Mascara on my lips

A bag of brushes

A brush with a cultural setting in celebration of a golden jubilee became the clean sweep of observed notions defined from one’s perspective in need of a broader discussion we rarely get to have much as it is necessary for defining identities cosmetic as they might seem on the surface.

The party gifts got inadvertently split and now there is a mirror before which to make up a story, for I cannot dare an anthropological or sociological study as one is not so qualified.

Cosmetic brushes

(1) Powder brush

Prominent as it is in the cosmetic bag that it could not be ignored for its usefulness, the converse could not be discounted to the purpose of useful advice when it was obvious that circumstance, situation, or necessity agglomerated a coterie of generously plus size ladies outnumbering the others.

The long-term consequences are dire if remedial action is not taken to shed the impactful interactions for gravity. And whilst this presents a cultural attractiveness or what some find as a form of beauty, for reasons one may not fully understand, the avoidable is best prevented than to face afflictions and infirmity resulting from such appearances. Fine adjustments for entrenched attitudes can do a lot.

(2) Blending brush

In the collision of colours, the contrasts need to be invisible to the eye and this is where the blending brush diminishes the checkerboard illusion of disharmony and apparent absence of deftness. As we so easily congregate for similarity and affinity, our communities begin to isolate from predominate host nations, people, customs, and culture.

It baffles that one can meet with people abroad having resided herein for decades who rarely have local friends or acquaintances at their functions except in work and formal settings. Speaking for oneself, it is likely that exposure to broad diversity from childhood has made the idea of separateness alien and probably anathema. To blend is to deign to escape our comfort zones to explore different things and discover new things. Whether it is a thing of courage or daring, one cannot tell.

(3) Lip gloss applicator brush

The deep knowledge of Brian is understanding the use of this brush is only too welcome. It can be messy and so this brush brings a sense of refinement, though not a brush, but more like a mitre-shaped sponge.

Tasty the cake was, compacted without a spongy feel that one opined about Nigerians baking cakes and one could appreciate the beauty of the structures whilst being left without the enthusiasm to invite the baker for one’s function. The icing on the cake was neither of icing sugar nor marzipan. It was a macadamised thick layer of milk chocolate. A first for me and a tradition for them, I suppose.

(4) Pencil brush

This would suggest an artistic touch to the broader application of make-up depending on where the makeup is being applied. Around the eyes, on the eyelids, delicate helps finesse apart from knowing what brush pertains to which function.

Alfresco style as stated on the invitation would have suggested consideration for the weather for which canopies were provided as we were outside, a garden party for us and a bouncy castle for the kids. Yet, the unfortunate faux pas of the shoes worn made mishap after mishap seek comedy timing for which we desperately exercised restraint.

Stiletto heels, no matter how good your shoes are just not it for a garden party, those are meant for firm floors or red carpets, but some came to till and plough the ground for a late planting season. Wedges, platforms or flats, nothing pointed, but that requires a better sense of awareness. In this case, the shoes should match the venue long before they match the event or the dress. You have to see what I saw.

(5) Lash and eyebrow brush

This the battle-axe of eye adornment and presentation and I doubt I saw more than was naturally grown. Surprisingly, no one lashed it one to bring too much to the flicker or the focus of the eye.

To one, apart from the company of who attended with and brief chatter with the celebrant, I could well have been invisible, and cliques and claques conversed loudly in imponderables expressing expertise in areas where they obviously had none.

The absence of engagement helped one observe, review, and appreciate why we owe more to helping our offspring find a better footing of self-assurance, self-esteem, and integration is societies that would look more different from the ones we grew up in.

The basics of imbuing them with confidence would not come alone from achievement but by engagement with a broader stratum of society whilst at the same time attempting to venture beyond the cocoons and bubbles that gave us belonging and comfort for so long. 

The journey to identity goes further than the many destinations you travel to

The journey to identity is personal

I have just watched the documentary Black Sheep that has been shortlisted for an Academy Award in the short film category, about the quest for identity of a young black man in England of mixed African parentage, the actions the parents took, and the journey travelled by one of the children who followed.

Guardian film Black Sheep shortlisted for Oscars

[]

The blog I have written is not a review of the film, rather it illustrates how journeys to destinations to live are different from journeys to a settled identity.

We as children embarked on many journeys with our parents to many places to live, to adapt, to school and by that been influenced by situations and circumstances in the home and our wider communities.

However, much as we have followed, it is unlikely that our parents have followed us in the journey of knowing who we really are. In my own case, my father has always had the presumption that we have the same identity and are would eventually be driven by the same passions, nothing could be further from the truth.

