you sleep in runs on Congolese wood and Congolese
money.”
He smirks and continues:
“We are now Africa’s largest country by land—after Sudan's split. Competing only with
Algeria. And you say we don’t exist?”
Without warning, Abkar the Sudanese raises his hand like a post-revolutionary dictator and
declares:
“Speak of your own delusions, you misfits. Leave Sudan out of this!”
He swells with pride:
“We are Africa’s beating heart, split by the Nile—the longest river in the world. We sleep
atop lakes of oil and fields of gold. We are the lions of Africa. Even gazelles know us. We are
the continent’s breadbasket—shoulder to shoulder with Argentina!”
He forgets, of course, that his beloved homeland still receives food aid from the UN World
Food Programme.
Rinzen jumps in:
“If Sudan is great, what would you call Russia? Or America?”
Jack joins the jab:
“Don’t forget China—the real superpower.”
Abkar leans forward with scornful confidence:
“Russia was beaten by the Afghans—ask the ones here in the camp! America was undone by
Somali pirates—our African tigers. So how can they be ‘great’?”
He grins, adding:
“Isn’t it Belgium that captured the Somali pirate king? Belgium, where NATO headquarters
sits. Belgium beat the beaters. That’s the real superpower!”
Rinzen smiles sarcastically:
“Then what’s Congo? A former Belgian colony. Sudan was British. Eritrea—Italian. Even
Tibet, you say, was Chinese. The whole world’s been colonized, my friend. A watermelon
will always be a watermelon.”
Jack sighs:
“I may be Congolese now, but I’ll be Belgian soon. A new life starts here…”
He seeks escape from the heated circle. Then Helen, the Ethiopian, interjects sharply:
“You're all nationalists. Proud fools. But tell me—did anyone invite you here? Your countries
are broken. You brag about them like kings, yet you drown in the sea to get here!”
She mocks:
“Europe once dragged your grandfathers in slave ships. Today, you jump into the ocean just
to arrive. If your countries are so lovely and grand, then go back! Spare me your poetic
nonsense.”
Silence. Then Jack and Abkar retort in chorus—mocking:
“What’s wrong, little girl escaping genital mutilation? You need something long and thick to
bring you back to your senses. Pick one of us—we’ve all got cannons waiting. Your round
hips won't save you!”
Jack adds, grinning:
“If we were truly nationalists, we wouldn’t be here, freezing in this forgotten village, with our
manhood turning to snowflakes! We’re trying to integrate, to build a shared humanity. Isn’t
that openness?”
Helen snorts:
“You’re all just a rumor—nothing more. There are over a hundred women in this camp. None
of you dared take one to your room. Not once did I hear a bed shake! Speak about politics and
cheap winter coats instead. Not virility!”
Abkar throws his chest out:
“The horse is here. The arena is ready. Any woman willing won’t be disappointed. My bed is
a Latin stadium.”
Laughter erupts. Jack nods approvingly. Helen falls silent, fiddling with secondhand boots
she’s just bought.
Then quiet descends. Abkar clears his throat:
“We’re just poor, unfortunate refugees—survivors of war-torn homelands. We don’t even
own today’s meal. We speak to kill time in this cold, forgotten street where even the trees
refuse to listen.”
They all chuckle, walking back from the thrift store. Each with a bag of near-free winterwear.
Helen jabs again, teasingly:
“You call yourselves poor? Back in Africa, your families own herds of cows. Yet you fled.
Meanwhile, an Indian man owns just one cow—and he worships her daily. You boys are
something else…”
"Echoes from the Camp"
(A tapestry of lives on hold)
Ardonos remained silent throughout the conversation, distant and self-contained. She had
recently bought herself a secondhand pair of winter boots in good condition, along with a
raincoat—clearly untouched for years. Its design echoed the fashion of the 1970s, outdated
yet functional, shielding her from the relentless Belgian drizzle.
As they walked, Abkar the Sudanese received a call. He fumbled to answer:
"Hello? Yes, hi… this is Abkar… Sorry, who’s speaking? I don’t have this number saved."
