I confess to being in two minds about telling this story. I accept that it probably does not reflect particularly well on your Brussels correspondent. I am a bit embarrassed about what readers may see as callous and ungenerous behaviour on my part. And maybe they are right.
I can also see friends tut-tutting at even telling a story that they will feel may feed prejudice or reinforce stereotypes that I abhor. That is certainly not my intention – I think, however, it says something about an aspect of this city we ignore at our peril.
You know the Muslims are coming. Soon. The Muslims are coming and they will deal with the likes of you."
It was late on Saturday night, a warm night that suggested spring. There was a sprinkling of people on the street as I sat alone in a bus shelter at the heart of one of this city’s mixed areas.
He saw me and came over.
“Do you speak French?”
“Yes.”
I was struck by his neatness. There was no stumble, no smell of alcohol. He was clean-shaven, and well spoken. Not, I thought, the usual touch.
“Can you help me. I have no money and I need coffee.”
“No. I’m sorry.” No excuses or elaboration.
I don’t want to get into a discussion, or explain, or an argument that never ends. I don’t respond well to street solicitation. Partly because I don’t believe what I am being told. Partly because of a social awkwardness, a discomfort I will admit to having rationalised into a dubious principle of not helping beggars. “No.”
“I’m sick,” he continued, “a splitting headache. I just need some coffee.”
“No. Please. I’m sorry, but no.”
A couple of euro
He wasn’t giving up. “You don’t believe me. Well, come and pay for the coffee yourself. Come with me. If you don’t believe me. Only a couple of euro. That’s all. And I need it. Won’t you just help me?”
I shake my head.
“I’m ill. Look, I’m on pills.” He fished into his pocket for a couple of silver-wrapped slabs of pills and offered them for inspection. Much like those I take.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Why not? It’s not much. You can come and make sure I spend it on coffee.“
He continued to press me. Not aggressive, politely persistent. Seemingly bewildered that I would not help, sensing my embarrassment and playing it. And then, after five minutes or so, he gave up and wandered off.
Not for long. There was no one else to tap, and I was still there trapped in my bus shelter. Unfinished business.
“Won’t you help? Why not?”
I shook my head again. His tone changed.
“Some day you will be ill. Some day you will understand what I’m going through. Some day you will hope someone will help you. And I hope you suffer. That you lose your sight. That you become disabled. I hope it hurts, that you suffer.”
He decided that would suffice, and again headed off. But not far. Then he was back. Leaning down, a few inches from my face, he spoke slowly.
“You know the Muslims are coming. Soon. The Muslims are coming and they will deal with the likes of you.”
Slowly drawing his finger across under his chin, “and they will cut your throats. You too. They are coming.”
He smiled, drew back, and left. I was relieved when the bus drew up.
My personal jihadist was a strange fish. A member of the city’s large north African community, he seemed to be suggesting, however, that he was not of “the Muslims”. But in the deep well of his anger against the world, and me, he had absorbed at least some of a spirit undoubtedly present in some of its community’s alienated youth.
Under siege
More than six in 10 Brussels residents were not born in Belgium. In a kingdom of 11 million people, Islam claims the loyalty of about 800,000. In Brussels they make up 25 per cent of the population – 70 per cent of Moroccan heritage and 20 per cent Turkish.
Since the terrorist attacks of March 2016 on Brussels airport and the metro system, the community, particularly in areas like nearby Molenbeek, has felt under siege, and many resent the heavy-handed treatment and “ethnic profiling”, particularly of young men, by the police.
A 2011 survey by Open Society found that 74 per cent of Muslims were subject to “large to relatively large amounts of prejudice”, while nearly one in three Muslims report experiencing discrimination looking for a job.
Even before the attacks Belgium had the grim distinction of being the European country that produced the highest number per head of young militants who went off to fight in Syria.
My jihadist does not represent that broader community – far from it – but his easily triggered resentment, and its particular expression, suggests a more profound alienation within that community than many understand.