Marked as different

He never embarked on my own personal journey of discovery, for the idea that Nigeria is my home bears no reality to my circumstances. Despite the accident of fortune that had me born in England and spending much of my childhood into adulthood in Nigeria, I was never accepted as a Nigerian.

It was not in the way I looked, for in that, I was no different from any other Nigerian, but the moment I began to speak, my accent betrayed a foreignness that cast me as another, from somewhere else and that changed the way people interacted with me.

To those who knew me, they knew I was born abroad, not steeped in the customs and essentials of our tribal and societal strictures, so, I was excused, forgiven and may be excluded because I was not one of them. I was caught in a flux of identity between where I was born and defined by it and where my parents were born and alien to it. In that, my mother tongue was English and that was different from my mother’s tongue which is Yoruba.

Environments and influences

Parents have great determination, in terms of the provisions and opportunities they, if they have the means, put in the way of their children. Mine was of privilege in my primary education and the ease that was put into my life, but it did not spare me from other issues that attempted to cripple the joys of childhood, our once nuclear family infused with characters and characteristics that created negative experiences that leave a black spot in the childhood story.

For secondary school, they determined, I needed to be toughened up, whilst experiencing some cultural affinity with our clan. I was sent away for months to live with relations and then to boarding school. My first term was horrific and a terrible experience for my mates who were woken every night by my recitation of Psalm 23 because I thought and believed I was seeing ghosts.

As a bedwetter too, that was seen as weakness rather than what we now know as having psychological underpinnings that we eventually work through either by grace or good fortune.

Blog - Childhood: Atòólé

I got resilience

Then, rather than recognise some of the turmoil I was going through, I was considered too slow by my father and my mother thought I gave away my things to curry favour. Everything or situation had a pearl of wisdom they are conceived in their minds was the cause to which they made what they thought was adequate provision.

Yet, somewhere in our lives, we had gathered tools and coping mechanisms that have given us resilience and strength to overcome crises after crises.

The question, “What is the matter with you?” was rarely asked in genuine concern for welfare or wellbeing, rather it was spat out in disdain, criticism and condemnation because one was not measuring up to an expected standard. It is possible that my memory fails me, but if I can recall outright praise, it had little impact.

How do you talk about clinical depression?

It all came crashing down after I left secondary school. The first two schools I attended after for a total of 4 years yielded nothing, I was asked to withdraw twice, and it was not because I was a dunce, I just did not know why I was in a class on certain days. With hindsight, these were times of clinical depression, the signs my mother in her religiosity would have thought required more prayer and ritual and the patriarch just saw as a weakling in his firstborn.

No, parents can never embark on that journey of personal discovery of their children, they can only facilitate, provide opportunities and paths. Most importantly, have an ear to listen to a cry, because children still cry, cry for help, cry to be heard, cry to be lifted, cry to be accepted. I fear parents lose that listening ear sometimes much too early for the benefit of the child.

I had no one to talk to about what I was going through, I needed professional help, but I was failing son fit to be taught a lesson of life so that I would sit up and begin to take responsibility. I smile today because I have been given the good fortune to make stories of the dark times of my life.

Blog - Thought Picnic: Don't lose the honour of the opportunity to help

I love who I am

I was never on a quest to get an identity, that journey was always one of discovery, realisation and acceptance. Too many influences have interacted with my personality towards understanding and loving who I am. I embody many characteristics of my parents’ personalities and some that are uniquely mine.

I love who I am now, I accept who I am and live who I am for who I am, and all this would be radically different from who or what my parents would have expected me to be. I am a product of influences, circumstances and environments of fate, fortune and force, none of which I choose to repudiate.

When asked, I am an Englishman of Nigerian parentage, that is a settled matter. There is a long story to tell, because, in one conversation with my father, he said, “You have always thought like a westerner.” I am still deconstructing that platitude, for it is deep.

I recognise that this might read like an unfinished blog, this is because as I was writing I realised there are many strands to the story, too long for a blog and better put in the context of a book, whenever I get to write it. I have also written on this in other blogs from other perspectives.

Opinion: He was British, what changed him?

He was British

The Manchester bombing suspect has been named as a 22-year old British-born son of Libyan refugees. His parents were refugees from Muammar Gaddafi and they had recently returned to Libya.

Obviously, many questions arise and flags raised about how a person born in England, having attended local schools, was a Manchester United fan and was at one time a student at the University of Salford before he dropped out, became more religiously devout and outwardly hostile to his community before he took on a suicide terrorism quest against innocent people in Manchester.

In some of the news stories I have read, there are words and phrases that worry me, they show tectonic plates of acculturation that stand at the nexus of integration, assimilation, indifference or abnegation within the societies in which we exist.