"Peace be upon you! It’s Mustafa the Iraqi, ya Zol."
"Wa alaykum as-salam, brother Mustafa Abu Jassim… leader of the proud Iraqis!"
Mustafa chuckled:
"I haven’t seen you since yesterday—where have you been?"
Then, with a breezy tone, he added:
"I’m still at the camp. Heading out with my girlfriend, Natalie—the Russian one. Talk later,
ok?"
But then he remembered:
"Wait! I called to tell you Ardonos’ name was just announced over the loudspeaker. She
needs to go to the administration office immediately if she’s with you. She has to meet the
social worker, Liz van Mechelen, before she leaves for the weekend. I heard her name called
in the dining hall—"
The call cut off abruptly.
It was no secret: Mustafa the Iraqi was infatuated with Natalie, his Russian girlfriend. He
clung to her side even during meals, which stirred envy among a group of tattooed, muscle-
bound young men of Balkan descent—probably Serbian or Macedonian—who occupied the
third wing on the ground floor. Their jealousy simmered, but they dared not confront him. Not
while Samir the Algerian was around.
Samir spoke fluent French and commanded quiet respect—even from the front desk staff at
the camp’s entrance. He lived with his close-knit circle of companions in the rear blocks near
the kitchen and dining area. They often visited Mustafa’s room in the evenings, sharing tea,
watching Arabic films, and stretching the night with laughter and stories.
Suddenly, Helen the Ethiopian intervened, her voice sharp with curiosity:
"Who was that on the phone? Was it really Mustafa? What’s going on?"
Abkar turned to Ardonos with a calm but serious expression:
"Your name was announced a little while ago. A letter arrived for you—it wasn’t posted on
the main bulletin board, but they called it out in the dining hall."
A shadow passed across Ardonos’ face. Her mood shifted, clouded by anxiety. She had seen
others receive similar notices—Babak from Iran, Simon from Cameroon, Ida from Haiti—all
of whom had been denied asylum in Belgium.
She recalled Ida in particular, often seen working long shifts in the camp’s kitchen—serving
food, washing dishes, cleaning the dining hall. But after her duties, she would change into
elegant clothes, apply makeup with care, and wait outside the camp’s main gate. There, a
sleek black German car would arrive, driven by her Belgian lover, Dirk Estien.
Dirk was in his forties—a kind-hearted, cheerful man living in a spacious countryside house
with a garden and a swimming pool. In that distant rural corner, his generosity was rare. He
was known to pick up stranded asylum seekers in the rain and drive them to the train station,
refusing any payment. An educated, modest man, Dirk’s presence was a quiet miracle.
On the ground floor, near the laundry, lived Simon the Cameroonian, in a neatly kept room
just by the staircase of the back wing. A handsome, lively young man with the soul of a
musician, he played the guitar with effortless finesse. His charm had captivated Lien Duyner,
the social worker in charge of the internet room and music activities. Outwardly disciplined
and professional, Lien led a double life.
In secret, she met Simon outside the camp. Sometimes, she would even invite him to her
home, especially on weekends, for music gatherings with friends. Eventually, she gave birth
to a beautiful mixed-race daughter. She had been planning to marry Simon.
But Simon had a secret of his own—he was already married in Africa. Legal recognition of
any new marriage was nearly impossible. One day, he simply left the camp… and never
returned. Here is a literary and evocative English translation of the continuation of your story,
maintaining the emotional intensity, poetic depth, and raw humanity of the original text:
"The Winter of the Unnamed"
(Continuation of Echoes from the Camp)
As for Babak, the Kurdish Iranian, he harbored strange, astonishing ideas. He claimed that if
Belgium refused to grant him asylum, he would escape across the German border, hitch a ride
with truck drivers, and settle in northern Norway. There, he would live with the Inuit
people for five years—long enough, he believed, to learn their language. Then, he would ask
them to smuggle him to Canada, dragging him across the frozen sea by dog sled. The Inuit,
in his mind, were masters of the ice—he was convinced they would help him reach freedom.
