Let Freedom Ring

It's that time of year again. Pool parties, hot dogs, extravagant displays of pyrotechnics. Singing along off-key to every patriotic song imaginable. Celebrating the 4th of July overseas, however, can look a little different than it does at home. While the long weekend might not be full of neighborhood BBQs and baseball games, toasting America's independence with fellow expats and explaining its significance to foreigners has become one of the highlights of life abroad for me. This year, though, will be one for the memory books. 

A strong appreciation for liberty, freedom, and independence is deeply-rooted within Belgians, and never is it demonstrated more than during this time of year. In honor of the Fourth of July, the Manneken Pis statue in downtown Brussels was dressed up like Uncle Sam. Belgium is a free country today, in part, because of our brave, and Belgians aren't shy about expressing their gratitude for the sacrifices made by the American military on their soil. 

 

This country is a history buff's dream. Battle memorials dot the countryside from Waterloo to Bastogne to Ypres, and many more towns in between. I'm embarrassed to say I'm not as well-versed in World War I and World War II history as I should be, but that's something I plan to change during my stint here. When I was offered the opportunity to serve as the Embassy representative at a commemoration ceremony for a Belgian town's liberation by American GIs, I jumped at the chance. Getting to venture outside of Brussels and learn a little bit of history at the same time sounded like the perfect way to spend an afternoon. What I wasn't expecting was just how moving the day would be. 

The charming village of Remicourt, located on the outskirts of Liege, hosts an annual wreath-laying ceremony in homage to soldiers who lost their lives while liberating Belgium and reconstructs a military camp with authentic material used by the US Army during WWII. Standing in the town square, flanked by older gentlemen bearing Belgian and American flags, I felt as if I had been transported back in time. A contingent of young men were dressed in American and Allied WWII military uniforms. US military jeeps and cargo trucks filled the background. The stars on the American flag dancing in the breeze only numbered 48. 

In a town official's speech to kick-off the ceremony, he offered profuse thanks to the young soldiers "who should have been dancing, playing, living life" but instead came to Belgium to fight the German occupation. He expressed deep gratitude for all the Americans had done for Remicourt and Belgium, and reiterated what was inscribed on the memorial : "to those who gave their lives for peace and liberty, we will never forget."

 After we paid our respects at the monuments for American and Allied forces, followed by the Belgian resistance, we made our final stop at the monument for the liberation of Remicourt. On September 6, 1944, the German army invaded the small town and rounded up all of the townspeople, who were then taken hostage and locked in a church. One of the flag-bearers recounted the incident, saying the Germans intended to burn the church down with all the residents still inside. At this point of the story the gentleman began to get choked up, as he described how the American GIs came to their rescue on September 7, riding into town, defeating the Germans, and liberating Remicourt. He stood up straight, looked me square in the eye, and thanked the American armed forces for saving his home and family. Excuse me while I go get a tissue. 

It was in the shadow of this same church where Remicourt's monument was built. As the flag bearers stood at attention and the crowd looked on, I climbed the stairs and placed a wreath at the base of the memorial. As the official US representative, and sole American in attendance, the town wanted me to have the honor of paying tribute to what my countrymen had done for them. They reiterated how grateful they are to Americans, and repeatedly thanked me for all the United States has done for Belgium. I had never encountered such sincere and earnest pro-American sentiments abroad before. I realized that I was much more accustomed to images of American flags being burned or anti-U.S. messages being broadcast, and was a little taken aback by the overflowing love and support being expressed. 

Bowing my head in prayer, taking a moment to honor the sacrifices made, I was embraced by the silence that had befallen the gatherers. A moment later, the haunting notes of a trumpet pierced the air, as a lone musician played the Star Spangled Banner. I placed my hand over my heart and softly mouthed the words, while the rest of the group stood in respectful silence. Gazing at that church, with the notes of the anthem ringing in the background, chills ran down my spine and tears filled my eyes. Standing on that hallowed ground, I felt like I was truly experiencing what freedom really means. Remicourt and its residents exist today because of American servicemen, doing what they have always done and will continue to do, coming to the aid of those searching for liberty and independence. This town is grateful everyday for the opportunity to live freely, the memories of occupation still sharp in its collective memory. 

As the breeze carried away the trumpet's final tune and I descended the stairs, several people emerged from the crowd, asking for a moment of my time to introduces themselves and share their personal stories. One man, dressed in an American flag button-down shirt, said his father was an American GI who had returned to the States after the war. After decades of searching, this gentlemen discovered he had brothers and sisters in Ohio and proudly displayed family photos taken during his recent trip to meet them. Another man described how his mother had taken in wounded American soldiers and secretly nursed them back to health so they wouldn't be captured by the Germans. One of the soldiers located his mom 50 years later and traveled back to Belgium to thank her. There were several stories likes these, each one offering a unique glimpse into the narrative that has helped build such strong ties between our two countries. 

I don't think I'll ever look at the 4th of July the same way again after this weekend. When you are blessed to grow up in a country where life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are boldly proclaimed in its Declaration of Independence, it can be easy to take such freedoms for granted. And while I have lived in and visited many places where such freedoms aren't permitted, much less enjoyed, I had never really set foot on liberated land before or met people who remembered what occupation was like. Stories of hard-won independence had always taken place somewhere else, far from home, and, I'm embarrassed to admit, had had minimal personal impact on my life. But now that's changed. I will never forget the people I met in Remicourt, the faces of the children I saw who would not be alive today had their grandparents not been liberated from that church. Whenever I hear our anthem, I will remember that trumpet belting the Star Spangled Banner for all the world to hear. An enduring declaration. Let freedom ring. 

