EUROPE, my poor homeland

This democratic asylum land, through its spirit and culture, attracts people from all over the world. It's true that we enjoy benefits that seem obvious to us: relative peace, a fairly strong economy, and the freedom to live according to our beliefs, to practice our religion, and to preserve our customs, our language, and our culture, which is not always the case for immigrants in their countries of origin. We also have the freedom to travel, study, and work in other countries practically without restrictions. Border controls have almost been eliminated in the Schengen area, following the agreement signed in 1985 in this Luxembourgish city. With your European passport or a valid European ID card, you can move around in the 27 Schengen states. This is an advantage for cross-border workers, as in 2022 around 1.5 million people lived in one Schengen country and worked in another. As for students, they can enjoy an incredible array of rights to travel, study (Erasmus exchange), and enhance their intellectual and cultural knowledge. No other place in the world grants them such privileges.

Youth are suddenly claiming rights that we, the elders, didn’t even dare to conceive or defend in the streets, even though most of this generation grew up in a relative stability of peace, security, education, and culture. Aware of the danger of advancing technology and the increasingly prominent role of artificial intelligence, which decides our futures as human beings without feelings, I share their concerns. Indeed, Europe finds itself caught up in the ultra-rapid development of China, India, the Americas, and other developing countries, which threatens its peace, politics, economy, and development. The future is uncertain socially, economically, financially, and climatically.

Everyone has the right to express their concerns, stand up for their beliefs, and make their demands heard, but always with respect for the rights of others. Disagreement has its place in a democratic society: it helps highlight integration challenges and opens a debate on how to address them.

But violence, vandalism, theft, and intimidation cannot stand in for dialogue. They sadden local communities. There’s no need for destruction to express anger, disagreement, or distress! Destroying remnants of the past to convey your wishes is criminal behavior. It puts people in danger, undermines trust, wrecks the economy, and diverts attention from issues that deserve to be discussed calmly, without revenge for the historical past of the countries involved. Colonization had its benefits as well as its harms, but current generations cannot be held responsible. That’s the past—let’s live in the future.

In the face of these acts of unprecedented violence on European soil, it is important to distinguish between the behaviors and the claims expressed by young people, without attributing to this group the responsibility for a few malicious individuals bent on destabilizing and destroying the culture, education, and knowledge that have been passed down for millennia in a country. Listening means trying to understand the difficulties without giving up the common rules established by law. Peace, freedom of conscience, and respect for human dignity are precious achievements that we must preserve. Ensuring they are respected must go hand in hand with protecting everyone's rights, proportionate sanctions, and fair treatment. In daily life, this responsibility translates into favoring discussion over wild and destructive confrontation.

Institutions, associations, and citizens can help keep space for dialogue where problems are shared and solutions are discussed calmly, thoughtfully, respectfully, and politely. Cohesion doesn’t erase differences, but it allows everyone to live within a shared framework. By combining fairness, dialogue, and prevention, we can protect our freedoms while building trust that makes living peacefully together possible.

                                Watercolour by Amarie 2013

Living alone and feeling good

Living alone doesn’t necessarily mean feeling lonely. For people who live in harmony, it’s a choice that allows them to live in their own space, without trying to please others. They learn to manage daily life on their own and to trust themselves, without refusing help when offered. Their home is a place of rest where they enjoy reading, pursuing hobbies, and thinking about their projects. They prefer a few close friends and sincere conversations over large groups. They stay present for their loved ones while keeping time for themselves and avoiding unnecessary conflicts. Quiet helps them better understand their emotions and release tension. So it’s not about rejecting others but about finding a balance between personal life and friendships chosen sparingly.

 

Dying of Sadness

All my life, one question has haunted me: why did both of my grandfather die of cardiomyopathy? I long tried to understand, in vain. To figure it out, I had to trace back the chain of events that had inexorably led them to this tragic outcome, even though they were in good health and not old.

My maternal grandfather had lost his lands following the bankruptcy of his eldest son's soap factory in Zelzate. My grandmother Ida had acted as guarantor for this beloved son, dragging the whole family into deep financial and emotional upheaval. I don’t know the details of the matter, but it undoubtedly shook the bonds between brothers and sisters, spouses, and grandchildren. Suddenly, everything had taken a dark turn, creating a toxic atmosphere that would weigh on the family for years. One image, however, remains: that of my grandfather watching his lands being sold, tears in his eyes and heartbroken.

