The wind and the rain slap against his cheeks, assaulting him as he approaches the church of Saint Catherine in Brussels. His only defence against the outside world is his rolled-up felt collar and an involuntary shrug.
In the course of our questioning or meditation, depending on the moment in our lives, we are sometimes tempted to ask ourselves about the meaning of life as a migration or even about our ultimate migration which is common to all: the passage through death.
“Live for yourself but exist for the good of all”. For the good of the neighbourhood, the good of the city, the good of the region, the good of the country, the good of the continent, the good of the planet and of all living things, including fauna and flora, with which man is supposed to cooperate to establish a balance based on respect and understanding.
Inhabited by my migration, I don't let myself be fooled by those who try to take over my "identity", giving me some migratory attribute such as "he is a migrant" or "he is a refugee" without even consulting me beforehand to find out what I think about it…