The cold had tightened its grip on the camp. Snow had begun to fall. The temperature dropped
low enough that even the bones felt brittle. Still, Ardonos did not stop running—nor thinking.
A silent dread consumed her. She feared a decision, yet to be delivered, but likely
negative—like so many others before hers.
The investigator in charge of her asylum file had treated her with disdain from the start. Her
questions were provocative, laced with a cynicism that left little room for hope. Ardonos had
felt it from the first interview: the woman wasn’t looking for truth, but for cracks in her soul.
The questions were intrusive, absurd, and increasingly humiliating.
Who was the man who held your legs up before you came here?
How many rounds did he pay you for each night?
Are you open or still a virgin?
Only those questions were left unspoken. Damn it!
If the decision was negative, Ardonos would be thrown into the streets like discarded moss.
Her appeals exhausted, she would have days to leave Belgian soil—or start the entire asylum
process again. And that meant the same psychological warfare, the same recycled questions,
the same trauma replayed like a broken record.
She ran. Her breath steamed in the air, heart pounding, until she reached the office of Liz van
Mechelen, the social worker, just as she was preparing to leave. Wordlessly, Ardonos handed
her the letter—a rejection notice delivered by mail. The news was a shock to everyone who
knew her.
Ardonos, born in Addis Ababa, of Eritrean descent—tall, beautiful, graceful. Delicate and
sharp-minded, with the poise of a flight attendant. She had once dreamed of working for
Lufthansa or Qatar Airways. Life had offered her no such wings. She had studied fine arts at
Addis Ababa University and spoke Amharic, Tigrinya, Oromo, and English fluently, with a
touch of Dutch and some street-learned Arabic from her time in Sudan—phrases like shukran,
habibi, as-salamu alaykum, ana mabsuta kteer. After the Eritrea–Ethiopia war, her family had
fled to Sudan, joining the tide of thousands exiled from their homeland.
Life in the camp turned slowly, like a wheel caught in snow.
New faces, dusted with frost, moved through the wind like faded ghosts—shapes suspended
in a northern gale, their hopes shivering under a dull halo of dreams. In this fenced-off world,
nothing remained secret. These people had crossed the sea with salt burning their
skin—innocents and scoundrels alike. Black, white, yellow, brown—labels lost all meaning
here. Intellectuals, soldiers, poets, drunks, doctors, madmen, farmers… they had arrived
barefoot, with or without prayers, chasing a promise—a myth of Europe. Perhaps not the
Promised Land, but something close enough.
They had believed the skies would rain blessings in bulk. But this sky—today—poured only
ice and snow, smoke-like and relentless.
This wasn’t a winter known to the ebony woods, to the savanah's panthers, to the teak and
mahogany trees, nor to the burning sands and tiny beasts of the desert.
This was another world entirely.
Within this same crowded camp lived Fatima, Hovhannes, Kwame, Rinzen, Simon, Mustafa,
Shah, Michael, Ardonos, Jack, Adam, Othman, Abkar, Natalie… and the list spiraled on,
names without borders or end. Some had lost all hope, waiting for deportation. Others wept
silently for friends who had become food for fish in the Great Sea, sacrificed to the perils of
the dream.
Those who survived had made it to this tangled crossroad of fates—men, women, children,
elders—lining up each dawn at the bus stop. Their destination? Morning classes in Dutch
language and integration, before returning at noon, weary, eager for the wall of mail. They
checked the board, name by name, in a collective surge of anxiety.
Hours turned to days. Days to months. Months collapsed into years. Time became a blur.
Decisions contradicted each other. Hearts beat restlessly for loved ones left behind, for homes
lost and memories exiled. The future dangled by a thread, like a nameless spider building its
fragile web on glass—unseen, uncertain, and unbearably delicate.
The wall clock remains fixed in its place, sleepless and alone. It spins and turns only to end up
right where it began. Evening fades into the birth of a new day. People leave; others arrive.
Stories repeat themselves, repainting the same tales in different shades. Truth blurs into
rumor, into tears, and everything becomes permissible — even madness.