My paternal grandfather's story is quite different, but it is just as marked by loss. He had seen his mother leave for America with three of her children, leaving him alone with the youngest son, then fifteen years old. During the preparations for Léonard's wedding, his brother decided in turn to join their mother. He boarded the Vaderland for its maiden voyage, a slow crossing, out of caution and to ensure the steam engines were properly started. Then mournings followed one after another: my grandfather lost his wife in childbirth after losing four young children. His heart weakened by so many trials; he seemed no longer able to bear another shock. He then married the children's governess, who also died shortly afterward. His heart weakened by so many trials; he seemed no longer able to withstand another shock. He then married the children’s governess, who also died shortly afterward. And as a final twist of fate, one day he read in the newspaper that his best friend had won a pigeon racing prize with his homing pigeon. The emotion was so strong that he died in his armchair, the newspaper still in his hand.

“Dying of sadness” is therefore not just a metaphor. A violent emotional shock can really put a life in danger. No one is completely safe: grief, a breakup, betrayal, intense sorrow, strong anger, sudden fear, or even immense joy can upset the body. But what exactly happens between the brain and the This condition goes by several names: stress cardiomyopathy, broken heart syndrome, or takotsubo, according to the Japanese term. Unlike a typical heart attack, it isn’t caused by a coronary artery being blocked by a clot or plaque. The mechanism is more like a real hormonal storm: under intense emotional or physical stress, the body suddenly releases a massive amount of adrenaline and noradrenaline. These catecholamines overwhelm the heart muscle, which can no longer pump effectively. This can then lead to acute heart failure, potentially deadly arrhythmias, or even cardiac arrest.

The line between emotion and physical health is therefore incredibly thin. As we age, it seems to get even thinner, reminding us that the heart is never completely separate from what we go through, from heart muscle for extreme emotion to be able to mimic a heart attack.

BETRAYAL

Betrayal can take many forms, all deeply devastating. Its common thread is always breaking the loyalty and trust received, often by secretly siding with the opposing camp or the enemy. 

It can involve giving a secret to your enemies, deceiving the trust of a political or religious group, abandoning a friend, lover, or family member because of false claims, or even renouncing the moral principles of a community. In all cases, it comes across as an act of treachery that's hard to forgive. 

In revolutions, uprisings, or coups, betrayal can become a strategy used to eliminate opponents or take revenge on the defeated. It then shows up as a means of overthrow, manipulation, or destruction.

In the realm of friendship, we talk about betrayal when the other person doesn't keep their word or is unfaithful to a previously made pact. The hurt is even stronger when the relationship seemed to be built on solid trust, patiently developed over months.

• someone who seemed supportive, helpful, and protective;

• someone who showed gratitude, admiration, and sometimes even genuine love;

• someone who suddenly pulls away without a clear explanation and shuts the other person out abruptly

This shift gives the feeling of having been deceived. What we thought was lasting, maybe even secured ‘for life', turns out to be just an illusion. On closer inspection, the relationship might have been marked by selfishness, self-interest, or financial motives. 

In a friendship or romantic relationship, there is often a pact, whether verbal or written. This pact is based on compromises that are rarely explicit but powerful: as long as each person respects the other, no one tries to harm them. When one of the two breaks this commitment, the relationship turns into emotional betrayal. This then causes pain, confusion, and a feeling of having been deceived. The difficulty comes from the fact that a pact is often assumed to endure all of life's circumstances without change or adjustment. This initial intention may be sincere, but it remains hard to uphold. Feelings evolve in cycles: they follow our successes, our social defeats, our health, and the transformations of our inner life.

The difficulty comes from the fact that a pact is often assumed to go through all of life's circumstances without change or adaptation. This initial intention can be sincere, but it’s hard to maintain. Feelings evolve in cycles: they follow our successes, our social defeats, our health, and the changes in our inner life. Sometimes, the bond strengthens and gets through challenges. Sometimes, on the contrary, it fades and turns into something more negative. Even when a bond remains, that doesn’t necessarily mean the feelings have stayed the same. Many claim they can understand the changes, as long as everyone expresses themselves honestly and sincerely. In reality, that rarely happens. The relationship often becomes unbalanced, and harmony gradually breaks down. 

 

SMELLS AND ODOURS

Since childhood, smells have accompanied us like little invisible presences. They slip into our memory, settle in silently, and then sometimes resurface, intact, triggered by a gesture, a place, or a breath of air. Everyone keeps them inside like a secret herbarium, made of houses, faces, and moments long gone.

