The break: Blogging Black from the Netherlands and how I became an Afro-European

Ground level Ganzenhoef Amsterdam Bijlmer 

I am going to take a break, but of course blogger Sibo will continue to share his views on Afro-Europe. Before I go, however, I would like to share some of my thoughts and experiences about becoming Afro-European and how I started blogging.

A year ago, I received an email from someone who wanted to know more about black people in the Netherlands and how I came to be here.

Of course, I had been asked similar questions before. I remember a few white Americans stopping me in downtown Amsterdam to ask if I could translate a few English words into Dutch. Suddenly, they asked me where I came from. “I was born in Amsterdam,” I replied. “No, where do you really come from?” they insisted. They were great people, by the way, so I gave them a quick elevator pitch about the “African-Americans” of Holland.

This post will not be an elevator pitch.

Growing up ignorant in Amsterdam

I grew up almost colorless. Although I knew I was black, there was no racism around me that made me acutely aware of it. I was born in Amsterdam before the large Surinamese migration began in 1975, and I lived in a neighborhood that was almost 90 percent white. Fortunately, my social circle was culturally diverse. I had Dutch, Surinamese, bi-racial Surinamese, Jewish, and Chinese friends.

Moving to the “black” part of Amsterdam, Amsterdam South East (De Bijlmer)

Moving to a predominantly black environment was an eye-opening experience. The neighborhood was alive with anti-racism activists, rastas, and advocates of black culture. Everything felt vibrant and black, including, of course, the junkies. Walking through the Bijlmer in summer felt like being on a Caribbean island: black people everywhere.

From an identity perspective, the move was a gift from God. But being born and raised in the Netherlands meant I actually had to integrate into the black community. My “uppity” Dutch accent (so to speak) made this challenging, as I was entering a “deep” black Surinamese-Caribbean community heavily influenced by Black American culture. I was, of course, considered “white.” But thanks to shooting hoops all winter, I managed to join the summer pickup basketball games —and that’s where my journey into black identity truly began. The character in Paul Beatty’s The White Boy Shuffle—that’s me.

Becoming “Black” gradually

I made new friends, too. They introduced me to black organizations, and I met black artists, activists, and people from across Europe. I remember getting lost when trying to speak to a French black girl. I barely spoke French, and she hardly spoke English.

During this period, I learned how skin color was perceived. Most of my black friends dated white girls, and I dated black girls. At first, the racial dimension passed me like a ship in the night, but I gradually learned the deeper social structures at play. Growing up in an environment where skin color functioned almost like a rank gave me insight I might have missed otherwise.

Yet, despite developing a black identity, I felt something was missing. It was like watching CNN but not understanding the background. I lacked a deeper understanding of blackness.

My black experience

I realized that my understanding of blackness wouldn’t come from basketball, eating rice and beans, or hanging out with friends. Unlike them, I had learned almost nothing in school about colonialism, slavery, or even Suriname’s history. I knew a little, vaguely, but that was it.

One of the first books I read was Eduardo Galeano’s Open Veins of Latin America. I think it’s the book Venezuelan president Hugo Chávez once gave to President Obama. It opened my eyes to Latin American history from a leftist perspective. It was radical, but I needed a radical view then. Later I realized it wasn’t exactly my history. Suriname is in South America, yes, but culturally, it is Caribbean. Still, I am glad I read it.

The book that truly connected me to my roots was Van Priary tot en met De Kom: The History of Resistance in Suriname by Sandew Hira. Hira, the Surinamese equivalent of Galeano, gave me a deep understanding of Suriname’s black struggle and Dutch colonialism.

The book that shaped my black identity was Black Skin, White Masks by French writer Frantz Fanon. James Baldwin might have said it takes you into the dungeons of your black soul. I started reading it, closed it, then reopened it three months later. Fanon addressed issues I had never considered—one of his famous lines: a black person wants to be white. He explained this as a logical consequence of slavery and colonialism. By the time I finished, I didn’t want to be white, but I was left questioning why one should feel proud to be black if being black often meant living with a twisted, frustrated mind.

Fanon gave me a kind of Teflon layer, as one African scholar put it. It didn’t “cure” Fanon—but it added to my black identity. To my Afro-Dutch identity? Not yet.

Becoming Afro-Dutch?

