I walked a bit over a mile to a favorite park today. It’s been hot lately, unseasonably so for Seattle, and it had occurred to me that the Ravenna ravine would be a perfect spot, lush and shadowed, to write.
And so under beating sun and smoke-tinged haze I walked. Down to the park, slinking into the folds of the land where big leaf maples, skunk cabbage, and sword fern reign still. I clambered up a boulder wedged at the base of the ravine, and admired the light filtered a cool green which washed the urban forest floor. And now above the trickle of the stream and shiver of the leaves, I think. About what? Well, about the future, mostly. About Germany, Berlin really. About Berlin. I want to go back. Yes, I want to go back and more than that. I want to go back and live there. To live in Kreuzberg. On a walk and Christa and Ahmed, my first time alone with them, we discussed the cost of living. Down treed streets flanked by 150-year-old apartment buildings like graffiti-doused canyon walls we wandered and Christa explained how for long this neighborhood had been very affordable, but that now things were changing and fast. “It’s known for drawing many artists and immigrants,” she explained, “but now it is too desirable and the rent is too high for many of those people.” They compared the price of a Kreuzberg studio today to that of one five years ago, and while both prices seemed quite decent to me in comparison to the skyrocketing costs of comparable Seattle apartments, it was evident in these numbers that yes, the neighborhood was becoming more expensive. I wish I understood gentrification better. I wish I knew where the line between gentrified and un-gentrified begins, which factors lead to it. More importantly and selfishly, I wish I knew where I fit in to the issue. I am young, white, educated, and middle class and like so many writers before me, have long been drawn to lower class urban spaces. Perhaps this allure is some form of exoticism or romanticism or some other “ism” forged by my own privilege. Perhaps it’s just a manifestation of a longing to live somewhere different from the neighborhoods in which I was raised— still urban, yes, but also constructed of single family homes, small green backyards, a predominantly white middle class population. Yes, perhaps it’s some form of rebellion against the lives of my parents and even more the lives of extended family members who scant leave their sprawling suburban enclaves. I’d like to think that my interest in these urban spaces stem not so much from some uninspired product of white girl fantasies as a genuine interest and love. I loved in Kreuzberg the contrast of cultures, the sounds of Turkish, Tuariq, German, Russian, Arabic on the tongues of passersby. I loved the grit of neglected buildings and angst-riddled graffiti, the incongruity of Mosques beside bars beside needle exchanges beside play grounds. This collision of culture and lifestyle, all drawn to this network of hard edged urban entanglements by a collective desire to find affordable space. As a creative-expression-oriented individual especially interested in different forms of narrative, I found myself incredibly drawn to the diversity and density, the previously mentioned “incongruities” of many older urban neighborhoods currently under threat of gentrification. And here I find myself uncertain. Is this seeking of inspiration in the complex and dense, lively and diverse urban folds what historically has drawn so many artists (white artists from privileged backgrounds, to be specific) to these places? Is it this artistic presence that has transformed such neighborhoods from hubs of diversity and minority representation into playgrounds for the privileged middle class? Is my passion for such places simply well-intentioned commodification and romanticism of lower-class, racialized communities? These are questions to which I do not yet know the answers. I have grown up with the understanding that, as a white person, I will have to note and give up some of my privileges in an effort to participate in a world with greater racial justice. Perhaps this privilege, the privilege to slide into any neighborhood I desire, is one of the privileges I will have to give up. Perhaps Kreuzberg is a privilege which I will have to give up in order to follow through on my beliefs. In the Gecekondo run by Kotti & Co, I asked Sandy Kaltenborn if artists hailing from privileged backgrounds can ever occupy lower-class urban spaces in a way which does not damage the preexisting voice of said space while simultaneously lending in some humble way to the wellbeing of the community. The man who had long worked to maintain the Kottbusser neighborhood for its economically and ethnically diverse population smiled, running a hand through his hair, “I honestly don’t know.” Sandi’s vague answer blends with my own uncertainty. But then I return in my head to Kreuzberg. I don’t know, maybe it will always be problematic, my occupying space in such an environment, but then, I remember what is so important to me about that