You can be punished with a Money Fine
-- or: "The Belgian Welcome Wagon"
There have been many moments since arriving in Belgium when I've felt less than welcome. There was that night that I tried to go for dinner and all around me shopkeepers and restaurant owners were slamming their windows shut and barring their doors. I skirted around a paddy wagon bursting with flak-jacketed soldiers that barred the streets with Razor Wire barriers. I didn't know anything about the annual political march where left-crazies meet right-crazies in the center square. All night I was in a bad Apocolypse-Now meets Westside Story mashup with black helicopters circling around and loudspeakers blaring music and anger.
There was the night when I, settled in my livingroom and enjoying yet another lonely Friday night reading a book, listened for hours to the party throbbing next door. A group of young partiers climbed out onto the roof and peeped in my window... squeeling in surprise and amazement that someone was actually inside the apartment.
There is the constant lack of eye contact or smiling -- even amongst my colleagues -- that makes me feel like I'm on another planet, and not just in a foreign country.
And so on...
But I have just received the most unwelcoming letter from my local commune. For those of you lucky enough to not have to know what a commune is (or if you are super lucky and think it's a place where like-minded, life-loving weavers/organic food growers live together in harmony), let me give you a little background...
When you move to Belgium you have to register with a townhall -- or commune -- that governs every beurocratic aspect of one's Belgian existence, and then some. Think Kafka novel. I'm sure that I don't know the half of what they do, but I do know that it's the government's way of knowing who is living where. If you do not register with a commune, you will be located and ejected from the country. The commune verifies that you are, in fact living in their zone (and, I guess, not just pretending to) by sending the police to your house. All the police really do is check that your name is on the mailbox, but still. Once you are registered they make sure that all is in order. For foreigners, they make sure that you are assimilated. Oh, sorry, I mean "integrated".
I recently received the following letter, signed by my commune's Burgermeester. The original is in Flemish, so I've used on online translation app which gives it, in my estimation, an appropriate amount of creepiness...
Most of the hoogachting??? That's about as much of the hoogachting as I need thanks. You can keep the rest of your funky-ass hoogachting to yourself.
The last thing I need right about now is to be punished with anything else Belgian. Just being here is punishing enough, thanks. I'm already living in a place with live wires sticking out of walls where light fixtures should be, a shower that tries daily to kill me, and a low-frequency hum whose source cannot be located and is driving me incrementally mad. I'm already punished by a Belgian society that closes their stores at 6pm so I never have groceries, and who thinks whenever I smile that I'm the anti-social one. I'm already reminded every day that my sense of humor does-not-work within a 900km radius of anywhere I happen to be standing, and I'm already certain that if I really needed assistance in the case of an emergency, that I wouldn't get it.
As much as I would loooove to be integrated into your obviously warm and highly desirable Flemish culture (for one thing, I'd like to be able to go around threatening people with moneyfines), I'm pretty sure that I'm going to be pretty hard to convince at this point... best you keep your threats of a moneyfine punishment to your burger-eating self, meester.
-- or: "The Belgian Welcome Wagon"
There have been many moments since arriving in Belgium when I've felt less than welcome. There was that night that I tried to go for dinner and all around me shopkeepers and restaurant owners were slamming their windows shut and barring their doors. I skirted around a paddy wagon bursting with flak-jacketed soldiers that barred the streets with Razor Wire barriers. I didn't know anything about the annual political march where left-crazies meet right-crazies in the center square. All night I was in a bad Apocolypse-Now meets Westside Story mashup with black helicopters circling around and loudspeakers blaring music and anger.
There was the night when I, settled in my livingroom and enjoying yet another lonely Friday night reading a book, listened for hours to the party throbbing next door. A group of young partiers climbed out onto the roof and peeped in my window... squeeling in surprise and amazement that someone was actually inside the apartment.
There is the constant lack of eye contact or smiling -- even amongst my colleagues -- that makes me feel like I'm on another planet, and not just in a foreign country.
And so on...
But I have just received the most unwelcoming letter from my local commune. For those of you lucky enough to not have to know what a commune is (or if you are super lucky and think it's a place where like-minded, life-loving weavers/organic food growers live together in harmony), let me give you a little background...
When you move to Belgium you have to register with a townhall -- or commune -- that governs every beurocratic aspect of one's Belgian existence, and then some. Think Kafka novel. I'm sure that I don't know the half of what they do, but I do know that it's the government's way of knowing who is living where. If you do not register with a commune, you will be located and ejected from the country. The commune verifies that you are, in fact living in their zone (and, I guess, not just pretending to) by sending the police to your house. All the police really do is check that your name is on the mailbox, but still. Once you are registered they make sure that all is in order. For foreigners, they make sure that you are assimilated. Oh, sorry, I mean "integrated".
I recently received the following letter, signed by my commune's Burgermeester. The original is in Flemish, so I've used on online translation app which gives it, in my estimation, an appropriate amount of creepiness...
Dear Ms,
Regardng your duty to integration
You have just arrived in our country. The Flemish government reminds you with this letter to your duty to following an integration route. You get the chance Dutch learn and a lot of useful matter concerning the Flemish society come to be possible.
Your duty implies among other things that you must submit an application rapidly on the onthaalbureau. At registration in the onthaalbureau with you a contract is established. Stands which lessons must follow you. If you do not submit an application within the three months after registration in the municipality on the onthaalbureau or you your contract do not comply with, you can be punished with a money fine.
Since you are registered already longer than three months in the municipality, to insist we that you submit an application rapidly on the onthaalbureau.
With most the hoogachting.
Dirk B.,
Burgemeester
Most of the hoogachting??? That's about as much of the hoogachting as I need thanks. You can keep the rest of your funky-ass hoogachting to yourself.
The last thing I need right about now is to be punished with anything else Belgian. Just being here is punishing enough, thanks. I'm already living in a place with live wires sticking out of walls where light fixtures should be, a shower that tries daily to kill me, and a low-frequency hum whose source cannot be located and is driving me incrementally mad. I'm already punished by a Belgian society that closes their stores at 6pm so I never have groceries, and who thinks whenever I smile that I'm the anti-social one. I'm already reminded every day that my sense of humor does-not-work within a 900km radius of anywhere I happen to be standing, and I'm already certain that if I really needed assistance in the case of an emergency, that I wouldn't get it.
As much as I would loooove to be integrated into your obviously warm and highly desirable Flemish culture (for one thing, I'd like to be able to go around threatening people with moneyfines), I'm pretty sure that I'm going to be pretty hard to convince at this point... best you keep your threats of a moneyfine punishment to your burger-eating self, meester.
posted by Penless Artist at 5:15 p.m.
2 Comments:
I don't think I'll ever complain about being an Australian in England ever again - hang on a minute, I'd have nothing to blog about. I take that back. What on earth are you doing there? Wouldn't Paris be more suitable? Still I know what you mean about the close relationship with electical outputs. I had that when I lived in Spain. I was always being mildly electrocuted there.
Why are you still there if you can't integrate? The letter seemed nice; they were trying to help you avoid a fee. I am American and I live abroad. It's different, bottom line. It's probably better for everyone if you just go back to America.
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