How do we relate?

Wherever we were born, we have many roads to travel to some sort of self-ideation and completeness of personality and life within the communities and societies in which we live. I was born in England, I was exposed to significant culture norms of my parents but at the same time, I was raised in a culturally diverse community.

There are areas where certain animist activities of my father or the religious extremism of my mother could have impacted negatively on my outlook and worldview, for some reason, there was a part of my education and observation that meant that there was a more independent streak in me, as I have not so fully imbibed any culture, I am more of a world citizen with hopefully a healthy respect for our diverse humanity.

However, we cannot entirely ignore the influence of what the media terms ‘closely-knit’ communities, ethnic minority groups that cluster in areas for social, religious, cultural, economic and traditional validation and affirmation. To say I am suspicious of settings that attempt to create for offspring in host culture the semblance of home cultures long departed by forebears creates serious psychological problems for the children.

Dangers of little-stans

The tendency to create uprooted little-stans and ghettoes to ensure the children do not become alien to the culture of their parents, whilst laudable can be quite damaging too. Culture has become a fluid existence that is an amalgamation of many influences garnered from all the many places in which we interact, that to limit interaction to close-knit communities bereft of accommodation of the wider setting in which they exist is dangerous.

One such significant indication of this is where a cultural predilection to consanguineous marriages amongst certain communities in the UK is the leading cause of child mortality or congenital deformities in the newly born in the UK. The science is clear, but a deference to fatalism seems to reinforce the need to keep the traditional despite the avoidable heartache that comes with it.

The same goes for beliefs and teachings that appear to reject or criticise the norms and values of host communities. I remember whilst looking for a church to attend in the Netherlands walking into two services in different churches in two major cities one Sunday and thinking these were literally slum churches transplanted from Nigeria to the Netherlands.

The language was alien, the teaching was fundamentalist, the views were ultra-conservative that I left with the decision to seek out a church representative of the city in which I live, accepting of the broadest spectrum of humanity from all walks of life with an international and yet integrated cultural viewpoint. I found such in the Christian City Church which was consequently renamed to C3 Church. I felt I not only belonged but I could also contribute without the imposition of some Pharisaic authority over me.

We must attend to it

The process of acculturation is both slow and demanding, yet it is necessary for everyone who departs a home culture for a host culture to have discernment and make the best of every influence to be a net contributor to the fabric of society in which they exist. It means there is less stress on affirming who you are and reduces the necessity to adopt imported practices inimical to a proper and fulfilled life in host communities.

It should cut a swathe through demands of tradition that forbids intermarriage, that requires religious affinity or the person risks ostracism, that supports Female Genital Mutilation which is by terms an evil practice of butchering girls for some deluded idea of tempering sexual expression and worst of the lot, the murders termed honour-killing.

We must be careful what we project on our offspring as culture and traditions that they do not begin to rebel and revolt against sense, sensibility, reason, reasonableness and accommodations of diversity despite our innate beliefs.

What made the young man give up his life to such an atrocious terrorist cause? We may never know, but the signs were there and through the normal cause of minding our own businesses, he in plain sight became the mass murderer whose memory would attract eternal ignominy not only to himself, but maybe unremittingly and unfairly to his family and his close-knit community, when we should all gather together in our shared humanity to mourn the lost, comfort the wounded and strengthen the bonds that celebrate the best of who we are.

The Terrestrial Church of Cacophony

Out of sight, but an earful

I first learnt of the Celestial Church of Christ, an African initiated church in the 1970s when I spend short school breaks at my cousin’s in Sagamu.

The church was situated at the end of the road with a stream running by the church into a dense forest, they could have been unnoticeably ensconced there without disturbance.

Yet, it was impossible to ignore them, at almost half a mile away, their daily rumpus or dare I say worship was loud, agitated and quite a public nuisance.

Embrace silence

It came to a head one morning when the head of the house sent a cease and desist notice to the church to maintain a sense of considerate neighbourliness in their activities by lowering the volume of their orgies. God, we must appreciate is not hard of hearing.

Now, that was courageous, daring and bold, for anyone to challenge a religious establishment in that manner. It worked, they were quite amenable to the idea, probably under duress and with the knowledge that the aggrieved was a lawyer.

Mind the fine

Later, towards the end of the 1980s, I was a ward of some senior members of the Celestial Church of Christ, they were quite obliging to allow me attend the church of my choice rather than force me to align to their tenets, for that, I am exceedingly grateful.