space. Walking through Kreuzberg on that first magical day, it was not the parts of the neighborhood which lent me comfort— the gentrified fringes catered to young middle-class white girls— but the places unfamiliar— the corners and shops which forced me to confront my fears and uncertainties— with which I fell in love. Many of my favorite experiences in Kreuzberg were the moments which challenged me most, which forced me to be humble, to step back and learn. Maybe it’s all about intention. When striving to enter a new community, one must be firstly aware of their intentions behind entering such a space. Secondly, one must occupy said space with intention. Each individual’s presence is impactful, and especially when hailing from a point of privilege in which one is accustomed to having surroundings tailored to their lifestyle, which I as a white middle-class American typically am, it is crucial to act from a point of mindful humility. Like learning the language in a new country, you learn the language of the community, engaging with residents, eating their food and shopping at their stores. The alternative to gentrification is humility. We must be armed with the knowledge that this community is doing far more for us than we can do for it. At least this is my current hope, my current belief. The future is filled with lessons on humility, moments dedicated to increased understanding. Perhaps someday I will be able to answer with confidence my question for Sandi. Today though, I will sit on this rock admire the light as it streams through leaves so alive, and remember Germany, remember Berlin.
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On The Privilege of Creativity
Sophie Aanerud Upon entering a spare upper room in the Evangelische Kirchengemeinde St. Simeon (fondly referred to as “the refugee church”) on a Saturday afternoon, one is met by a rush of activity. Men joke in a combination of Hausa and Arabic as they sit before sewing machines. Piles of fabric in vivid Gambian patterns are cut and sorted. Stencils and instructions are sifted through as advice and aid is offered in slow and deliberate German. I don’t know what I expected as I, for that first time, walked into a sewing session at Muanana Refugee Sewing Project, but it somehow was not this. The atmosphere was light despite the great pains most of the individuals in the room had endured as refugees from Sub Saharan Africa. Despite the joking and unceasing banter, however, there existed a quiet underlying determination within the space. These men are studying a trade, refining a skill which they all hope will lead them somewhere beyond the jobless drudgery of life as a refugee without a German work permit living in Berlin. I quickly discovered, as I observed the tracing of patterns, the following of written instructions, the hum of sewing machines, that Muanana is not so much a project dedicated to artistic expression, as I had expected it to be, but to the application and honing of marketable skills, in this case, sewing. I had come to Berlin intending to research the ways recent immigrants to and refugees in Berlin engage in and employ creative expression to forge a sense of belonging within their new community. In learning more about Muanana and other refugee-focused organizations within the city, however. I learned that the refugee art scene in Berlin is far smaller than I had anticipated it to be. While some programs in Berlin sought to offer refugees more opportunities for creative expression, these programs often received little interest from refugee populations, who saw them as a waste of time, explained Christa Dentler, one of Muanana’s founders. Why, one asks, are so many of Berlin’s refugees hesitant to see artistic expression as anything beyond a hobby? Why do they not see it as a viable career, as a means through which they may contribute to their new community? Berlin is a city rich in professional artists.[1] Painters and jewelers, textile artists and musicians make their presence known in markets and on the sides of buildings, in bars and at festivals. Creative writers have long contributed to the city’s rich literary scene and sculptures receive commissions from both galleries and the city. Berlin is seen by many as a nexus of creative expression. I found myself early on wondering why the refugees at Muanana did not recognize this thriving art scene as an option available to them. Dentler swiftly and simply articulated first why most refugees don’t see creative expression as an entity of great importance in their lives. “The reason why the refugees tend to handicrafts,” explained Dentler, “is that that is the only way to earn money.” It is important to note the level of economic desperation in which many of Berlin’s refugees find themselves. “We need to get the job. We work to live, like everyone,” explained Hassan, a participant at Muanana. He cited responsibilities to impoverished family members in his home country as a large reason why he felt so compelled to find good employment. Several studies have been carried out which suggest that first generation immigrants and migrants tend not to engage in creative expression as much as other populations for they feel that it is not a viable means of making money.