Many of them arrived sane, only to find themselves frequenting psychiatric clinics. Their
afflictions remain mysteries, even to the specialists. Nothing new — they are handed
medications that worsen their state, transforming them into walking pharmacies! Only those
who’ve tasted the electricity of madness, hysteria, and depression, or wandered homeless
through the streets of Athens or Rome, sleeping beneath bridges or boarding trains without
tickets or identity, understand them. Police stop them countless times. Ticket inspectors berate
them and drop them off at the first station — if they’re merciful. If not, their fate is far worse.
Most train passengers avoid them. And once they settle, they search for lovers like everyone
else — but the beautiful, fair-skinned women keep their distance. Even in discos, whenever
they try to dance or speak with them, the girls grow visibly uneasy, switching seats, clutching
their handbags tighter in suspicion and fear, no matter how polite or admiring the men seem.
It means nothing. To these women, they are merely pickpockets. None stop to think that these
are men, full in their masculinity, seeking eternal lovers to shower with pearls of passion and
waterfalls of longing — regardless of skin tone or looks.
Sometimes, bouncers with bulging muscles block them at the nightclub entrance. No women
with you? No entry. Even if they offer to pay double the ticket price. How strange! What
cursed fate and wretched timing — where are they supposed to find women if they are only
entering to look for them?
In the early hours of the morning, amid the bathroom rush and the endless queues, the lucky
ones — those granted asylum in Belgium — prepare to leave for their new homes. They pack
their bags and head off to Dutch-speaking towns nestled in green landscapes laced with
carefully arranged canals and winding industrial streams, wrapping around sleepy, safe
hamlets: Ghent, Leuven, Hasselt, Geel, Turnhout, Ostend, Antwerp, Bruges, etc. Others head
to French-speaking cities: Namur, Charleroi, Liège, Wavre, Ourlon, Tournai, Nivelles,
Hotton, and more.
Brussels, meanwhile, stands as a central, enchanting city — its wings outstretched in a vibrant
flight laced with the scent of history. At its heart, the dome of the Grand Place glows like a
lantern of loyalty. At its peak, the statue of Saint Michael, the city’s knight, gazes out upon
cathedrals and ancient sanctuaries, offering a sacred salute. And nearby, the statue of
Manneken Pis urinates upon the fuse of a catapult’s bomb, dousing the flames before they can
breach the city walls — a heroic myth, or so the story goes.
And there is Kwame, roaming silently and aimlessly, with no money and no food, holding a
bottle of beer and a dry heel of bread gifted to him by a Moroccan baker near Anneessens
metro station. He wears slightly tattered clothes, an oversized pair of shoes, and a small
backpack donated by a local church. His hair is wild and unkempt, never brushed, though he
keeps his beard neatly shaved.
Sometimes Othman trails behind him — dressed in jeans and a military raincoat, indifferent
to passersby. He gulps beer, a drink he never tasted before coming to Belgium. But after his
asylum claim was denied, he fell into a spiral of depression and hysteria that dragged him into
a world bordering on addiction and madness — though he never touched drugs. He screams at
the top of his lungs: “I am not him! I am not me! I am with them, and they are not with me!”
His words sound like philosophical riddles, yet their meaning remains elusive.
As the Arabic saying goes: “Take wisdom from the mouths of the insane.” Othman now
speaks truths like a madman. He has a strong memory, still haunted by vivid images — the
sight of roaming militias in his hometown, the collapse into chaos, and his flight as a young
man before completing his chemistry degree, which he left in the third year of university.
At the height of his outburst, he stands calmly before the statue of Manneken Pis, raises a
hand, and pleads with it: “Join me — piss on the Immigration Office! Extinguish their bombs
like you once saved this city. Where are you, city’s savior? Save us too!” But Manneken Pis
will not respond.
There is nothing for Othman but to retreat once more to the far corner of the square, sipping
cans of beer mixed with sour yogurt. He drinks one after another with hunger and despair,
before collapsing into a deep sleep on the street. His snoring grows louder with exhaustion. In
his dream, he sees a British-flagged ship nearing the bridge at the port of Ostend, heading to
England. He sneaks into one of the trucks, ducking low to avoid the Belgian border police.