I can still recall the smell of my baby bottle, that warm and familiar Lacson’s milk, and especially that of my bib when the old stains, embedded in the fabric, took on that unique sharpness of oxidised milk when exposed to the air.

I also keep, with an almost touching clarity, the trail of 4711 cologne. My grandmother, my parents, my mother-in-law, and then my husband wore it in turn. That note of bergamot, fresh and bright, seems to have crossed generations to reach me again. It will probably never leave me; it will remain linked to them like a scented thread stretched between the living and the absent.

Other scents remain engraved deep within me: freshly cut grass, dry harvest under the sun, straw resting in the fields like blonde hair. Even the white nettles in the ditches, when they raise their almost virginally white flowers, exude a discreet, humble, and poignant presence.

Pharmacies and drugstores, on the other hand, had their own atmosphere: a mix of remedies, wax, old powders, and slightly stuffy air. You’d enter them like stepping into another world, sometimes poorly ventilated but immediately recognisable, with that serious smell of care, bottles, and secrets tucked away behind the counters.

In the garden, the marigolds, planted to keep slugs away, sometimes imposed their strong scent over the finer aromas of lilies of the valley, roses, or wisteria. And in churches, the incense from services and funerals rose in persistent spirals; its heavy, penetrating smoke made me sway, as if the very air were turning into prayer, mystery, and vertigo. 

And what about the smell of leather in a new car? That short-lived, almost luxurious scent always faded too quickly. There were also wardrobes, where lavender sachets perfumed the underwear with a gentle, comforting freshness. I can still remember my mother’s perfumes: Chanel No. 5, then other heavier fragrances, chosen to mask the lingering smell of moth repellents on her fur coats – Joy by Jean Patou, maybe a Guerlain whose name escapes me now, Chamade or Terracotta.

On the flip side of these warm memories, nicotine remains for me one of the most unpleasant smells: it would cling to the rooms, the clothes, and the bathrooms frequented by heavy smokers, like grey dust that’s impossible to get rid of. Luckily, awareness of the dangers of tobacco has gradually reduced its presence and, with it, that harsh trace that weighed so much on non-smokers. Even darker are the smells of rotting plants or decomposing bodies. I remember a warning I’d heard long ago: never buy a used car in which someone had died. That smell, they said, seeps everywhere, sticks to the fibres, the seats, and the tiniest folds, and no air freshener can really conquer it.

Even darker are the smells of rotting plants or decaying bodies. I remember that warning I once heard: never buy a used car in which someone has died. That smell, they said, seeps everywhere, clinging to the fibres, the seats, and every little crease, and no air freshener can really get rid of it. 

But what a joy, on the other hand, to open the door of a well-kept house, where a bouquet of fresh flowers greets you before any words are spoken: French lilacs, peonies, or simply that clear smell of cleanliness, laundry, calm, and peaceful living

City Live

 

                                                                               

Watercolor by Amarie, the city of Antwerp    

          City life has always been familiar to me: I was born there, raised there, and drawn to its old buildings—sometimes worn, yet always full of character. My family lived right in the center between the police office, the city hall, and the church of St. Nicholas in perpetual renovation. Our house was facing the belfry, with its carillon diffusing folkloric melodies every 15 minutes. Those ancient streets and stones were both my shelter and my horizon. The steeples and towers, the sound of bells, the rumble of traffic, the yellow trams ringing as they came closer, sometimes throwing sparks from the rails, the hungry pigeons circling over the squares, and the constant stream of hurried pedestrians all formed the backdrop of my daily life. The old post office, the courthouse, the station, the many churches, the prestigious cathedral with the world-known triptych of the Van Eyck brothers, and the bridges created a sequence of memorable city views. The parks offered quiet places of escape, where we walked our pinscher, and the city garden, which my father shaped like a little paradise, was the kingdom of my childhood. At its centre stood an old weeping willow, whose branches held the swing that carried my wildest dreams. Nearby, a small shelter protected us on rainy days, beside the vegetable patch where picking ripe vegetables delighted us with their scents, colors, and flavors.

Yet those places of childhood disappeared with the city’s rapid growth. Today, I recognize almost nothing, and it seems that the vivid, picturesque landscapes of the past have been erased by modernity.

Among the finest cities in Flanders, I would name Antwerp, Bruges, and Ghent. They too have surely changed over time, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. I know Antwerp only a little, but I am certain that, like my hometown, it contains places of remarkable beauty. Curious readers might turn to the book written by our prime minister, whose many anecdotes make it both lively and enjoyable.