[2] A U.S. study published by the National Endowment for the Arts regarding art-participation along generational lines found that “across the spectrum of arts activities . . . second-gen immigrants tended to participate at higher rates than did their first-gen counterparts” and that furthermore, “first-gen immigrants participate at higher rates . . . when they have been in the U.S. for at least 15 years, relative to the attendance rates of immigrants who have been here for a shorter period of time.”[3] For most first-generation immigrants and migrants, a major focus is gaining employment and an economic footing in their new country. Not only is creative expression seen as a futile means of attaining said economic footing, it is seen as a waste of time which could be spent improving skills more traditionally prized by the market. This focus on work is further exasperated by the responsibility many migrants have to send money home, as many of the refugees at Muanana do.[4] In 2012 alone, 530 billion dollars were sent home by migrants worldwide.[5] Those involved at Muanana, and thousands more Sub-Saharan Africans now living as refugees in Europe, were initially migrant laborers, driven to work in foreign countries and send wages back home. “In many African countries, like my country, Niger, there no work, no education, no opportunity. So we went to Libya,” recalls Ahmed, a sewer at Muanana who is from Agadez, a desert city in central Niger. Ahmed worked for 12 years in Libya, sending earnings back to his family in Niger in hopes these remittances would help lift them out of Niger’s rampant poverty. Libya, under Muammar Gaddafi employed many men from Saharan and Sub Saharan countries as migrant laborers. The goal of these foreign workers, like that of most migrants and first-generation immigrants, was to send money to impoverished family back home. This practice of welcoming foreign laborers ceased with the start of the Libyan Civil War and killing of Gaddafi in 2011. Sub-Saharan laborers were targeted in the ensuing conflict, often placed in internment centers and prisons. Their movement within Libya restricted by threats of violence, these laborers often saw little choice but to cross the Mediterranean to Europe.[6] While these individuals are now rendered refugees on account of the violence they were forced to flee, they maintain a determination to work and continue supporting family abroad. It is true that involvement in artistic expression is rarely seen as a viable economic option, but one must wonder if this is so much the case in Berlin, a city in which art and local artists are regularly fostered and celebrated?[7] There is indeed, in Berlin, a second factor that leads refugees to the conclusion that they are incapable of finding economic success in creative arts. This additional factor largely involves representation: refugees in Berlin today (who are predominantly identified as people of color or non-white) may encounter artists frequently, but rarely encounter artists who look like them. As Yvette Mutumba highlights in her essay, “Artists if African Descent in Germany,” artists of color, specifically in this context, African artists, often struggle to find success in Germany producing the art they desire to make. These challenges struggle to move beyond German expectations of what their work should be like as based upon their identity. Nigerian artist Akinbode Akinbiyi in an interview with Mutumba, reflected upon the images the German public expected him to paint based upon his African heritage, “They wanted a certain image of Africa, mainly landscape and flowers. But I even did not want to start it. However, it is difficult to earn money, if you do not serve those expectations.”[8] Systemic racism today plays a massive role in determining which artists and art forms receive praise and attention (and thus economic legitimacy). “Because some groups have greater access to resources and more social connections to both local and global movers and shakers,” write Heather McLean and Barbara Rahder in The Exclusionary Politics of Creative Communities, “they are more likely to define what is considered creative.”