They were 16. I caught them – other people came to help too. We administered first aid as best we could.
“Can I have your parents' phone number?” I asked.
If they weren't shaking from shock and fatigue before, they were shaking now. They were so afraid of their parents' reaction. They had lied at home and said they were staying together.
Those parents had no idea what the boys had been up to. I had to laugh to myself
–I know that trick.
Certainly the injured boy really needed medical attention. I was finally able to convince them to call their moms and dads. Not much later they were at the gate.
I went to greet them. The relief that fell over those people's shoulders – wow. They were happy to have been called.
“Don't hit them too hard,” I told the parents.
“The boys were really scared.”
The families started talking, and soon I saw them hugging. It all turned out fine.
Camp ended and I was already looking forward to the next one. I returned to my work at Brussels Jazz Club and at the start of the school year also to my lectures at the schools.
In Bulgaria and Sweden, the places where the No Border camps were organized in the following years, I came across many familiar faces. In general, really close, warm friendships were made in the camps. Of course you don't get along well with everyone and there are occasional arguments here and there - especially if you've had too much to drink. But decisions were always made democratically, mediation took place when necessary and people helped each other where they could. And that is beautiful. In 2012, the same year as the No Border camp in Sweden, I started an activist news blog. I wanted to bundle all kinds of relevant news items from all over the world, to give people one large and clear source of information with relevant reporting, which could also be consulted as an archive.
In Brussels itself there was also one demonstration after another. During the camps I often stayed in the welcome tent to be of service, but during one-off demonstrations in Brussels I protested when I could. One evening I was rushing to catch the bus. I saw the bus, ran and jumped to just slip between the doors – I jumped wrong. I landed straight on the stones. Immense pain. I was allowed to take painkillers anyway, but this came in. I groaned on the cobblestones. Friendly passers-by then helped me get home, but I didn't sleep a wink. I knew I had to go to the hospital. I was taken to the Virga Jesse hospital in Hasselt, where the doctors knew me. My kneecap was not quite broken, but had to be treated and cared for as if it were broken. Walking independently was no longer an option. With the walker, yes. Eddy came to pick me up from the hospital.
“Luc!”, he growled and laughed.
We agreed that it would be best to take me to our parents, so that I could recover and rest there. I didn't stay in Peer long. My life was in Brussels. As soon as my condition allowed it, I went back. With my walker. I continued to join the demonstrations and these times I threw myself into the front line during confrontations, with the walker. The other activists protected me. I posed a very annoying problem for the riot police, because someone with a visible disability is almost never hit, even during confrontations. As an officer, you can hardly accuse a person with a serious physical disability of deliberate violence or resistance: they knew that I could not do anything “wrong”. They didn't know what to do with me.
They often tried to isolate me from the other activists. If this was successful, the other activists were beaten when they resisted. We were often administratively arrested during unauthorized demonstrations. We made the best friends there, in the cell. I was always released first, due to my limitations. In the meantime, they already knew me and often did not feel like calling a doctor. The others often had to sit 3 or 5 hours longer than me.
My body just deteriorated more and more and the harder all the pain was, the more I fought. For myself, for solidarity, for fellow human beings, for everything that is just. To be able to make a difference.
In the autumn of 2012 I was having a drink in one of my regular pubs in Brussels.
I suddenly felt very tired. At the table, or bar, where I sat, I nodded and fought against sleep.
“This is not a sleepover café here,” I heard someone say.
I got up and decided to go home. The next thing I consciously experienced was a gentle but firm shaking on my shoulder.
“Monsieur? Monsieur? ”I heard.
47.
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