However, the reason why we have this recollection of events past is because this morning I read in the newspaper that the pastor of a Celestial Church of Christ branch in Grays, Essex had been fined a total of £1,241.50 including costs for conducting unbearably loud services four times a week well into the early hours of the morning; 4:00AM that is. [Metro]

The neighbours had endured this public nuisance for months and one really wonders why any religious activity needs to be broadcast beyond the confines of the walls of the meeting place except for the need to use the sound to keep the members alert throughout the interminably long services.

Just unacceptable

More pertinently, what this suggests is a lack of understanding that what is tolerable and allowed in the hyper-religious Nigerian society borne of Lord Lugard’s suggestion that we have a vague dread of the supernatural, is hardly acceptable in many Western societies.

People are not as religiously imbued and those who have any sort of religious affiliation tend to go about their devotion with consideration and moderation, too high a bar of expectation required of an almost fanatical claque.

If this sanction does not serve as a deterrent, the council has suggested that the church might have to lose its sound equipment. Knowing that I have lived in a part of Essex where there was at least 6 non-establishment churches within 500 yards of our apartment, I was fully persuaded to veto an application to site another church nearby just because the existing ones had already exercised our tolerance to the point of intolerable.

For all the celestial aims of the church, there are terrestrial norms expected of any gathering for any purpose they might be persuaded to pursue. This one like many that have yet to be called to order around the UK has become a congregation of the Terrestrial Church of Cacophony.

Thought Picnic: Gosh! I have a black face

Is it …?

Maybe there isn’t much to read into this but I do remember about 15 years ago planning to visit a young family and I found myself asking whether their two boys have ever seen or met anyone of my race.

I just had the feeling that they having lived in a somewhat expatriate community in the United States and then moving back to Suffolk they might not have been exposed. Those silly assumptions fed my imagination with pictures of two kids under 5 hiding behind daddy’s legs and stealthily coming round to poke me to see if I will react before scurrying back to the protection of daddy.

My makeup is permanent

That is what I think prepared me for an episode yesterday at Upminster station where I was waiting to board a train into London. The waiting room has a heater on timer so I always go in there to get some warmth considering it was raining cats and dogs with blustering wind to boot.

There, I saw a man probably in his late twenties and his son, maybe not even 3 years old yet, sat in his buggy. I switched on the heater and as I stood by taking in the warmth, I looked at the boy and this conversation between them ensued.

Son: Look, he’s got a black face.

Father: He’s a man.

The appropriateness of that conversation can be left to conjecture as I smiled pretending not to be shocked by it all.

In 2012?

The boy had just been picked up from spending a week’s holiday with his grandparents and Upminster for all intents and purposes is not entirely out in the sticks and completely beyond civilisation. If the boy lived anywhere in London and from whatever baggage they had, they were not travelling far; one can only wonder how and why the boy could not have noticed and realised that black faces are not all that rare.

Kids have a way of learning fast and learning well from their environments. I would hate to think that influences around the boy had negatively coloured his quite impressionable young mind. It is not like we are in the 1960s when the sight of a person of colour was so much a curiosity as to be cause for amusement, surprise and fear.

Really?

All the knowledge the father could impart to the child was that I am a man. It made me wonder if I had a red face or a green face, dare I say a yellow face or a blue face and by the time I have a grey face, I might well be a weather vane.

If anything, for the sake of the well-being of that child, they all need to get out a bit more and if they have been saying silly things, that child will be growing up in a society that will be radically different from what he has been hearing or been fed and maybe next time, I will roll up my sleeves and pull up the leg of my trousers just to show that I not only have a black face and it is not a paint job either.

In community in diaspora

Of family and presence

I was out in London last weekend on an important familial mission to celebrate a landmark birthday – the party was fun and we quite pleasantly enjoyed ourselves but it presented an unusual snapshot of Diaspora that I had not observed before.

A school hall had been booked for the event and it was commendable to see that the organiser had engaged the services of a functions arranger rather than take on the extraneous duties of doing this as we had done some 10 years before.

According to the invitation, the function was to start at 4:00PM and last till 11:00PM, obviously, I did not want to be first at the party and I also wanted to be inconspicuous if I could help it – by the time I was ready to leave for the party I thought I was running quite late.

I could never be late

Coming out of my hotel I flagged down a black cab for a 15 mile ride out to Essex without batting an eye lid, with my companion, the time was usefully occupied with watching the Cabvision in-cab television system as I tried to ignore the meter reading – in the end, it was less than what I had estimated it would be.

It was just before 5:00PM and we found that apart from the few guests, the party had not started at all, we should have known, even after all these years of Westernisation, African time still looms as a context of indeterminate meeting times rather than the fastidiousness of punctuality.