[9] An experience I had while volunteering at Muanana’s stall in the Mauerpark Flee Market further demonstrated this reality in which art is judged based on the artist’s identity. Every Sunday Berlin’s Mauerpark is transformed into an expansive flee market in which artists of all backgrounds sell their products. The attending demographic is predominantly white and I couldn’t help notice that the stalls headed by white people seemed to draw more attention. In fact, the attendance at Muanana’s stall, run by the programs participants— black men— appeared to increase when I, a white person ethnically German, joined the stall. All questions regarding the products were directed at me and the other men working the stall were largely ignored. While this observation is just that— a singular observation, one can’t help but note that the witnessed phenomenon— in which white customers showed more interest in products which appeared to be produced by white artisans— supports McLean and Rahder’s claim that groups with more connections, more privileges, are able to determine which creative productions have value. Berlin, like many large cities in Europe and North America, fails as a patron society in two ways. First it fails to allow all potential artists the opportunity to engage in uninhibited creative expression and it fails secondly in celebrating said creative expression. This failure to recognize and celebrate artists of color leads recent immigrants and refugees to the conclusion that any attempts at artistic expression are a waste of time and money. My confidence that refugees in Berlin would be so willing to participate and actively engaged in creative expression demonstrated my naiveté and privilege. As an individual hailing from an economically stable background, I never worried that my desire to enter a creative field in which I may not have a steady income would impose upon my ability to feed and house myself and my family. I never had face the pressure of being the sole monetary supporter of my loved ones. As an individual with white skin and a Christian/secular background, I never had to fear that my perspective, my narrative and creations would be unpopular, that there would not be a wealthy audience to relate to and recognize my expressions. As an individual who desires to enter traditionally creative fields, I am fortunate. I am fortunate that such fields were even an option for me. A month in Berlin doesn’t change much. I conducted interviews with and was taught to sew by the refugees of Muanana, but their lives remain unchanged. Their uncertain refugee status, their inability to find legal employment in Germany, these realities have not changed. Their privilege of manual skills above artistic has not changed and nor, for the sake of their survival, should it. The only thing changed is a fragment of my understanding. I understand that creative expression, however romanticized as a field for the social fringe, remains, as Sharon Dodua Otoo puts it in Reclaiming Innocence, “privileged people producing art for other privileged people.”[10] It will take a long time to learn how to change this tide. I only hope that, through recognizing the role which privilege plays in creative expression today, we might be able to expand that field of expression for tomorrow. Works Cited Mutumba, Yvette. "Artists of African Descent in Germany." The Little Book of Big Visions: How to Be an Artist and Revolutionize the World (2012): 15-31. Print. Dodua Otoo, Sharon. "Reclaiming Innocence. Unmasking Representations of Whiteness in German Theatre." The Little Book of Big Visions: How to Be an Artist and Revolutionize the World (2012): 54-70. Print. Kirkpatrick, David D. "Libyans Turn Wrath on Dark Skinned Migrants." New York Times 4 Sept. 2011, International News ed., Africa sec.: Web. Burian, Al. "Artists No Longer Welcome in Berlin." Vice News 23 July 2012: Web. Isama, Antoinette. "Opinion: Tradition and the Arts at Odds in First-Generation Families." Blog post. Medial Reports Chicago. Northwestern University, 26 Mar. 2015. Web. Tomlinson, Simon. "Revealed: How Immigrants in America Are Sending $120 BILLION to Their Struggling Families Back Home." Daily Mail 31 Jan. 2013: Web. Ahmed Yacoub. "Berlin, a Safe Haven for "Art Refugees"." Blog post. Egyptian Streets. N.p., 31 Mar. 2016. Web. Iyengar, Sunil. "Taking Note: Immigrant Participation in the Arts | NEA." Art Works Blog. National Endowment for the Arts, 2 Mar. 2017. Web. 30 July 2017. "Interview with Ahmed." Personal interview. June 2017. “Interview with Christa Dentler.” Personal Interview. July 2017. “Interview with Hassan.” Personal Interview. July 2017. [1] Vice, “Artists No Longer Welcome in Berlin” [2] Isama, Antoinette. "Opinion: Tradition and the Arts at Odds in First-Generation Families [3] Iyengar, Sunil. "Taking Note: Immigrant Participation in the Arts | NEA." [4] Interview by Aanerud with Ahmed, June 2017 [5] Tomlinson, Simon. "Revealed: How Immigrants in America Are Sending $120 BILLION to Their Struggling Families Back Home." [6] Interview by Aanerud with Hassan, July 2017 [7] Ahmed Yacoub. "Berlin, a Safe Haven for "Art Refugees" [8] Page 16 [9] Page 96 [10] Page 54 Leave it to the Germans to have a specific word for “coming to terms with the past.” For those wondering, the straight-forward word is spelled “vergangenheitsbewaltigung” and no, I haven’t any desire to attempt pronouncing it. This concept of “vergangenheitsbewaltigung” is explored in Peter Reichel’s article “Coming to Terms with the Past Through Politics and the Law,” and I found the article and its impossible-to-pronounce vernacular focus evoked often whilst exploring both Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp Memorial, and The Topography of Terror Museum.