Remembering One of Our Own

It's hard to believe I arrived in Brussels almost three weeks ago. Three weeks already? Only three weeks? I'm not sure how it's possible to feel like I've been here for both an eternity and just a blink of an eye, but it does and I do. I've spent these couple of weeks wandering around wide-eyed and in awe of the history and grandeur that surround me. At times, the sheer freedom to go where I choose, when I choose, without body guards or armored vehicles, has been almost suffocating. I've thrown myself into work, pouring over files and cables, eager to learn as much as I can in order to become a productive and contributing member of the team as quickly as possible. 

The rigorous nine months spent slogging through French training in DC have started drifting into the background, slowly fading into nostalgic memories of a time spent in the States getting paid to learn a beautiful language. Constant reminders of the amazing friendships and bonds forged with colleagues over our struggles with French grammar (I still detest subjunctive) and pronunciation (why can't I distinguish between vin and vent?) have become less frequent. Not because I no longer care, but because adjusting to this new life has taken nearly all the energy and enthusiasm I can muster. I assumed this was the same for the other "Frenchies" too, as we all start to drift to our remote (or not) corners of the globe, making it on our own yet inextricably bound by all those months pacing the halls of FSI. I thought so, that is, until this weekend. 

On Saturday, June 29, our tight-knit group of pseudo-Francophile FSOs lost a member. Not even two months after her arrival in Haiti, Antoinette was tragically killed in a car accident. Even writing this down doesn't make it feel real. News of her passing traveled around the globe at lightening speed, from the Congo to Guinea, Mauritania to DC. Even colleagues here in Brussels, who hadn't been in French or even had the pleasure of knowing her personally, had heard the crushing news and were lamenting her death come Monday morning. Despite the horrifying circumstances, this was a comforting reminder of what the Foreign Service family really means. In times of happiness or sorrow, abundance or need, celebration or mourning, it comes together. We come together. No matter where we are or what we're doing. Emails go flying, phone calls are made. Who can do what for whom? Checking on each other, leaning on each other. No matter how much time has passed, this is how it's always done. For whatever irrational reason, I've maintained the naive notion that when tragedy strikes it won't be close to home, won't hurt anyone I know. But it always hurts somebody's home, hurts somebody's loved one. And this time, it could happen to us. It did happen to us. Antoinette was one of us, part of our family. 

I'm afraid whatever I could say here won't do her memory justice, but I want to try anyway. I want her husband and two sweet little babies to know that we are heartbroken over her loss, shocked by a life taken far too soon, made raw by the thought of the agony her loved ones are now enduring. Spunky and funny, with a quick smile and an infectious laugh, Antoinette always brightened my day with a witty line or sarcastic remark. Her passion for development work and excitement over her assignment to Haiti was evident after just minutes of chatting with her. She was a committed public servant, caring, generous, and thoughtful. She was also a marathon runner and proud mama. I am honored to call her a member of our family, and am humbled by the ultimate sacrifice she and her family have made. Thank you, Antoinette, for serving our country with grace and dignity. Your kind spirit shall never be forgotten. 

Please click here to read the condolence statement issued yesterday by USAID Administrator Rajiv Shah.

Three Years and Counting

When I started this blog just before joining the Foreign Service in 2010, I was eager to join the throngs of FSO and FS family bloggers chronicling their adventures around the globe. I wanted to create a platform to not only recount my own stories to family and friends, but to also highlight the challenges of FS life, especially for those navigating the system with Members of Household (MOHs) or traveling with pets. Well, as you can see, that clearly didn't happen. Work got busy, life got messy, and keeping this updated became less and less of a priority.

Fast forward a couple of years and I'm ready to give it another shot, this time from Belgium as I start my second tour. I thought about deleting my earlier posts, wiping the slate clean, and coming up with a new blog to kick off my new assignment. But I decided that would be unfair to the person I was writing those early entries, so anxious about moving abroad and leaving loved ones behind, yet so full of hope and enthusiasm for the opportunities and experiences to come. Those early posts serve as a reminder to me about how far I've come, both personally and professionally, and also about why I joined in the first place.

I think any officer will tell you there are plenty of moments in your career-even as a green FSO in a first or second tour-that make you second guess your decision to uproot your life to serve your country far away from home. However, rereading some of those entries I can almost feel the butterflies in my stomach while taking the oath, or the swell of pride on Flag Day when I learned I'd be doing human rights work in Lebanon.   It's moments like those that will help me get through the early days in my new city, as I teeter on the fine line between tourist and resident, impatiently expecting to have carved out a life in a place I've only called home for a week.

Such is the strange reality that is FS life. Moving every few years; adapting to new customs, cultures, and languages; being given opportunities and facing obstacles beyond compare. These are the thrills and adventures I was seeking when I joined, and they are still what gets my blood pumping today. What I wasn't prepared for, though, was how this job would make me throw my well-crafted life plan out the window. The clearly-scripted goals, objectives, and milestones my Type-A personality had carefully outlined quickly succumbed to the unofficial "it depends" mantra of our line of work. I have been pushed, tested, and challenged, and I am a better person for it.

When I started this blog three years ago, I could never have imagined the many things to come...that I would live through the Arab Spring, interview Syrian refugees fleeing a bloody civil war, or end a nearly five-year-long relationship. I never thought I would study French and pack my bags to spend a couple years in the heart of Europe. Sometimes life goes as planned and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes you end up where you intend and sometimes you don't. And sometimes you realize that all the zigzagging life has made actually led you to the exact place you should be. I could never have imagined Brussels was in my future, but here it is and here I am. Ready to see what this crazy and amazing way of life has in store.