Dressed out of scope

People just make it in their own time, which meant things did not get into full swing till much later. In discussions before, I had asked about dress codes required for the party, I was of the opinion that traditional dress in London in February would have been paying homage to the god of ice – so I plumbed for the suit, new shirt, new tie and new shoes – I had been doing some shopping for the latter earlier in the day.

I quipped then about members of the Celestial Church of Christ who went unshod when in their soutanas - religious robes worn by all members - and wondered what they did in winter.

Well, I was wrong, the weather was quite mild and many arrived in their full flowing gowns, the ladies in their tops called buba and wrappers called iro, these being overlaid in toga-like fashion with a netting sort of material that is also used for the head tie known as gele.

In place of the iro, some wore a long shirt-like mermaid-tail bottom, all quite fashionable, I must say I am behind the times on the in-things. Very few were in Western attire though the men who wore suits or jackets all seemed to forget to undo the last button – sloppy dressing in my view but they all seemed to be in good company.

Time waits for all men

The event eventually started 210 minutes late and no apologies were given for that lateness as each reference to the starting time was jokingly considered 4 ‘o clock when in fact there were people who had arrived well before the time on the invitation – suffice it to say that for Nigerians, time is still not of the essence.

The agenda was full, prayers, exhortations and songs – in fact, I was amazed that the English praise and worship songs were no different from the ones I did sing some 20 years ago, there might have been a variation in the music but the lyrics remained ancient rather than modern.

The Yoruba songs sounded new and were quite predicable, it made one wonder if musical inspiration was lacking for congregational gospel singing.

Diaspora in divergence

More poignantly was the fact that a good 80% of the attendants might have spent 20 years in the United Kingdom and being successful and well-to-do did not necessarily reflect an element of the integration that should have had some indigenous looking guest amongst us.

It is probably not just peculiar to this gathering but likeness seems to engender communities and the safety of sameness means people seek out similarity rather than difference – this might well be a damning indictment of multiculturalism, but I was at pains to even find a non-South Western Nigerian amongst us.

A little mixed-race girl did reveal the odd miscegenation but her father was not amongst us, we might well have been back in Nigeria having this party and it would have made no difference.

The sames of change

The children all in the late teens or early twenties all spoke English, might well understand the lingua franca of their parents but their pronunciations drew great laughter; the question then becomes what really constitutes their roots and identity.

Apart from the songs, the odd proverb and the greetings – kneeling for the women and mock prostration for the men, we were Diaspora almost plucked out from our roots and left adrift.

We might all have changed but many things remain the same – aspiration is a good thing, academic excellence is still priced – the celebrant holds a PhD, responsibility is a badge of honour, the family is the centre of existence, integrity really matters, and people recognise that in others without dissimulation, the accents are still as strong as they have ever been and when it comes to partying we are still in the running.

The music came from a drummer with a talking drum and a keyboardist who had rigged up his system to produce our traditional music and two microphones where one projected his singular voice and the other gave the impression of many singing – I thought that was quite smart.

Order! Order!

God pervades the atmosphere to suffocation everything punctuated with Praise God as a call to order rather than an active exercise in praise, but we are seriously religious people.

When we had a prayer session, I could well have been in a traditional African initiated church only that the commands to prayer were said in English.

An overdue update

By the time the celebrant cut the cake and we all gathered round for photographs it was ready for the dance, enterprising business men around with dollar notes to be exchanged for pounds allowing for us to spray the celebrant and his wife – something I found myself compelled to do by reason of association.

It was an interesting update for me on how Diaspora has both changed and remained the same despite the number of years that have passed – it might be a reflection of me being a less than community person seeking to be more world citizen than a reflection of the peculiarities of close knit communities that are as integrated as they want to be in other aspects of life but retain a modicum of segregation in their social lives.

It was a beautiful evening.

Verdonk disintegrates bill

Slow and sedentary politics

Dutch politics is based on a consensus, compromise and collaboration model simply called the Polder Model. This is understandable because it does take time, effort, negotiation, horse-trading and resources for rival forces to band together to create infrastructure to reclaim land from the sea, seeing that a third of what is the Netherlands land mass was once the sea.

The national elections took place on the 22^nd of November 2006 and we are just about to get a new cabinet; a coalition of the CDA (Christian Democrats), the PvDA (Labour Party) and Christian Unie (Christian Union), leaving us with a right-leaning government with a social bias.

Expect, abortion, prostitution, drugs, euthanasia and immigration to get a new looking at especially where certain right-wing politicians have carved a representation in the Dutch parliament, ready to cause upheaval and controversy on any issue to gain media prominence.

