Joost Vandecasteele
JUNGLE
An elephant can’t swallow a hedgehog
During those few weeks of writing behind a computer screen, Brussels, without me, has revealed itself to be a shameless city. I wouldn’t be surprised if the street map, seen from above, reads ‘fuck you’.
There are even more demonstrations, sometimes two at the same time, mingling and infecting each other’s slogans, people shouting things like: ‘We want more less, we want more less.’ But mostly there’s an increase in civil disobedience. Rabble’s work can be seen everywhere. The parliament is treated to his version of the political semicircle. He has created a grand scene on the wall opposite the building: the plush benches populated by horrific creatures, blood red letters scratched all over their bodies, forming supplications to vote for them. Their mugs grinning with pain, cheeks stained with tears, each and every one of them stripped of any self-respect. And over the lectern, dripping with sperm, the slogan arbeit macht normal.
All over the city other graffiti artists are following his example, with fake election posters appearing everywhere, showing politicians making promises to govern the country out of a sense of nostalgia for the old days and a fear of what’s to come. Or saying there’s no place for asylum seekers, and definitely not in their own, 500 square meter villas. A different poster for a different party bears the slogan our moral superiority is superior to their moral superiority. Why? Because. But many don’t see this as a parody, and it even increases the party’s popularity.
But soon the disruptive nature of these actions causes a physical backlash. It starts small. By giving themselves the same dimensions, bicyclists protest the ever increasing space cars are claiming for themselves. They ride around with aluminum frames shaped like cars resting on their shoulders, and together they form traffic jams. But this protest evokes so much violence that the harnesses become shields against enraged drivers.
Thus the Brussels protests reach a next phase. First, the reactions evoked ranged from surprise to amusement, but now every one of them meets with pure, unrestrained aggression. This phenomenon is not unique to Brussels, it’s a constant factor in times of resistance. All too often, those feeling criticized or insulted see this as a legitimization for the use of violence. As if a bruised ego really counts as a medical condition, making one’s actions legally immune. The most embarrassing example is the backlash after an announcement made by the association Good Hatred, a group of women dedicated to ending sexual intimidation in the streets by encouraging other women to yawn ostentatiously and loudly whenever an uncalled-for comment is made. It’s all pretty harmless, but it has an unforeseen effect.
Because reports are starting to come in of these women subsequently being physically assaulted. Some arrests are made, and the men taken into custody state that they felt provoked, not by the women’s disinterest, but by the suggestion that they would be boring.
A public debate flares up, predictable as ever, about how these women were kind of provoking it, how it would have been better if they had shut up, how they showed little respect to the men who approached them disrespectfully. How women should know better, how staying polite yourself is always the best defense. Because apparently everybody can be made fun of, except for those threatening with violence.
The association Good Hatred, for its part, is flooded with venomous messages saying women can’t take a compliment anymore and that it’s all in good fun. This last statement causes the association Good Hatred to go to court, in order to completely subvert that argument. During a press conference their lawyer states that they are demanding a panel of professional comedians to be formed.
‘Based on their expertise, they will determine if a sexist joke is in fact funny. When it turns out this is not the case, this official assessment can be used in a new trial. Seeing as experts are already appointed to make every important decision, be it economical, medical or otherwise, why not for something as dangerous as humor?’
As always, the government does not respond, assuming it will all blow over. That’s what they’re thinking. Hoping. But the appeal is deemed admissible and soon we’ll be able to look forward to trials featuring men in the witness stand being asked to read their jokes out loud.
‘And then, your honor, I said: do you have a license for such big tits?’
This action by the association Good Hatred also causes some international response and the organization is aided by a gang of hackers calling themselves ‘The Anarchist Atheist Amigos’ (‘The Anarchist Atheist Amigos’ for short, because they hate abbreviations). They manage to hack several men’s webcams and take pictures of their faces while they’re looking at porn websites. These pictures appear on posters captioned: the street is not a screen, you frustrated loser.
But a very radical act of resistance in Brussels is claimed by a group calling itself ‘An elephant can’t swallow a hedgehog’. They’re an organization resisting the presence of neutral spaces. Very fitting in a city like Brussels, where all the names of the streets surrounding the powerhouse of political and financial institutions refer to the 1830 revolt against the Dutch rule: Revolution Street and Freedom Square, Provisional Government Street and Barricade Square (formerly Orange Square) and exactly in these pompously revolutionary sounding streets, rallies and demonstrations are officially prohibited.
But the most important neutral space is still Market Square. When we’re talking demonstrations, that is. Any and every commercial festivity is more than welcome, like an all-winter nativity scene featuring dolls of Jesus and his entourage in the shade of an enormous Christmas tree, decorated with lights provided by an energy company; the canvas bearing the company’s name has the biggest lamp. As if the birth of the savior, 2000 years ago, was accomplished by connecting a power cable to the crib. Featuring the names of all the other sponsors all around, because this religion is presented to you by…
So it could be that resistance is completely admissible, if it were to make a profit. However, the group ‘An elephant can’t swallow a hedgehog’ elects to use some Garden Graffiti in order to coerce true neutrality. How they ever manage to do that is up for speculation. But in between the thousands of cobblestones, they’ve planted as many mutated seeds, seeds that germinate in a single night, transforming the market square into an unkempt botanical garden.