Both entities today serve as means not only of remembrance but also seek to enforce a sense of accountability. The German relationship today with the Holocaust is one I have yet to understand. We are briefed to not mention it before Germans, and yet they as a population have ensured that its presence is evoked at every corner. With each stumbling stone one is reminded of an individual murdered by a once popular regime. Concentration camps stand largely unaltered and German children visit them regularly on field trips. With this in mind we departed for Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp Memorial. The weather was dismal and rain beat down upon us as we were guided from one barrack to the next between claps of thunder. It seems a crucial experience for any visitor to Germany to visit a concentration camp and I had been long waiting for the experience, certain that in simply standing upon the land, one would be immediately emotionally assaulted by the memories of terrors committed upon it. I imagined that on such unaltered landscape the echoes of brutality would never cease to ring. And yet as we wandered the camp in sodden clothes, I felt nothing. It didn’t make sense. Here I was in the exact place where thousands were murdered, tortured, and I could focus on nothing but the rain leaching through my jacket. We passed through barracks and the tour guide told us of torture by water, death by the cold, and I felt as no more moved than I would have been had I been reading such testaments from home. “I am cold and wet and uncomfortable,” I mused, “Shouldn’t I be able, here of all places, to move beyond my own minimal physical complaints and connect with the real sufferers?” I wished to read the stories of individuals plastered to barrack walls, but we were ushered on, not given the opportunity to really connect with any victims for we did not know their stories. Located on the land which formerly housed the Nazi Gestapo and SS headquarters, Topography of Terror now serves as a museum documenting the rise and fall of the Third Reich and the many crimes committed during the Nazi party’s reign. Once again we moved across a landscape steeped in historical significance, exposed to relevant accompanying information. This time there were only two of us, the rest of the class having gone to Hamburg for the weekend, and we experienced the exhibit at our own pace, without the restriction imposed by the presence of tour guides. I read plaque after plaque, immersing myself in journals of Nazi officials and Jews forced into hiding. I followed images and accompanying reports, narratives, through the ultimate narrative of the exhibit: the narrative of the Third Reich, the narrative of the complicit, the narrative of the victimized, the murdered. We spent over two hours at Topography of Terror, utterly exhausted both physically and emotionally by the end. It felt as if we had emerged from the war, eye witnesses first hand to the atrocities committed. I weighed my two experiences. While both exhibits harnessed historical ties to the land on which they occupied, one ended up focused far more on the testament of horror as evoked physically, and the other evoked more through traditional narrative. It is not my role, or anyone’s, to dictate which means is more effective in helping individuals come to terms with the past. I can only speak to my personal experience, my personal observations. While the use of the land to evoke emotional response can be extremely effective and powerful, my time at Sachsenhausen was ultimately disappointing. The echoes of atrocity perhaps have become too dulled by time, perhaps there just wasn’t enough narrative structure to allow us to grasp the spatial significance, perhaps