a sense of identity
being belgian became a part of me only after leaving belgium
I recently had a conversation with a colleague that brought this sudden realisation. Let me explain. I’m from Belgium, and they’re from Canada; we both live in the UK. Since leaving our home countries, being “Belgian” or “Canadian” has become a frequent topic of conversation. Especially at work, as we’re in hospitality.
Strangers rarely ask where I’m from or what my background is—they assume. I find it fascinating that people default to labelling me as 'French,' as though French is spoken only in France. Belgium has three official languages: French, Flemish, and German. Yet when people hear me speak—because yes, sometimes I forget to pronounce my “h” or drop the “s” at the end of plurals, as we do in French—they confidently say, “Oh, you’re French (from France), right?” It’s spoken as if it’s a fact. When I say I’m not, they move on to guess (French) Canadian or Swiss, but rarely Belgian. This isn’t about rivalry between France and Belgium (that joke is so tired—can we move on?). I don’t dislike French people; my two best friends are French. I’m just not from France. And no, it isn’t the same.
It’s amusing how we try to pin people to a place—country, province, or state—as if it’s a necessary anchor for understanding and making it real. Years ago, an ESL teacher told me he thought Belgium was in Scandinavia. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if Belgium were in that part of the world—I’d love to pop over to Denmark or Sweden for a quick city trip! No beef with my teacher; it was a funny comment, and honestly, there are countries I’d struggle to place accurately.
What I find interesting is why we feel the need to identify where someone is from. It often seems to stem from a desire to relate. It’s almost as though knowing where someone is from helps to anchor them to a story, a stereotype, or even just a sense of familiarity. Suddenly, geography and identity become intertwined. Another thing I’ve discovered is that everyone seems to have a story about your country. I’m fortunate that most of what people have shared with me about Belgium has been positive. Perhaps Belgians have a generally favourable reputation, or maybe people’s positive encounters outweigh the negative stereotypes.
Funnily enough, being Belgian has become so ingrained in my personality since I no longer live there. It’s odd to think that this sense of identity only solidified after moving away.
Let me backtrack a little.
As I mentioned earlier, I’m from Belgium. It’s a country of contrasts, divided into two main linguistic regions (technically three, if including German). If you speak French, it will never be quite “French enough” compared to someone from France; if you speak Flemish, it will never rival the Dutch spoken in the Netherlands. In truth, the differences are subtle, like British vs. American English.
My mom is Flemish, and her identity is firmly tied to her hometown. She doesn’t consider herself Belgian or even just Flemish—she’s Antwerpian. It’s like meeting a Parisian or a New Yorker; they often introduce themselves as being from their city rather than American. Antwerp holds a special place in my heart too, and I admire the strength of her connection to it.
I grew up in the French-speaking part of Belgium, so we spoke French at home, though my mum’s native language is Flemish. Since I’ve been living in English-speaking countries for over a decade, my Flemish has dwindled to the basics—enough to follow a conversation but not enough to contribute without accidentally switching to English.
My dad’s experience with language and identity was different. He moved from Poland to Belgium when he was about 12 and quickly learned both French and Flemish to avoid standing out. He didn’t want to be “the little Polack” at school, mocked for his background (kids are cruel). It makes sense, especially for a child navigating a new country, but it also meant that Polish wasn’t passed down to me. My connection to that side of my heritage came through my grandma’s cooking. Her fat and juicy pierogi were legendary, and I always looked forward to visiting so I could indulge in them or bring a container back with me. It’s no surprise that across other cuisines, dumplings are my favourite food—my love for them started with hers.
So yes, the question of identity and belonging has always been an odd one for me.
Recently, I attended a book event for When Among Crows by Veronica Roth. The story is an urban fantasy rooted in Slovak and Polish folklore, set in Chicago—a city with deep cultural ties to Polish heritage. Apparently, Chicago is “the largest Polish city outside of Poland.” Who would have thought?
I’ve always been drawn to books inspired by folklore. As a child, I was fascinated by Greek and Roman mythologies, and reading fiction based on folklore from around the world now feels like reconnecting with that curious, imaginative kid. It also opens the door to exploring other cultures—something I deeply value.
One character in When Among Crows, Ala, particularly resonated with me. Ala’s mother emigrated from Poland but never taught her the language, leaving Ala feeling disconnected from her cultural roots. This mirrors Veronica Roth’s own experience as a first-generation American with Polish and German parents who didn’t pass down their languages either. During the event, Roth shared her perspective on identity, describing three “levels” of being Polish:
A Polish person living in Poland.
A Polish person living abroad.
Someone with Polish heritage.
I fall into the third category, and Roth’s words felt like permission to claim my heritage despite not speaking the language or fully engaging with the culture. That distinction offered me a sense of belonging, just as my Flemish and Belgian roots are integral to who I am. And I’m excited to explore these further. I’m looking to pick up Flemish again to regain my lost vocabulary.
I was speaking with one of my (French) best friends, and it struck me that we’ve never actually travelled together, despite visiting each other across the globe. While brainstorming potential destinations that would appeal to both of us, she suddenly suggested Poland. Since then, the idea has been firmly etched in my mind. We’re not sure when we’ll go, but I’m really looking forward to it.
When I lived in Belgium, I never really felt Belgian. I couldn’t relate to it, which is probably one of the reasons I decided to leave—perhaps in search of belonging and trying to find “my” place. It was only after leaving, when I became an expat, that I began to feel a deeper connection to my home country. This shift happened gradually, yet profoundly. Now, being Belgian feels deeply embedded in my sense of self—a part of me I carry with me wherever I go. And if I have to introduce myself as Amandine from Belgium (and yes, my name is Polish), so be it. It’s who I am, and it only took me ten years to reach this conclusion.
Where are you reading this from?
Until next time,
Amandine
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This is so interesting! I'm British-born Chinese, and felt extremely connected to my Britishness when I briefly worked in Hong Kong – Mum's home country! – for two years in my twenties. It's fascinating to see and feel how much our identity is tied to where we've been and known.
Ton article est très intéressant, notamment sur le point de « être d’Anvers » avant d’être polonaise par exemple. Je suis française depuis des générations (même s’il paraît que j’ai du sang belge), mais comme je n’ai pas une famille attachée à un territoire, et que j’ai moi-même beaucoup déménagé en France, j’ai un peu du mal à savoir d’où je viens. Je vis à Paris depuis un peu moins de dix ans, je suis née en région parisienne, mais quand on me demande d’où je viens, j’ai tendance à dire que je viens de Grenoble. Généralement les gens me disent que je dois très bien skier alors, et je me retrouve obligée de dire que non, ma famille n’étant pas originaire du coin. Comme quoi, on arrive toujours a dire des choses sur ses origines, même si ça paraît simple au premier abord 😂