Disintegrating our peace again

Talking of immigration, Mrs. Rita Verdonk, got elected for the very first time and retained her ministerial portfolio as part of the out-going cabinet, however, within days of the new parliament being sworn in, Lady Oddjob who has done much to upset the applecart of Dutch politics was relieved of the immigration part of her Integration and Immigration ministry as a sop to the parliament.

In my mind she has been more about disintegration and emigration, but despite all attempts to censure her for activities inimical to societal cohesion, these have failed and rather brought Jan-Pieter Balkenende's cabinet down to its knees leading to a fall of the government and an election, all in the name of keeping the polder together, the Dutch way - other democracies would have summarily sacked her to save the government their blushes.

Anyway, a bill Mrs. Verdonk had submitted to parliament for consideration in her ministerial capacity as one of the last acts of this cabinet had suffered extensive amendments that it did not look like what the strict matron ordered. The story.

After intemperate language and high jinx, rather than have the bill voted on, she created enough discomfort in parliament as she tried to withdraw the bill and then all settled for not voting on it all.

Not really as the Dutch intended

Living in the Netherlands, there are quite a number things I have to adjust to, one of which is, people can express an opinion but must not obstinately stand their ground regardless of the rightness of their views, it is considered disruptive.

What is then termed tolerance becomes a situation where your view is noted and if not acted upon, you allow things to happen.

Some politicians are deviating from this Dutch norm; the premise of the Polder Model is attacked with extreme pronouncements and controversial positions which portend to celebrate the adherence to rules. Mrs. Verdonk comes to the fore on this, just as much as Geert Wilders and Ayaan Hirsi Ali who is now resident in the United States.

So, the parliamentarians resolved this debate by first trying to stop the bickering and then passing the bill on to the next cabinet to consider.

As one Member of Parliament said, of Verdonk, "Everything she does is one big power play. When she used the term "unacceptable," we had no desire to continue with the game any longer."

The power plays would not end here when she reverts to an ordinary member of the parliament, she would still be gunning for the leadership of the Illiberal Party (VVD) and making waves to topple Balkenende's fourth cabinet in as many years.

If I had tears to shed, they would be for those whose lives have been dehumanized by the mechanistic adherence to immigration rules to the detriment of humane consideration of their circumstances.

It is not Good Riddance, but Good Bye and thanks for your service to the country; hopefully, there would be no other opportunity to require your services again.

References

The Verdonk Blog trail

The Lady Oddjob Blog trail

The Cacophony of Rules vs The Silence of the Indifferent

We love the Netherlands

It probably has not dawned on my readership why my obsession with Lady Oddjob the Minister for Integration and Immigration or rather appropriately, of disintegration and emigration has been vociferous and bordering on the vituperative and virulent.

I now think I can put together a general context that depicts Dutch officialdom; but also affects immigrants and expatriates alike.

First, we non-indigenes come to the for many reasons, we bring with us, our culture, heritage, values and outlook to life which we have to intertwine and weave into the fabric of the host society as we adapt and integrate.

Some are better at integrating than others, most especially the younger ones in terms of language learning and relationships building.

There probably is a tendency for those who can, of right, live in the without application to vegetate to their expatriate communities if they encounter the slightest difficulty in the language and relationships building or social area. It is however, not for the want of trying.

In general, we love this place, we love the people, they have a varied and vibrant history and that is why we came here and live here. I make my home in the , happily, joyfully and fulfillingly.

Amsterdam is not Dutch Society

The tourist view the Netherlands usually extrapolated from the experiences in Amsterdam which is hardly the typical Dutch mien, when you come to settle, it is a whole new set of rules; you hit officialdom and are let utterly exasperated at the lethargy, disinterest, indifference and nonchalance of people who come to work to be seen and not necessarily to serve – you will eventually get attention, however, by then, you are at your wits end.

Digging up history to support a generalisation could be a bit unfair, but they do not necessarily have their roots in falsehood, a pattern and mode of life has been astutely observed over time to arrive at those conclusions that urban legends then tend to perpetrate.

Agreement through silence and acquiescence

Suffice it to say that indifference, collaboration, adherence and personal interest, first with officialdom that followed the rules and the populace which accepted that guidance, lead to the Netherlands losing 75% of their Jewish population to the Holocaust.[1][2][3]

Only a few years ago, we were overcome with the angst about whether Anne Frank, the young Jewish girl who journaled her time in hiding was the greatest Dutch person or an immigrant who just happened to be in the [4]. Yet, a tourist’s visit to Amsterdam is probably not complete without a visit to Anne Frank’s House.