The ship sails across the North Sea and reaches a British port.
He exits the truck and runs through the streets of London — not far from Hyde Park. All this
plays out while, in reality, he lies there sleeping, snoring, as passersby continue on their way,
indifferent, moving back and forth around him.
Tourists continue snapping photos of the Manneken Pis statue, busily urinating under the
watchful gaze of security cameras, as he stands gripping his little member. Meanwhile,
Muslim women tourists from oil-rich Arab nations deliberately avoid photographing the
urinating statue. Yet, they are obsessed with shopping, dining in upscale restaurants, wearing
flowing black abayas, and applying excessive amounts of makeup. Accompanying them are
maids — often Southeast Asian in appearance — pushing strollers with obedient efficiency.
The oil-rich tourists wear their wealth unmistakably. They wander between Grand Place, La
Bourse, and Anspach Street, never sparing a coin for Kwame or Othman or others like them
who survive on the edge of the road.
Elsewhere, the city's heart glows with hidden treasures — ripe fruits of longing and dreams.
French and Dutch twirl gracefully beneath the sky of Brussels, their languages dancing
effortlessly together. Faces, features, races, and religions all intermingle. Fatima, a Syrian
refugee, and her husband, Abu Tamer, eventually found themselves opening a modest snack
bar on a narrow side street that reminded them of their homeland. It didn’t resemble Old
Damascus exactly — perhaps closer to certain alleys in Casablanca, Morocco.
Their spot is nestled in Molenbeek, home to Al-Khalil Mosque with its distinctly Arab design
and a congregation made up of Berbers and Arabs speaking a delightfully quirky Moroccan
dialect. French flies off tongues in a rapid clip, laced with an Arabic accent that, despite its
irregularities, is striking — reflected in the youth whose faces seem inseparable from the
rhythm of the place.
Side streets teem with shops selling Arab clothing, wedding accessories, and Moroccan
pastries — especially the tempting chebakia. Tea lounges dominate the scene, serving atai
(Moroccan mint tea), filled with bearded young men and the clean-shaven ones in flashy
attire. They puff shisha with intense relaxation and curious pride, imagining themselves kings
of their time. They watch football matches, argue endlessly, and wager even when neither
Belgium nor Morocco is playing.
At one corner of the street, they insist on chatting up unveiled women crossing the road —
often for no reason at all. Some women try to avoid them altogether. Meanwhile, elderly men
— calm, composed — take turns sharing their memories of digging tunnels for the Brussels
Metro in their youth. Now, they complain about shrinking pensions and the nationalist grip on
government.
On nearby streets, the sounds of North African Arabic music rise from modest eateries with
bold HALAL signs. The air is thick with the scent of tagine, harira soup, and steaming fish
stew. Bread shops show off their fresh loaves and intricate pastries layered with cream,
coconut, chocolate, and fruits — especially the red ones. Many women wear hijabs, though
their faces remain uncovered. They stand out proudly in their unmistakably Arab abayas.
Abu Tamer, the Syrian man, walks briskly through the moderately wide alleys toward the
main road and metro station to meet his 17-year-old stepson. The boy is part of a youth
rehabilitation program for Syrian war victims, run by a small Brussels-based station called
Radio Syria. The initiative is supported by a team of passionate individuals, including a
Moroccan translator and the brilliant Miss Maëlle Pozzo — a French-speaking Swiss woman
of Italian descent, stunning and open-minded, fiercely opposed to racism.
Her hair has a henna-like hue, and her glasses only add to her sparkle. She studied film and
photography at the Anderlecht Academy of Arts in Brussels. After the Charlie Hebdo attacks,
she traveled to Turkey, then crossed into Ayn al-Arab (Kobane) after ISIS forces retreated.
She filmed the Syrian scene — the suffering of children and women — with a deep humanity
untainted by preconceived notions of religion, culture, race, or gender.
