Note to the reader: I would like the reader to know that my cousin and Belgian friends do not speak English. The phrases they speak just as every other statement in this article, were originally spoken in French – one of the two official languages of Belgium. For the convenience of the reader, I have translated them from French to English.  

Brick buildings flew past as the tram barreled down the rails. It was my first full day back in Brussels, Belgium – the city of my birth – and I was drifting in and out of consciousness, due to the jet lag. My cousin Elias and my friend Ziino were discussing issues pivotal to the teenage boy’s life. Such issues included, but were not limited to, where to buy delicious food, dealing with uncompromising teachers and the workload they provided, and favorite sports teams. I, on the other hand, was dreaming about a comfortable bed to collapse into.

The ring of a bell from a speaker woke me from my slumber; we had arrived at a stop, but the fact that my two companions had not risen from their sleep let me know that it was not ours. I watched people enter at the many entrances of the tram, but quickly grew tired again, and began to drift back to sleep. I did not notice at first when several officers barged their way onto the tram, and begin scrupulously inspecting the passengers. I might never have noticed them had they not grabbed my friend, Ziino, by the arm and dragged him outside. I snapped back into reality, and stared at my cousin. A dazed and confused look was plastered on my face. “What did he do?” I asked. My cousin didn’t respond; he stared ahead, doing his best to remain calm, but he was unsuccessful at keeping the anger out of his eyes. Unable to coax any information out of him, I returned my attention to the rest of the tram, searching for some explanation. Ziino was not the only passenger who had been pulled from his seat. There were more; I had counted at least seven others. Each had been dragged off the tram for “questioning,” as Ziino would later tell me. There was something disturbing about the selection of passengers. As the tram pulled away from the stop, and moved on to its next destination, I saw that each passenger had black or very dark skin.

Ever since I could walk, I’ve had this concept, this idea, of how wonderful my home country, Belgium, was. It was where the passion for football (soccer) had been instilled in me. It was where I had learned to appreciate languages and cultures other than my own. It was where half of my family still lived. To me, Belgium had always been heaven on earth. But it all changed that day. The sight of my friend being shoved off of the tram shattered that image. And the burning in my cousin’s eyes, told me that this had happened before; what he would tell me later, was that this would happen to my cousin, and other minorities, not monthly, not weekly, but daily.

We got off at the next stop, and patiently waited a half hour. When Ziino returned, he looked agitated, but was still his comical self. He repeated to me the questions the officer had asked him. Questions such as “What country are you from?” “Do you smoke?” “Is this your phone?” and “What did you steal?” were unsettling to hear, but the questions themselves weren’t the only issue with the inquisition. Once the officers would ask a question, they would doubt their victims. They would endlessly badger them, hoping to evoke some kind of reaction that could justify  arrest. At the time, this was hard to believe. It was not that I doubted my cousin or my friend. What made it difficult to believe was that an officer of the law – someone paid to keep our home safe – would commit such a terrible thing, especially in my beloved Belgium.

My cousin, Elias, next to our mutual friend, Oussama.

A week passed, and the heat of the incident passed with it. My head was back in the present, enjoying every moment with my family and friends. I had been itching to play a game of football (soccer) on the same field I played on as a child, and so my cousin organized a game. It felt freeing to step back on ground I had stepped on as a child, and do the same things. Plenty changes in life, but several certainties remain constant, and very often those are the things we hold closest to our hearts.

After an exhausting game, we headed back to the parking lot, to go home. We had spent a lot of time bickering over what the teams should be, and so the game had gone until well past dusk. And now, although the field was still open, my friends wanted to leave as soon as possible, and I would soon learn why.

We stepped off of the grass, onto the hard pavement, and were approaching our cars  when a bright light blinded us. Instinctively, I pulled my hand to my face, and covered my eyes. The light remained pointed at us for what seemed like an hour, but was actually a minute. When the light disappeared, I looked at my cousin, and asked him what was going on. He was shuffling through each of his pockets, and finally pulled out his wallet and ID. “Don’t speak French, talk only in English,” he said to me. I was confused by the request, but I complied. A second later, a white police van rolled into the parking lot. Resting on the roof of the car, sat an enormous headlight. The size of the beast explained why the light had been so powerful. The van stopped and a man clothed in an officer’s uniform stepped out of the driver’s seat, and confidently strode over to us – taking his time as he did, in order to examine each and every one of us carefully. His gaze landed on me, and for a moment I thought he was about to ask me something, but the look was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. When he reached us, he asked us to pull out our identification. I reached for my wallet, and withdrew my Driver’s License. One by one the officer went to each of my friends, looked at their identification, and patted them down; each pat down was followed up by a string of irrelevant questions concerning drug use, theft, vandalism, and legitimacy of their nationality.

I feel now is a good time to educate the reader as to the appearance of my friend’s; all of my friends and cousins in this story, have very dark skin. Coincidentally, they are also Muslim. Every one of them were born in Brussels, Belgium, but some have parents who moved here from Morocco or Algeria, before they had their kids. Each one speaks fluent French. I, on the other hand, speak French, but with an American accent. I have lived in the USA for most of my life. With this information, it will make more sense to you as to why this next part of the story boils my blood and causes me to clench my teeth and my fists.

My friend Oussama and I on the sidewalk in Brussels, in front of my cousin’s apartment.

As the officer progressed through the line, he closed in on me. Throughout his thorough investigation, he would every so often look at me with a puzzled look. I was worried he suspected I had done something which I had not, and the thought of that scared me, even though I had no reason that I should be afraid. I imagined myself locked in a jail cell surrounded by ruthless criminal – I would not last the night.

When he finally approached me, he asked for my identification. I slowly extended my hand, so as to be sure to not alarm the officer – I would give this man no reason to arrest me. He looked at the card, and with a perplexed look asked me, “American?” I responded quickly “Yes.” He took a step closer to me. He was now less than a foot away. With a heavy accent he asked me “Why are you with these people?” He spat out the words “these people,” and turned his head to look at my friends and family; a venomous look flashed across his face. I was confused, and took it as a legitimate question – it would not be until later, after the adrenaline and fear had left that I would understand the racist implications embedded in that question.

That night, I lay on the bed my cousin had set up for me. On the opposite end of the room, my cousin slept soundlessly; I was amazed he could sleep at all. I was raging with anger. I recalled the words the officer spat, “Why are you with these people?” What a ridiculous question. They were my friends and family. They were spending time with me, enjoying the long break from school. They wanted to forget the consequences of being born in a country where they would be judged for not looking like a “traditional” Belgian. They were tired of being punished for living.

I looked over at my cousin; quietly his stomach rose and fell as he dreamed. I wished I could still dream, but it had already been shattered. I was awake now, and I would never be able to dream again.