it was just raining to hard and we weren’t in the right mental space. I thought of the German school groups I had witnessed at the camp; most were composed of giggling children, fully oblivious to the significance of the land on which they gossiped. In Topography of Terror, as visitors were forced to face memories of the Third Reich and Holocaust in the form of words, in the form of narrative, they were unable to tune out the echoes of history. The faces of visitors were somber, contemplative. Both Sachsenhausen and Topography of Terror serve fascinating roles in Germany’s process of coming to terms with its past. I wonder how my experience at Sachsenhausen would have differed had I gone to Topography of Terror first. There is something so impacting about narrative, and it was the narrative structure of Topography of Terror which allowed me to emotionally grasp the significance of the Germany’s Past. First comes emotional understanding, and then physical recognition. This key to “coming to terms with the past” involves both Topography of Terror and Sachsenhausen, but, as there is an order to the elements of coming to terms (first emotional understanding and then physical recognition), there must also be an order to how these two exhibits are experienced. Topography of Terror offers narrative. Sachsenhausen demonstrates recognition. Perhaps it is only with the narrative fresh in mind that the echoes of Sachsenhausen can be properly heard and interpreted. Perhaps someday I will test this theory, ideally on a day less rainy. In "Arrival City," Saunders observes how three different European communities deal with recently arrived refugees. In Les Pyramides, an enclave outside Paris, France, the immigrant population (largely of West African origin) is experiencing social unrest. Starting in 2005, many of the young men living in Les Pyramides as French-born children of immigrants began rioting over their inability to integrate into French society. Saunders argues that this unrest stems from the fact that Les Pyramides is too isolated from the greater French community, making it difficult for the immigrants living there to transition from the rural lifestyles which they were accustomed to in Africa to the urban lifestyles required in Paris. In the Berlin neighborhood of Kreuzberg, Turkish immigrants struggle not because of special isolation, as with Les Pyramides, but citizenship. Because Germany has always recognized Turkish immigrants as temporary working migrants, and most Turks in Germany thus struggle to become naturalized citizens. As a result, many Turkish inhabitants in Kreuzberg are unable to start businesses or integrate into German society. Much of the Turkish population in Berlin is also more conservative and “rural” than their counterparts living in Turkey. Parla, Spain, is the only space explored in this piece which openly identifies itself as an arrival city for immigrants. Most of the inhabitants of Parla are Moroccan immigrants, but as a result of Spanish amnesty programs, most (even if they arrived undocumented) have been granted Spanish citizenship. Saunders argues that Spain’s granting of citizenship to African immigrants has allowed for these populations to far more easily integrate into Spanish society as they “aren’t hampered by ambiguous national status” (257). Nail argues that traditionally we associate “stasis” with success. “Place-bound membership in a society,” writes Nail, “is assumed as primary.” Migrants, as individuals who lack “a static place,” are instantly designated “failed citizens.” This mindset has impacted the way we see and study migrants and human migration in that it instantly designates these individuals as “lesser” because they “belong nowhere.”