So, Mrs Verdonk’s assertion that she is only following the rules as she sees them has historical precedence in the fact that her campaign slogan had the hallmarks stemming from one used by an ultra right-wing party and also from the perception in times past that the Nazi interpretation of the rules was the accepted and valid interpretation. [5][6]

Indifference is lethal

As she threw her hat into the ring for the leadership of the Liberal Party, it was important to remember the words of The Reverend Martin Niemöller, who clearly expressed how indifference can come back to haunt you in a very harrowing way, and this is what he said of the Nazis.

First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out

because I was not a communist.

Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out

because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the labor leaders, and I did not speak out

because I was not a labor leader.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out

because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me, and there was no one

left to speak out for me.

The Reverend Martin Niemöller

A lot is happening in the world today, that has people who can speak up adopting the “does not affect me” stance, I do wonder who would be left to speak up for them.

I, as both a British and European citizen do not have to be concerned about the way asylum seekers and immigrant non-European Union citizens are treated by the authorities and the hubris of the minister – I have inalienable European rights, but when you see language bans, forced contraception and people’s lives messed about for political point-scoring, one had better speak up now, because each new attack is an erosion of the whole body of rights in humanity that we possess and cherish.

Poor judgement for opportunism

This informs the situation where Mrs Verdonk’s actions in the case of Ayaan Hirsi Ali ended the political career of two very popular women in Dutch politics – the one of Hirsi Ali and hers. [6]

In what she did, she exuded that part of Dutch ambivalence that would make your skin creep, we immigrants sometimes do wonder if we can every fully understand what the Dutch regard as norms. As integrated as Hirsi Ali was, her undoing was that she did not adopt the “Live and let live” complacency to a the serious problem of Islamic dehumanisation of womanhood, she talked and talked out loud – that is not a Dutch norm – not at all.

Whose kind of immigrant?

So, the question remains what kind of immigrant does the want?

In what is looking like the mentality that traded Manhatten for we have three clear cases this year that show that Mrs Verdonk’s lack of judgement and perception is a handicap to any claim to leadership.

Ayaan Hirsi Ali might not have been the most loved or lovable immigrant/politician in the but she had one of the highest profiles, she is both well educated, successful and feted generously by the international community. She was even nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize 2006. Now deprived of her elected membership of the Second Chamber and Dutch citizenship, she is emigrating to the to take up a post with the American Enterprise Institute – with or without a Dutch passport.

Salomon Kalou, a very talented footballer from the Ivory Coast whose brother is going to the World Cup for the home country as captain, was recognised in spite of the 16 million eligible Dutch and probably 1000 qualified footballers, this immigrant was consider a valuable and probable asset to the Dutch dreams of football glory.

Against the better judgement of professionals where we know for a fact that people who can bring talent to the Netherlands can be fast-tracked to citizenship, his application was thwarted in a public spat that leaves much to be desired. [7]

This young man readily had a space in the Ivory Coast team to play in the world cup, but opted for the cold north in the where his application was messed around that it was too late for him to play for either the or .

Transferred to the Chelsea Football Club for a princely sum; a resounding vindication of the fact that the young man could have been a very valuable asset to the football team – he leaves for .

Taida Pasic, arrived from Kosovo at the age of 12 with her family, she quickly picked up Dutch and ended up being the best in her class for years – just months before her final exams, she became embroiled in an immigration situation which involved sending her back to Kosovo. At one time, she was handcuffed by officials in the presence of her classmates.

The brilliant girl who has since returned to Kosovo but was granted the unique dispensation of sitting her Dutch exams in the Dutch embassy wants to study law in the elite University of Leiden and a foundation in the has already offered to sponsor both tuition and living expenses.

She should return under a student’s visa and Mrs Verdonk better do well not to stand in her way this time.

Such is the way our love for the goes unrequited because some mandarin of officialdom bellows with salivating and sick-making sputum like Cerberus – Who goes there?

Many have suffered

These are the ones we know which Mrs Verdonk has through ultra vires exposed to the press in her quest to burnish her tough right-wing image.

The number of times the Second Chamber has suffered the sobriquet of a barking dog without a bite begins to bother me as Mrs Verdonk has been called at least 5 times to explain herself to parliament.

After the debate which is usually characterised with Dutch plain speaking and deference without the genuflection, Mrs Verdonk sometimes cuts the image of an unassailable overload who has one answer and everything point to that one answer to the exasperation of the members of the Second Chamber.

Rather than sanction her or pass a vote of no confidence on her, détente reigns as she is given a mandate to execute and another chance to sin again. Where the courts have ordered her to reflect she has been slothful to the point of almost mocking the context of our democracy because her populist views buoys her in the eyes of the general populace.

