l'Etranger in Brussels

I rose at an inhumane hour this morning to get the first train to Brussels. Another day trip in the capital of Europe lay in store. I was going to a high-level meeting for which I was an impostor: totally unqualified, unprepared, and which would be conducted in a language I don't understand. I did not enjoy my 4:45 alarm.

The train is affectionately known as the zombie train. I understood why as I foggily bumbled around Brussels vainly searching for the meeting venue.

I briefly entertained hopes of concealing my linguistic inadequacies by combining my mediocre French with a breezy arrogance that I assumed would disguise me as a local. My delusions were duly shattered as I entered the building, where a security guard gruffly mumbled a question to which I casually replied 'oui', only for him to stare at me blankly, before asking in perfect English what meeting I was there for. I meekly dug into my bag for the invite, and resigned myself to being another monolingual Brit abroad.

When I finally reached the right room I found a small group of well-acquainted and effortlessly polyglot development policy types, who eventually acknowledged my bleary-eyed presence with polite nods. Before the fraud of my presence at the meeting could be unmasked the meeting's chair, the eldest of a long line-up of EC officials sat before us, had launched into the introduction.

I eventually found my interpretation headphones and settled into the following cycle: try to listen with the English translation at low volume in order to learn some French; try to listen in English to take notes for the report I had to write on the meeting; get confused by the interpreter's unerring speech patterns and imperfect translations of concepts I'd struggle with anyway; get embarrassed then immediately relieved no-one could see my inner failings; zone out and indulge in lengthening blinks until someone spots me and I sit up straight, take a deep breath, then try to listen to the speaker to practice my French...

The meeting itself was slightly dry and laboured, but explored an interesting and important shift within European international development policy. The core of the meeting was a recent report assessing the EU's first attempts to involve non-state actors (civil society, local authorities, etc.) In not only the implementation, but also the design of their development programmes. an unquestionably positive move - how can one hope to 'help' people effectively if they're not even given a role in the design of that help? And as the world's largest spender of development aid, the EU has a huge amount of influence. Of course the new policy has not been implemented perfectly, but I was impressed with how openly the official present tried to understand the various complaints. Overall it was a useful and instructive meeting, even if most of it went over my head.

Brussels is a unique and fascinating place. Before I started going with work I'd unthinkingly swallowed the media's line that it's a dull town of irrelevant institutions and anally retentive bureaucrats, removed from the real world. It definitely exists in its own bubble, but the more time I spend there the more I see that it's actually a beautiful and lively city of complex but noble institutions and huge number of immensely bright, well meaning and attractive young professionals. My sense of their brilliance this morning was probably amplified by the certainty of my own uselessness.

And so as I dozed on the train back, unpicking the day's events, I realised that, although I hadn't contributed a great deal, it is essential for my development to be in these types of situations: to improve my French, to improve my understanding of the debates, and above all to get into the culture of the fascinating and hugely influential Brussels bubble.

Race, space and dying well

The third module of the intercultural navigators programme took me to Leicester. Why Leicester? Because next year it is projected to become the first city in the UK where the majority (i.e. white British) population will be in the minority, making it a test case for 'multiculturalism'.

We learnt about the roots of the concept of multiculturalism - 1960s Canada where the rapid influx of economic migrants forced government and academia to consider the new arrivals' impact on the wider society. We then deconstructed it's meaning and connotations, comparing it to 'multiethnicity' (which is what most people really mean when they use multicultural, as they refer not to customs and habits but ethnicity), the new vogue term, 'diversity' and its ideal outcome, 'community integration'.

We also had some fascinating discussions with two local policeman and a community cohesion officer from the local council, however these were somewhat eclipsed by the heated and heartfelt discussions that they prompted after they left. Of the three visitors, one was white, one was Asian, and one was black - incidentally all were male, highlighting another axis of inequality that's been a running theme for us - and some in the group felt that the dynamics between the visitors, and between the visitors and the group, exhibited an unspoken and underlying racial tension. It all boiled down to people from minorities sometimes feeling that they don't have the right to speak.

The comment brought interesting reactions: I along with many in the room (which was, predictably, mostly white) became instinctively defensive, however as the discussion progressed I realised that an important point had been made: that I - a white, middle class male - must accept that others may feel discriminated at times, even though I can't see it, and only by being sensitive to that can I hope to understand and help people overcome it. It wasn't about me (or anyone else) being racist, but someone taking the brave step of sharing a very personal insecurity that resonates with people from minorities around the world (it did with me when I represented an ethnic minority in Africa), and underpins so many of the challenges that modern, diverse societies face.

We also compared different views towards nationalism. Many of our group had just returned from international conferences where they had met with intercultural navigators from the other participating countries (most of them in Central and Eastern Europe), and noted the strong sense of nationalism that their peers from the new EU member states felt. The only country that was more nationalist was Ukraine, which is still in the EU's waiting room. By contrast the Brits and the Scandinavians had felt uncomfortable (as I do) discussing and enacting their national culture. This was described as 'post-nation statism', a label that struck a chord with me.

The venue for these intense discussions was, bizarrely, the National Space Centre, which is located on a bleak industrial estate on the outskirts of Leicester. Approaching on the dundering local bus, we suddenly saw an enormous transparent beehive rising from the cracked car parks and crumbling warehouses around us. As we got closer we saw that it housed two NASA rockets.