She speaks a bit of Arabic — charmingly, in a way that captivates the young refugee boys. To
them, she is the beauty queen of the planet — with her radiant spirit, her kind heart, her
soulful eyes, her stunning smile, and her elegant, educated humility. Abu Tamer always
remembers her vividly — so frequently spoken of by his stepson, he comes to believe she
must be Europe’s unofficial ambassador to the Middle East.
Kwame was still leaning against the wall. After finishing off his cans of beer, he roused his
friend from a deep sleep, only for Othman to discover he had been lost in a beautiful dream.
He hadn’t travelled to London after all — he was still here, beside Manneken Pis. Time was
running out before they had to make their way to Brussels-North Station for the free dinner: a
bowl of soup with a piece of bread, offered by the Flemish refugee support organization
Vluchtelingenwerk Vlaanderen, under the supervision of Madame Pascale Merits — a
woman more familiar to the refugees than the Prime Minister himself. To them, she is
Belgium’s own Mother Teresa.
Pascale Merits, in many ways, embodies Belgian unity in a country constantly at risk of
splitting along cultural lines. She comes from a Francophone family and is married to a
Dutch-speaking Flemish man. Alongside her work a group of young volunteers — fresh
graduates, many of them beautiful young women from Leuven and the Free University of
Brussels.
As night falls, the homeless — both European and migrant — begin to gather. Kwame drags
his feet, wandering with Othman through the long walk from central Brussels toward the
winding tram route, through neighborhoods with a texture reminiscent of Istanbul — parts of
Schaerbeek and Saint-Josse. Along Chaussée de Haecht, elegant Turkish dessert shops line
the street, interspersed with cafés and restaurants marked with red signs in French and
Turkish, all proudly displaying Halal.
The air is thick with the aroma of grilled kebab, juicy shawarma, thick Turkish döner, and
stuffed köfte, all served with sesame-coated Turkish bread. There’s even pizza topped with
minced meat, tomatoes, mushrooms, and grated cheese — enough to make your mouth water.
As Kwame and Othman walk past, the tantalizing smell of food lures them toward the glass
windows, only to be shooed away by the staff before they miss their soup supper.
They follow the tram line to Place Liedts, heading toward Rue de Brabant, a busy shopping
street where low-cost goods — mostly of Chinese origin — cater to the poor and struggling,
particularly those from the overcrowded refugee camps nearby. For many, this is a golden
opportunity to shop — and survive.
On the parallel street, Rue d’Aerschot — known locally as the Red Street — a surreal scene
unfolds. Beautiful women, naked or nearly so, pose behind glass boxes lit by glaring red
lamps. They legally advertise their sexual services, paying taxes like any other citizen. It's a
scene that baffles and fascinates — especially a certain Muslim friend, who talks often about
what is haram (forbidden) and halal (permissible), and yet accepts Belgian government social
assistance funded by the same state revenue — which includes taxes from alcohol, gambling,
interest-based finance, and yes — prostitution.
Ironically, this friend refuses to eat non-halal meat on religious grounds. Even more absurd: a
Muslim entrepreneur opens a restaurant right in the middle of the red-light district and labels
it Halal in bold letters.
The street appears surreal, especially when seen from the elevated platforms of Brussels-
North Station, a location known to every refugee in Belgium because of its proximity to the
asylum commission office. Along the boulevard, men of all ages and nationalities loiter,
gazing at the women behind the glass, negotiating with hand gestures. Cars crawl through the
area — their drivers invisible — many bearing French license plates.
After a long walk, Osman and Kwame finally arrived at the train station’s dining hall to have
their dinner. At the rear entrance, opposite the bus stop, Kwame spotted one of the young
volunteers handing out soup and bread. He approached her and asked, “Do you work here?”