Where there is no effective sanction these high profile dramas of sacrificing talent and human welfare of opportunistic advantage would continue. Thankfully, the last time this happened she burnt her own bridges too. I suppose, when a mountain is immovable we can only hope there is volcano underneath it ready to help it self-destruct.

These issues should count against her, regardless of the trouble she might eventually cause – parties and people of the far right are beginning to woo her, and as long as she believes is following the rules, she might be tempted to break ranks – hopefully, that would be breaking ranks into obscurity.

No nice words for Mrs Verdonk

An Engaging Reality Show – the Dutch Parliament in session

The Dutch have a penchant for straight talking but always seem to act towards a form of consensus or compromise.

Nowhere was that more evident than in the Second Chamber of the Dutch Parliament when an emergency debate was called to address the Ayaan Hirsi Ali issue with the minister – Mrs Rita Verdonk.

Expatriates like myself hardly watch Dutch television, but somehow expatriates had a compelling desire to witness the events in the Dutch Parliament which ran on till about 3:00AM.

This is, I think, the fourth time in less than 2 years that Mrs Verdonk has been called to the parliament to address issues the legislature think border on abuse of power, abuse of privilege, the lack of due process and abrogation of procedure.

The Hirsi Ali case had a considerably high profile, being that the decision Mrs Verdonk made automatically meant Mr Ali cannot continue to be a Member of the Dutch Parliament.

Backslash, Slash, Backspace, Backslash - Questions

The MPs had a field day posing questions and questioning rationale, it looked like we were going for the full showdown, but for all the times that Mrs Verdonk has like a chastised school pupil appeared before the house, things have almost gone to the brink, but there was always a pull back.

There is no doubt that Ms Ali used false information to register as an asylum seeking, there might have been reason for any asylum seekers to use a false name for expedient reasons of leaving behind their history and making them untraceable till such a time as they are ready to be exposed.

Mrs Verdonk as also right within the remit of her ministerial duties to institute an investigation to ascertain the circumstances in which Dutch citizenship was granted and the validity of that exercise.

Communications schizophrenic

However, whilst the letter send to Ms Ali indicates that her Dutch citizenship is invalid, it gives her leave to appeal within 6 weeks, but in play of words that definitely exasperated a not few MPs Mrs Verdonk opined that she observed rather than affirmatively indicated that situation.

The debate that ran through issues like the minister’s truthfulness, understanding of the law, appreciation of the power of parliament and deference to its demands, hardly any MPs could find words of praise at her actions.

Rather, one ex-leader of her party did express surprise at the speed of resolution of the inquiry alluding to the fact that the backlog of claims in the immigration department would have been cleared up if things were that efficient. They are not – that department is an utter bureaucratic mess.

Called to order

In the end, Mrs Verdonk – The Iron Lady and my Lady Oddjob has been ordered, yes, ordered, to review the case of Ms Ali on the status of her citizenship and where it is found that her claim is valid, it should be accelerated.

Yesterday, I discerned that we would not hit the streets in protest, but expect the Dutch to do something about it – this compromise is as good as it gets – the minister does not entirely lose face, the government does not collapse and parliament gets to impose its will.

There is a Dutch ambivalence to this issue, in that the many I have chatted to, on the face of it commend Mrs Verdonk for following the law, but when I raise issues of the exercise of the law requiring a human face and the possible negative effect on expatriates or the fact that a Dutch a language that thrives on exceptions cannot seem to seen exceptions in the imposition of the law, Mrs Verdonk’s esteem falls.

This is probably part of my integration, trying to understand the Dutch psyche – where I would have thought a big slap on the wrist would have sufficed with an admonition and liberal sanction, the obstinate adherence to laws has undone all the parties involved.

The chastised Verdonk

Mrs Verdonk can as well put paid to the idea of leading her party at the end of May – it is a case of an opportunist being overtaken and outplayed by the opportunity. Like Samson, his exercise of power in trying to destroy his enemies also brought the building down on himself.

I would not rejoice too early, but I cannot wait to see Mrs Verdonk come second best in the leadership race for the Liberal Party.

However, it is only in Dutch politics that the most high profile minister of the realm is a minister without portfolio in the Ministry of Justice.

Apart from the Prime Minister who has had a makeover from his erstwhile Harry Potter looks, one wonders who those who run portfolio ministries are – Finance, Interior Matters, Foreign Affairs, Justice and Defence – they all probably have not been mentioned once for anything significant, this year.

Bizarre, but that is living in the Netherlands – amazing place!

References

The Verdonk Archive

Expatica's Dutch news in English: MPs order Verdonk to reconsider Hirsi Ali's status:

Expatica's Dutch news in English: Hirsi Ali: fast decision amazes ministers: