After more than two decades as a member of the Vlaamse Journalisten Vereniging (Flemish Journalists Association), I consistently fulfilled my obligations, paid my annual dues, and maintained my press card as long as I remained active in journalism.
However, in 2026, I made a deliberate decision: I chose not to renew my membership. This was not a sudden choice, but the result of years of reflection, observation, and personal experience within the Belgian media landscape.
My departure is rooted in a simple but painful truth. Crimes and injustices committed against foreigners, especially Africans, rarely appear in Belgian newspapers. Despite the large number of journalists in the country, these stories remain largely invisible.
As a journalist with both professional responsibility and moral conviction, I felt compelled to document these issues myself. I published them on my blog, which has now reached more than 16 million readers worldwide.
Yet something troubling happened. Over time, I discovered that many of my articles addressing injustices against Africans in Belgium had mysteriously disappeared from my blog. These were not minor posts; they were detailed reports, personal accounts, and documented experiences.
Their disappearance raised serious questions about digital visibility, narrative control, and the vulnerability of independent journalism. While I can’t point to any single actor with certainty, the pattern was too consistent to ignore.
One of the articles that vanished was a story that revealed a deeper truth about prejudice in Europe, the case I often refer to as the Portuguese Sandwich Thief. This prejudice does not only appear in public spaces.
It follows Black people into workplaces, where assumptions often replace evidence. I once worked in a company where employees’ lunches frequently went missing. Every afternoon, someone would discover that their food had disappeared from the dining hall refrigerator.
No one said it openly, but we, the Africans, felt the silent suspicion. We saw the looks. We understood the unspoken accusations. In their minds, we were the likely culprits.
Then one day, someone hid in the dining hall to catch the thief, and he was caught red‑handed. The person stealing the lunches was not African. He was a Portuguese worker. The discovery shocked many, not because of the theft itself, but because it shattered the quiet prejudice that had been circulating.
The Africans were innocent, yet we had been silently judged long before the truth came out. This incident stayed with me because it revealed something deeper than a stolen sandwich. It exposed how quickly suspicion falls on Black people, even without evidence.
It showed how prejudice operates quietly, without confrontation, without accusation, but with real emotional impact. And it reminded me that in many European societies, the Black man is always the first suspect and the last to be believed.
When articles like this began disappearing from my blog, I felt a profound sense of violation, not only of my work but also of my journalistic freedom. These experiences made me question whether remaining in the Flemish Journalists Association still aligned with my principles and mission as a journalist.
On 2 May 2026, I received a letter stating that my membership would be terminated if I did not pay my dues before 15 May. For me, this was confirmation that the time had come to formalize my departure. I fully accept my removal from the association.
If the Flemish Journalists Association chooses to publicly mention my departure, I respectfully request that they also include the reasons behind my decision.
Transparency is essential not only for me but also for the integrity of journalism itself. I will publish this article internationally so that readers understand why I chose to end my membership after more than twenty years.
Despite everything, I remain grateful for the experience I gained during my time in the association. Still, my commitment to truth, justice, and the visibility of marginalized voices must come first.