He was referring to the area between Chaussée d’Anvers and Albert II Street, where the tall
brown glass tower rises—a tower that haunts every resident of the camps, for it decides their
fate, sketches their stories, their prayers’ rituals, the faces of their homelands, the whispers of
their beloveds, the names of their mothers, and even their curses…
Among the camp’s crowded residents was the beautiful young woman Ardounous, now
homeless and afraid, without valid residence papers. Occasionally, she visited friends, but to
do so, she had to ride the train that passed through Brussels-North station. Every time the train
neared that station, her heart pounded wildly; tears would overwhelm her and she would
collapse into sobs. She remembered the harrowing crossing on a dilapidated fishing boat,
crammed with hundreds of migrants—women, children, men—who crossed the
Mediterranean from Libya, battling monstrous waves. She relived the moments of the sinking
vessel, filled with urine, vomit, and floating debris… Only after the train left Brussels-North
and the looming towers faded from sight did life return to her fragile, exhausted body. Her
blood coursed again in her nearly bursting veins. She wiped her tears with a sweat-dampened
hand, the tears blurring her vision through the train window as it sped towards the green
Flemish plains.
The fields stretched straight ahead, the trees racing the train, waving their branches to the
passengers: “Goodbye, Brussels.” The conical red roofs of village houses appeared,
confirming that she had truly left—like a butterfly fluttering among the vast meadows. She
took a sip of water from a small bottle tucked in her bag and pulled out her phone to call her
family, but the signal cut out.
The conductor came by, asking for her ticket. She calmly lifted her head and handed it over,
noticing the passengers around her who looked at her with sympathy, yet no one asked about
her troubles.
By chance, across the aisle, she spotted a sharply dressed young man wearing a blue jacket,
white shirt, and red tie, talking to a European-looking woman sitting beside him. Ardounous
stood up, curiosity striking her, a strange feeling telling her she recognized him—had she seen
him before? Was he a news anchor on Ethiopian TV? No, maybe a former bank employee she
once met in a Khartoum branch? Placing her hand on her forehead, she strained to recall, then
suddenly shouted, “Adam… Adam… Adam… my brother! Yes, it’s you, Adam, oh God!”
The young man looked up, shocked and joyful. “Ardounous! Wow, this is unbelievable! What
a happy day—I can’t believe it!”
What an astonishing coincidence! It was Adam, her friend from the camp, who had recently
been granted political refugee status in Belgium. He had settled in Brussels and recently met
Katya Mordechai, a lawyer from a wealthy Jewish family in the Netherlands, holding Belgian
nationality. Katya lived with her elderly uncle—childless and widowed for years—who had
formerly traded diamonds in Antwerp before moving to Brussels, owning properties in Paris.
After Katya’s mother and brother Aaron emigrated to Israel and settled in Haifa on the
Mediterranean, Katya refused to leave Belgium. She pursued her university studies and
founded her own law firm.
Ardounous apologized to Adam for losing her phone, her friends’ numbers, and losing
contact. Yet fate had reunited them on this train.
Adam introduced Katya to Ardounous, explaining her harsh ordeal. Katya immediately
volunteered to take Ardounous’s case pro bono. Adam spoke of his volunteer work with
Consortum and the “Josefa Maison” project in the heart of Brussels’s Ixelles district—a
pioneering community house where Europeans, Africans, and Asians of various
faiths—Christians, Muslims, Buddhists—live together, sharing life under one roof. This
beautiful project of peace and mutual acceptance was warmly supported by Mr. Gilbert, a
wonderful Catholic believer known for his cheerful personality, high culture, refined manners,
and generous, humane spirit.
This beautiful coincidence that brought Ardounous together with Adam and Katya became a
lifeboat for Ardounous, Kwame, Osman, Simon, Aida, and the others—those who inscribe on
the walls of exile their old addresses and stubborn stories that pierce through the veil of
fantasies.
The threshold of their tears blossomed into candles and beacons as vast as the stages of
vibrant masquerade festivals. Overhead, the tents of the place stretched northward across the
wide plains like crashing waves—water leaning on water—while to the south, forests fluttered
around them, where they wandered lost among paths like fruits gnawed by the wind and
buried beneath yellow autumn leaves, destined to sprout a tender plant unafraid of the thorns
of water or the rust of diamonds scattered over the Belgian soil as far as the eye could see.
Meanwhile, the waves of bewildered refugees kept flowing—offering themselves as a
sacrifice to the dream—drenched with salt and the sweat of the arduous journey.
