If you’re wondering about the answer to that question, you should probably stop reading. I don’t know either. A while ago I had a long phone call with Shannon, a friend I met three years ago in Edinburgh. And ‘met’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting there. We both joined the same pub crawl organised by our hostel, winning beer pong, dancing a couple of hours, and that was it. She was smart enough to leave her contact information, because early the next morning she had already set out for the Scottish Highlands. Biting down my envy, I launched a first text, and three summers later, we still call regularly.

Chatting about travelling is fun, but eventually the conversation turned inwards, to our own countries. She always answered my questions about the United States very eloquently, providing much needed detail and nuance, but when my turn followed, I tended to fall quiet. What did I know about Belgium? I realised that I’d travelled more outside than inside the country where I was born.

During another call with Shannon we talked about friends and family, perhaps one day having kids. Despite the chaos of recent years, she still felt proud to be an American, proud of values like hospitality and optimism. She also thought it natural that any potential kids would speak English, just like she does. This felt quite important to her. But to me, with an Italian girlfriend whom I converse with in English, teaching any future kids Dutch seemed like quite the unnecessary hassle. English would do fine, with Italian a beautiful addition. I’d rather teach the kid some extra Japanese, instead of Dutch. Shannon thought I was crazy.

So I determined to slow down and think about this stance. What did it mean to be Belgian? In what way did the country I grew up in shape me? I never felt much connected to people on the street, or to the music and movies they liked. Then again, I never much was social enough to really find out. And instead of suddenly growing social now, I stumbled upon an easier solution. It’s easy to stick to what you know.

First I read through a handful of books about local history, diving into the legends of the counties and duchies that slowly and without certainty became Belgium. To my surprise (a surprise that in hindsight was wholly unwarranted) I found there: historical feats to rival and exceed the best fiction, grand lords, and even grander ladies, wealthy, powerful, generous, or noble beyond belief. And sometimes jealous too, spiteful and filled with rancour. I read about some of the most amazing artists that ever lived, their influence at the time, a legacy that I can only claim the most strenuous connection to. But still, all good reasons to be proud. 

My second course of action was of course to travel. For three days I dragged Indi around Belgium, because if you want to understand something better, it always helps to explain that thing to an innocent bystander. 

First we spent a day hiking in the Zoniënwoud, where once upon a time dukes and emperors hunted wolves and bears. The forest has shrunk much compared to five centuries ago, but castles and abbeys still dot its edges, with hunting lodges dusty at the banks of small streams. Besides the birds and butterflies of the tall beech trees, we didn’t encounter any wildlife, but as I told my stories, some ghosts of the past still seemed to cling to the edge of my vision.

The next day, two hours on a train, and the Flemish landscape stretches before us. This coast used to consist of marshes and islands. Neither remain, which didn’t illustrate my point very well as Indi and I strolled along the beach. Drained by canals and windmills, the land was turned into productive pastures and fields, feeding a growing population. The same waterways also enabled trade, which explains how Bruges quickly grew into the second biggest city in Europe north of the Alps, behind only Paris. I tried to talk of the tall spires that sprouted from this wealth, the art that it brought, and the connection to Italian bankers that connected everything behind the scenes. 

But despite my best story-telling attempts, Indi only pays attention when I explain that medieval Bruges wasn’t only rich in textiles and palaces, it also housed the largest number of brothels per square meter in Europe. As a city of spendthrifty visitors and merchants, reports claimed that prostitutes used to stand on all the squares and at every street corner. The official stance of the Bruges government is her favourite part of the story. For they claimed that, as long as the men of the city slept with prostitutes, they didn’t sleep with each other’s wives, which would inevitably have led to violent feuds. Just like that, they had rebranded the many brothels as a policy to keep the city safe.

The third day we made our way to Ypres, which, like Bruges, once grew rich through textile manufacture and trade. But so as not to fall into repetition, we’ve come here with a vastly different focus. The enormous beauty of the city hides a truth that we must never forget; a story that Belgium shares with the rest of the world. A century ago this city was completely flattened, almost down to the last stone. 

Over a million men lost their lives here, face down in the mud, fighting the pointless battles of the First World War. The exhibits of the museum and the Last Post salute at the Menin Gate bring us to a deep silence. Of the ruins, little now remains, except for the tens of thousands of crosses that mark the cemeteries of Flanders’ Fields. It is perhaps not with pride that my Sister and I show Indi around, but still I am glad to share this important story with her. At the same time, I am slowly and carefully constructing part of my own identity.

I still don’t know what it means to be Belgian. But I do feel more connected to that word than I used to. Maybe it wouldn’t be all that useless to teach my kids Dutch, if ever I’m lucky enough to have them.