Initially I thought it slightly surreal but ultimately pointless that such a venue had been chosen. I'd never really been interested in space. But we were given an hour to wonder around the exhibits on the second day, and I soon shed my cynicism and was running around as giddily as the primary school kids that frantic teachers were trying in vain to control. There were all sorts of red buttons for me to push and simulations to experience, but my favourite part was footage showing astronauts larking about on the moon. Some of them were skipping along, enjoying the reduced gravity; one was whacking golf balls as hard as he could; another was struggling to lift machinery and flailing around as if a wearing giant sumo outfit on a budget gameshow. It looked like a lot of fun.

The most memorable exhibit was a series of astronaut profiles. Being among the most competitive professions in the world one would expect the chosen few to be high-calibre individuals, but there was one, Kalpana Chawla, who caught my attention. Predictably she was an outstanding scientist, and a dedicated servant to NASA, but unlike the others profiled who listed hobbies such as 'winter sports' and 'scuba diving', her hobby was aerobatic flying. She was the first Indian woman in space in 1997, and though one of her experiments went badly wrong, a five month investigation found that a technical error was responsible, and she was fully exonerated. This meant that she would be able to return to space, which she did in 2003, however following a successful mission her space shuttle disintegrated upon re-entering the atmosphere.

I was surprised by how much it affected me, and in the week since I read it the tragedy of her (and her six crew mates) dramatic death has stayed with me. There are many themes to draw from her extraordinary life and death - how great that an Indian woman could achieve so much, but how much easier would it have been were she a white American man; why did NASA not allow the astronauts to repair the damaged insulation before it cost the crew their lives - but I've focussed on the simple story of a person doing something that she wanted to, despite the clear risk to her life. It's been said that those who aren't willing to die for something, will fall for anything. I'm not sure I want anything enough to risk that much, but then I am only young.

Kosovo - revisited

You can tell from the passengers on the plane that this is not a normal destination. The functional, smart-casual clothes and Americanised English gave the majority of them away as 'internationals' - foreigners working for the various international organisations and multilateral institutions. The rest of the plane was filled with uniformed soldiers (Danish), a sprinkling of brave backpackers, and Kosovan expats in headscarves and flat caps. (My politically incorrect colleague expressed amusement at seeing 'farmers' in planes.)

Kosovo is a truly bewildering and fascinating place. Having been there a few weeks previously, it was nice to come back and learn a bit more about the world's youngest state.


Kosovo's independence monument

It is a place of stark contradictions: deep in an apparently intractable political quagmire, yet its capital, Pristina, exhibits an incredible dynamism and energy. People are extremely friendly, warm and open, and yet I sensed a very dark underbelly to Kosovan society, confirmed by a tale of a friend of a friend - an international - who whilst worked establishing the telecoms network following the war was spied upon and had her flat repeatedly burgled. She had lived happily in Beirut, but (understandably) couldn't handle Pristina, and left without seeing out her contract.

Kosovo, and especially Pristina, is like a Disneyland of bizarre new buildings, lending the place a surreal air. The road between the airport and Pristina is dotted with endless petrol stations and brand new, stand-alone furniture shops, with barely any stock and no customers. Foreign aid (and its illicit mistress, rampant corruption) have led to building frenzy, with little thought on their actual use. Old buildings are very hard to find in Pristina, and where they do stand they feel out of context, not least because the street level often comes halfway up the first floor.

Then there's the enormous presence of the internationals. Kosovo is a who's who of multilateral organisations. (The same un-PC colleague described it as 'Africa without blacks'.) The country's graced by the presence of UNHCR, UNDP, EU, OECD, NATO, as well as just about every international NGO, not to mention the controversial NATO force in Kosovo, K-FOR. The OECDs modern skyscraper office is such a landmark that it's proudly displayed on postcards.

The presence of so many internationals mean there are lots of very good restaurants and high-end shops in Pristina. Kosovo is one of Europe's poorest countries, but these restaurants are a haven for foreigners and wealthy locals. The conversations I overheard there were all in impeccable but clearly non-native English.

At the end of our first day's work our local partner in Kosovo, Ertjan, drove us out of the city to Germia park: the long, lush park that snakes out of the city centre to a high peak a few miles out of town. Ertjan is understandably proud of the beautiful park, though he noted with scorn that the numerous new houses scarring the pristine environment were illegal buildings. Apparently most are owned by members of government, who have no trouble in securing the necessary permissions to get away with it. Under the Serb control this never happened.

The park bore witness to the Serb's last stand in Kosovo, as the peak's panoramic views made it an obvious choice for the Serb army's command base. It also made it an easy target for the NATO forces in '99, and there are still huge craters there testifying to the size of the bombs dropped. Near the crater I saw a modest yellow sign denoting a landmine. It was the first such sign I'd ever seen and in my enthusiasm I almost bounded over to have a closer look.



The work itself went very well. Our two-day training workshop passed off successfully, despite the angry dwarf who burst in near the end to denounce virtually everyone as either corrupt, stupid or fascist. The conference we held on the final day, which aimed to strengthen the relationship between civil society and government, was a tempestuous affair, with the government representatives getting a rough ride. They responded fairly well, and I almost felt sorry for them, until I later learned that they had been guilty of a cynical piece of spin: they'd decried a recent protest in which the protesters had killed chickens by 'smashing them on the concrete' outside parliament; I later found out that actually the protesters had released 120 chickens (one for each MP in the Kosovan parliament) into the parliamentary gardens, only for them to be exterminated by government-hired pest controllers. It was a bizarre and fitting twist at the end of my brief visit.