I don’t have an Afro-Dutch identity; I have a Surinamese-Dutch identity. Saying you’re Dutch to a Surinamese person is sometimes even considered an insult. I think the major difference between the French and the British is that the Dutch were more preoccupied with trade than with assimilating slaves into Dutch culture. Not very long ago in the Netherlands, children from foreign countries could receive lessons in their own language and culture during school time. “Comfy together,” or as they say in Dutch, “gezellig bij elkaar,” with your own people was the Dutch mantra for integration. Foreign films in Holland are not dubbed as in France or Germany, but subtitled. However, perceptions about integration and minorities have changed now.

Being Surinamese-Dutch feels like belonging to a cult group, and to be honest, I am comfortable with it.

I am going to take a giant leap forward in time.

Blogging and becoming Afro-European

Fast forward two years. Before I started blogging about Afro-Europe, I was focused on the Netherlands. Although I had met black people from different countries in Europe and Africa, I had virtually no deep knowledge of their backgrounds. Even on holidays in Europe, I was running around to see the buildings or other tourist attractions. A market full of black people in London doesn’t differ much from a market in Amsterdam-South East.

Like most holidays, I focused on the beach or on sightseeing. There is hardly any time to actually meet black people in their countries. Before you know it, you’re back home in the rat race again.

The inspiration for Afro-Europe began after an interview I did with an famous Afro-German female artist. I am not going to say who she is, but if she reads this: thanks for the inspiration and your mind-blowing insights. Although I had met French, British, and African people, it never occurred to me that there were actually black people in Germany, even though Germany is the neighbouring country of the Netherlands. Another source of inspiration was the blog Black Women in Europe.

One of the books I read was Noah Sow’s Deutschland Schwarz Weiß – der alltägliche Rassismus (Germany Black White – Everyday Racism). What struck me about this book was the subtle racism I had never noticed before. It was as if different lights went on on the same stage. I saw objects I had previously overlooked. The little black boy on my cornflakes box, surrounded by African elephants and zebras, was something I had hardly noticed before. To me, it was just part of yet another “Africa” contest campaign. But after reading Sow’s book, I realized there is an implicit racist connection when black kids are always portrayed with African animals. Her book made me more aware that I was living in a society with hidden, and sometimes even subliminal, racist images. I somehow felt as ignorant as the day I moved to Amsterdam-South East. It was strange to get this insight from a German book. And yes, these images were all around me in the Netherlands.

Then I got an email from Belgium: My name is Sibo and I would like to contribute. It was again strange to discover that there was a person from another country writing about everything I had always wanted to write about but couldn’t. I was eager to see a new perspective from a black person from Belgium. But he has something I don’t have: a close connection to Africa.

Identity

Being Afro-European is not the same as being a Dutch black person, I see that as one element. I am different from a black British Caribbean, or African person. Growing up black in a class-structured Dutch society differs from growing up in France or the UK. Being Afro-German is also different, given the small community in a largely white country with a notorious racial history.

What I share with other Afro-Europeans is that I want to have a piece of the country where I was born and raised. I don’t even have to defend that position. Being black and European gives me an Afro-European connection on race, black success, and other issues, but also a connection to Africa.

How I became African, again

Even after reading positive books about Africa, I remained biased. I read about Yoruba copper masks and the monuments of Great Zimbabwe, but these seemed like compensations for the grim realities I saw on TV: Rwanda, hunger, child soldiers, corrupt leaders. In Europe, one death seems equal to 500 in Africa. That was my ignorance two years ago, when I first started blogging.

Thanks to African blogs, I’ve learned that “Africa” doesn’t exist as a monolith. My ignorance led me to stereotype an entire continent. I remember a silent Nigerian teammate in basketball—I never asked him about Nigeria. And an African woman who asked for me directions corrected me about a “war” I assumed was in her country. Blogging has completely changed my perspective on Africa and Africans.

I have never visited Africa, but the slave fort of Elmina, where my ancestors departed from, is not the only thing I wish to see. There is so much more beyond that single leaf on the tree of Africa.

Has blogging about Afro-Europe changed me?

A lot. I can’t go back to blogging on a national level because I have seen, heard, and experienced so much of the Afro-European community. I’ve seen people who could outsmart me ten times over. I’ve seen successful initiatives that could be replicated in other European countries with the same results. And I’ve seen a media landscape that could be a goldmine and a powerful network if only they would connect with each other.

Is this the end?

No. I think it’s just a break.
 
Best wishes for 2011!

Erik K