Bruges, however, is more familiar to me. I shared many happy moments there with my children while they attended the city’s leading schools, where they formed lasting friendships. Bruges is a city on a human scale, threaded with canals and filled with almost unreal mediaeval vistas. Throughout the year, it welcomes visitors from all over the world who come to admire the city rightly known as the Venice of the North.                

 

Japanese garden

Nature has always appealed to me, particularly structured gardens that are generously planted and require little to no lawn maintenance. After caring for a half-hectare plot composed largely of grass—soon transformed into a meadow—we wanted, following our move from the coast to the center of the country, to create a new garden that would be more ornamental and richly flowered. Our aim was to develop a subtle blend of inspirations, drawing from each garden style the qualities that appealed to us most: the symbolism of Oriental gardens, the topiary art of French gardens, and the light spontaneity of English gardens.

The Japanese garden seeks to represent an idealized version of nature on a small scale. It evokes mountains, lakes, rivers, and the sea, while harmonizing subtly with both its immediate and distant surroundings. Unlike the French garden, it values asymmetry, suggestion, and the art of revealing without exposing everything at once. Straight lines are used sparingly, as are even numbers, once associated with misfortune. Its guiding principles are sobriety, serenity, flexibility, and balance, all serving contemplation and of course meditation.

Japanese gardens are built around elements that are both natural and symbolic. Rocks and stones may represent sacred mountains, islands, or mythological figures such as the turtle and the crane, symbols of longevity and happiness. Water—whether in the form of rivers, ponds, or waterfalls—symbolizes life and movement. Trees, bamboo, ferns, and mosses express the changing rhythm of the seasons and the art of miniaturization. Lanterns, originally intended to illuminate temples, now bring a sense of mystery and elegance. Paths and bridges guide both the eye and the visitor, gradually revealing the garden without ever showing it all at once. 

In a Japanese garden, each element carries a spiritual or poetic dimension inspired by Buddhism, Taoism, and Shintoism. These gardens are conceived as living paintings, where the balance between fullness and emptiness, together with the integration of the surrounding landscape, creates a condensed representation of nature. Miniaturization allows vast landscapes to be suggested within a limited space, while symbolism and borrowed scenery enhance the contemplative quality of the setting.

Several types of Japanese gardens can be distinguished. The dry or Zen Garden, composed of gravel, stones, and moss, is defined by its simplicity and meditative purpose. The water garden, organized around ponds, streams, or islands, encourages peaceful observation and gentle wandering. Miniature and pocket gardens, designed for smaller spaces, can be created in courtyards or even on a windowsill with bonsai trees.

In essence, the Japanese garden combines nature, symbolism, and philosophical thought with great subtlety. It invites serenity, contemplation, and a harmonious relationship with the environment.

By contrast, the French garden is characterized by strict symmetry. Its spaces are divided into square or rectangular sections, structured by straight paths. Pools, imposing fountains, and carefully trimmed hedges contribute to a composition that is orderly, elegant, and fully controlled. Buildings are integrated coherently into a classical and harmonious overall design.

The English Garden, on the other hand, favors winding paths that suggest mystery and escape. It brings together a wide variety of trees and wildflowers, arranged in a freer, more natural, and picturesque manner. Its design is based on spontaneity, while bridges and grottos often reinforce its romantic and intriguing character.

Drawing inspiration from these contrasting approaches, we wanted our botanical garden to become a synthesis of their respective qualities. Our primary goal was to eliminate the need for lawn mowing, especially on a plot with a fairly penty slope. We therefore favored shrubs and plants with staggered flowering periods throughout the four seasons, so that the garden would remain attractive all year round. White gravel paths guide the visitor through the space, while a few trees provide welcome shade for delicate plants as well as visitors during periods of intense heat.

The result is a rich and varied garden in which certain species, sometimes rare, have found their place according to their needs for water and light. The driest and sunniest areas naturally accommodate the plants best suited to those conditions. Around one hundred and fifty species thrive there, with varying degrees of success. Naturally, some disappear from time to time, whether because of minor cultivation errors or because of an exceptionally hot or, conversely, particularly wet year.

Nevertheless, the overall result remains remarkable, fully meeting our desire for color, fragrance, and successive flowering throughout the seasons. The garden conveys a sense of peace and tranquility. Its maintenance can be spread over time, since pruning can easily be postponed without causing harm. It is simply a matter of preserving for each species the space it needs to develop according to its rate of growth.