By Arnold Jansen op de Haar

The people I told looked at me as if I was going to travel into a war zone. Actually, after the Paris attacks, I travelled from London to Arnhem and, six days later, back again. Yes, that’s right, through Brussels.

Now I’ve always considered Brussel-Zuid, where I have to change trains, a bit of a war zone. Outside the station, I was killing time … Wrong expression, these are sensitive times. But outside the station I filled in the waiting time by smoking a cigar.

Usually there is a queue for the taxis, and some unsavoury characters hang about. They beg for a cigar or ask for change.

Last Tuesday, I could have changed my booking to another day, ‘because of the threat of a terror attack’. But I wasn’t daunted, so I travelled anyway.

So here I find myself again, outside the station. No taxi queue, no taxis, only one lady, also a smoker. She comes and stands near me. Otherwise the square is deserted.

Apart from two drunkards further down. They’re shouting, and moments later two veiled women walk past. They’re begging, but no longer convincingly. It’s raw and windy, a perfectly image of the sorrow or, if you prefer, the bankruptcy of Belgium.

Now five policemen emerge from the station hall. A little while later, the policemen and the drunkards jostle against each other and the policemen burst out laughing. They move on and the lady standing next to me quickly extinguishes her cigarette. The drunkards start shouting again.

Inside the station hall, heavily armed soldiers stand at the foot of the escalators. There’s no one here at the entrance – well, apart from the drunkards and me. I’m the only buffer between IS and the station. That’s how it feels, and I also think: they can’t even control beggars and drunkards. Isn’t that rather alarming?

Besides, I’ve travelled from the Netherlands with a very heavy suitcase and I’ve not been checked one single time. I’ve dragged this bag all the way through the hall and, if I’d had a bomb in the bag, I could have detonated it right here. But there’s no one else here, except two drunkards and two beggars, so that doesn’t add up to much.

I honestly admit I felt a bit of a hero earlier when travelling by train. The closer we came to Brussels, the fewer people remained on the train. I sat there defending the whole of Western civilisation on my own.

In Roosendaal (a station on the Dutch-Belgian border) I had paid close attention to ensure no suspicious-looking characters boarded the train. Especially as there were no police to see to this.

I have to admit something: there was one person who looked fishy. He had a beard, not a very long one, but still a beard.

So I took a seat near him. If he tries to do anything, I can eliminate him straight away. I was trained to do this, but it’s a long story.

What I actually thought was: I’d better stay close to him, because if he emerges shooting from another carriage I will have ‘less of a chance’. Nowadays, you start thinking in an odd way. And, of course, he wouldn’t expect this short, portly man (me) still to know how to fight.

I also thought of King Willem-Alexander – you know, the (Dutch) king who looks a bit like Donald Trump. I had a vision of this king pinning a medal on my chest, and imagined a band playing festive military tunes.

Well, the ‘suspect’ alighted in Antwerp. He even gave me a friendly goodbye. So now I sat alone in a carriage on my way to Brussels.

And so, once there, outside the station, I smoked my cigar. As an act of defiance. I always smoke my cigar at that very spot, and IS will definitely not prevent me from doing so.

© Arnold Jansen op de Haar
© Translation Holland Park Press

Previous columns:
Burning a Catholic
Ted or Sylvia?
Unsuitable for Class War
England-bound
The Weather in Arnhem
Accident & Emergency
The Plumber and the Little Prince
A Trojan Horse
Pilloried!
Portobello Hipster
A Celebration Every Day
Diana is Back
Loved by All
Cooking in Peacetime
A Bit of a Genetic Mess
Email a Fairy
A Peeing Neanderthal
Fictional Brits
Bare Burka
Is Van Gaal a Turkey?
An Estate Agent in High Heels
A Boy from Westminster
Adventure in Amsterdam
Amalia & George
Cheering Quietly
Human Waste
D-Day for Poetry
A Dog in London
Van Gaal and Wurst
Baby King George
The Virgin Train from Birmingham
Nuclear Hospitality
Vladimir the Viking
Ski Girl with Moustache
Phoenix
Message From the Bathtub
A Consistent Resolution
Nigella’s Law
Selfie
Cowboy in the Kingdom
An Angry Philanthropist
Oligarch with Red Umbrella
The Lives of Others
Uproar in the Czar Peter House
A Postcard Home
An Angry Ladies’ Hairdresser
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The Man Who is Always Late
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A Gibraltarian Librarian
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Hot Pants Harry