At first, the mayor is not sure how to respond, condemning the act as vandalism but falteringly adding something about how tourists prefer a stone market over a park made of grass. A statement immediately negated by international interest and an increase in visitors. After that, the mayor claims there’s some connection between the action and his plans for a family-friendly town center, and that it should actually be acclaimed. And just for a moment ‘An elephant can’t swallow a hedgehog’ turns into the sort of protest the government likes best: cute, and not too loud. Perfectly fit to abuse for their own purposes.
However, soon afterwards the true goal of ‘An elephant can’t swallow a hedgehog’ is revealed, when the first visitors start having allergic reactions to the plants and have to be carted off to hospitals. Some of them remain in critical condition for days. Market Square is preemptively evacuated and passers-by are denied entrance, in order to give the ever present soldiers something to do. Several media outlets receive an untraceable letter from ‘An elephant can’t swallow a hedgehog’, stating ‘Now it’s a truly neutral space’. I’m trying to contact Mona through the ever slowing internet. But I know I will have to go outside to be able to meet her.
On a rainy Wednesday I’m sauntering across Brouckère Square once again, the Coca-Cola-billboard now showing the message: thirsty? tough luck. The square itself has been made over by activists: they’ve smashed a large hole in the tarmac and stuck a tall tube made of Perspex in it. A pillar filled with rotting garbage, a monument to our civilization, summarizing it. A foul smell is spreading from the top, like fireplace smoke out of a chimney. Already the base of the pillar has been covered in dumped garbage bags, a fertile soil for this tree of garbage. Once again untouched by the police. Thus the city is declining magnificently, removed from logic, disowned by it. Destroyed by madness. The way an entire population can be infected by a psychotic urge to kill each other; in that way everybody here seems to be affected by ongoing resistance and possessed by absurdity.
I run into small groups of people who are in a state of complete, delightful bewilderment. In New Street, the largest shopping street, I pass by The Anti-Customers, who will form queues whenever a new store opens its doors. They will then start to tell terrible things to the people actually waiting, stories about diseases and wars. Anti-propaganda, to make the shoppers depressed, depriving them of any urge to consume. The stores themselves can’t do a thing, because they aren’t harassing the customers with slanderous criticism, they’re just telling stories.
I spot people who have transformed themselves in order to stay invisible for the security cameras, for example by using small led lamps, glued just above their eyebrows; that way their heads show up brightly lit on the security screens. Others have painted geometrical shapes on their cheeks, so no computer can match their faces to its database.
I don’t find Mona until that night, after hours of aimless wandering. I’m listening to a speech held on the stairs of the Stock Exchange, by somebody calling himself a Radical Softie. ‘We have to be fucking proud that we’re not proud of ourselves. We should feel fine about feeling so bad, because we’re doing so fine and others are doing so badly. We’re fucking amazingly unique creatures because of our refusal to feel special. Hurray for us, because we’re calm. Who’s gonna join me? We’re calm, we’re calm. You don’t have to, but you can. You’re not hurting my feelings by not chanting with me, ’cause I’m the master of putting things into perspective. We’re calm, we’re calm.’
Mona slips beside me without making a noise and before I can say anything, she’s whispering something in my ear.
‘Are you in the mood?’
I nod and once again me and her end up in some impossible house. And just like Rabble once predicted, the nausea has disappeared completely and I’m even experiencing a slight buzz. That might be the reason why Mona hangs around these places so often, maybe this is the only kind of place where she can still experience delight, her body adapted to the impossible. If that’s the case, I’m experiencing a tiny slice of it and already I can taste the addiction it causes. The fear of getting lost transformed into lust for another attempt.
Tonight the house chosen isn’t much different from the first place she ever brought me to. As if we’re celebrating some anniversary. Plopped down on the only sofa, I almost want to ask her how she brought me and Peter Tusch in touch. But by now I know her well enough to be certain that she’d completely deny it. Not in order to stay modest, but in order to keep the outside world out of this remote place as much as possible. Which is also why I don’t ask her all about how this getting lost works exactly, how Rabble can end up in the same place when he starts roaming around by himself. I’m guessing the starting point determines it all. Nor do I ask her why Rabble keeps us waiting so long this time. Instead I bend over, not saying another word, kissing her on the lips with total abandon. I can’t make myself any clearer. I think. I hope.
For more information about JUNGLE or Joost Vandecasteele, please visit the Lebowski Agency website.
Joost Vandecasteele (1979) is one of the most influential writers of his generation. For his debut collection Hoe de wereld perfect funtioneert zonder mij he was awarded the Flemish First Novel Award. His novels Opnieuw en opnieuw en opnieuw and Massa were nominated for the BNG Literature Prize. Vandecasteele is also a well-known stand-up comedian; in Fall 2016 his new comedy series will premiere on national television.
