rfmcdonald | [LINK] "Along the language frontier"

Open Democracy's RSS feed--recommended to me years ago by

nwhyte, incidentally--tossed up another great article, Philip Ebels' "Along the language frontier". In this article, Ebels travels along the Flemish-Walloon frontier and Dutch-French language frontier in Belgium--as he notes, one of the oldest frontiers in Europe, dating to the time after the Roman Empire and remaining surprisingly intact--and reports on the conflicts he finds and doesn't find.

People actually start to speak another language the moment you cross this invisible boundary. They don’t do so gradually, like in many other European border regions, but abruptly. One farmer talks to me in Flemish; his neighbour a football field away speaks French. It’s an almost schizophrenic experience as I cross the border for what could be the twentieth time today.

But despite the contrast this is not Yugoslavia. “It’s the politicians”, most people tell me, “they’re the ones who don’t get along.” I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. I didn’t expect to find a bullet-ridden war zone, but at least a strong opinion, some inciting graffiti, or maybe even a bar brawl. Nothing of the sort. But, the real hotbeds still lie ahead.

[. . .]

One is the municipality of Sint-Genesius-Rode, just south of Brussels. It is historically and officially Flemish, but has grown overwhelmingly Francophone—or non-Dutch-speaking, since it has been discovered by the city’s many diplomats and European Union officials. It is green, safe, and prosperous. Geographically, it borders Brussels in the north—officially bilingual but a de facto Francophone enclave within Flanders—and Wallonia in the south. Francophone politicians, therefore, have had their eyes on it for years, much to the chagrin of the Flemish.

I strike an odd note among the pretty girls in shiny cabriolets, driving to and from the tennis court. One of them points me towards the small city centre, trying her utmost to answer in Dutch. “Bonjour, goeiedag”, is how the people here greet me, which I take to mean as much as “I come in peace”, the salaam aleikum of bigger Brussels. “Goeiedag, bonjour”, seems to be the appropriate reply, aleikum salaam.

One window across the street from the village church announces this year’s “Gordel”, an annual bicycle ride around the Brussels periphery, for the Flemish by the Flemish, to show the world that the land is still theirs. Francophone residents traditionally show their appreciation by changing road signs and throwing nails on bike paths the night before.

The signposts at the local cultural centre have been vandalised. French translations are covered in blue paint. A passing woman isn’t surprised. “Tensions are rising”, she says. Born and bred in Rode, as the Flemish like to call it, she was forced to move because house prices have soared. Her parents still live here, she still comes to visit.

“All the children used to be Flemish”, she tells me, when she was a teacher at the local elementary school where she worked for more than twenty years. “Today, more than half are French-speaking. And their parents don’t even bother to speak Flemish in school.” Rode is lost forever, she regrets, there’s nothing to be done. “But”, she says, “not everyone agrees.” She happens to know a few members of the Taal Aktie Komitee, a militant group for the preservation of the Dutch language. “They’re not planning a second Yugoslavia or anything”, she says, “but if Rode is ever given away, things will get ugly.”