Migration, no matter the time period in which it is occurring, stems ultimately from the same thing: expulsion. Nail explains this concept as critical in the study of migration for it moves migration as a subject from the historical to the social. This is to say that migration ultimately exists as a social phenomenon based on the reality that humans forcibly remove other humans. Nail explains that history traditionally is told from the perspective of the state. Seeing that states define history, the stories of the stateless (migrants) are often left out or deemed unimportant. Nail notes Hegel in this argument, quoting that “In world history . . . we are concerned only with those peoples that have formed states [because] all the value that human beings possess, all of their spiritual reality they have through the State alone.” Seeing that historically the state is the only source of significance for people in a historical sense, the migrant has historically been labeled as an individual devoid of any significance. Maria
Maria has been living in Kreuzberg between Kottbusser Tor and Gorlitzer Park for over 12 years now. While she does volunteer work and lives in this area, her main job is in Mitte, but this does not bother her as Berlin and Kruezberg especially are very bike friendly areas and she feels safe riding her bike between home and work every day (this is one of her favorite things about the neighborhood— its many bicyclists). As someone who enjoys sewing, Maria also appreciates how artistically inclined this area. She feels that it is also a very diverse area which is quite welcoming to refugees (Regenbogenfabrik, a hostel which for a long period housed refugees is one of the primary institutions of the neighborhood), though she notes that it could always be improved. She believes that the community is very supportive of education and that it doesn’t seem to privilege ethnic Germans over other students. This being said, she says that there are many areas in Germany where this is not the case. Maria hopes that her work with refugees in and around the community is beneficial not only for the refugees, but for the community itself which she believes is richened by the presence of refugees. Hassan Hassan has lived in Berlin for three years, and currently lives with several other refugees in an apartment in Kotti. He works with Muanana Refugee Sewing Project which is partially stationed in the area of Kreuzberg between Kottbusser Tor and Gorlitzer Park and spends much of his free time in this area. Hassan notes that all of the people he encounters in this neighborhood are very nice and supportive of his status as a refugee. Additionally he appreciates the art all over the walls and the festive atmosphere of the neighborhood, noting that there was a music festival at Regenbogenfabrik last week. Hassan knows very little about how children in this community are educated, but explains that he wishes there were better educational facilities for adults such as himself. It is a long way from here to his German classes and he finds very little support in said classes which makes it difficult for him to integrate into the community. Hassan hopes to someday be a productive member of his community, though he notes that this is quite difficult considering that he, as an individual holding Italian (not German) refugee status, cannot find any jobs beyond Muanana. Cultural Assets: Turkish Market On Maybackufer Street, every Tuesday and Friday, there is a colorful and festive “Turkish Market.” Musicians perform live on the shore of the river (with a fully functioning sound system) as customers peruse stands lining the street. Fresh fruits and vegetables, pastries, jewelry, clothing, and many other goods are sold at the market. There are sections of the market entirely dedicated to selling fabric. This market began and remains an area dedicated to selling Turkish goods (catering to the large Turkish community in the neighborhood), but has expanded in the past few years to include more organic vegetable stalls, food stalls selling African, European, and Asian food alongside Turkish meals, and live music. Most individuals attending the market are young middle class whites, middle-aged working-class Turkish-German women, and street people who appear to be all ages and races. Source: http://www.stilinberlin.de/2012/07/food-in-berlin-turkish-market-at.html Transportation: U1 and Bike Lanes While most of Berlin’s U-Bahn lines run below ground, the U1 runs on a raised platform and spans the neighborhood, traveling along Skalitzer Strasse from Schlesisches Tor to Kottbusser Tor with Oranienstrasse in between. This section of the U1 rail is currently under repair and has been replaced by a bus which comes every three or so minutes to transport the vast number of individuals reliant on this route. The busses are very full during rush hour and are not near as fast as the rail would be on account of the heavy car traffic. This area also has heavy bicycle traffic. While it seems chaotic and dangerous to the visiting pedestrian, individuals claim that bicycling in this area is actually quite safe on account of the many bike lanes. Physical and Land Assets: Parks and Rivers The land making up much of Berlin is rather flat and the terrain of this particular part of Kreuzberg is no different. Landwehr Canal makes up one of the neighborhood borders and is crisscrossed by bridges, both for cars and foot. Each side of the canal is tree lined and features a walking path. One of the main features of this neighborhood is Gorlitzer Park. The park was constructed in the 1990s on railway sidings. The vast plot of green landscape features fountains, trees, abandoned concrete buildings now covered in graffiti and street art, and basketball courts. The park also features a semi-underground stream and petting zoo. While filled with families and children, this park is also known as “Germany’s biggest drug-dealing center.” At all hours of the day, young men— almost exclusively African— line the paths quietly offering cheap drugs to passersby. According to an article, most of these men selling drugs are refugees who are not allowed to work in Germany. Source: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/kreuzberg-berlin-s-hip-district-becomes-a-battleground-between-dealers-and-gentrification-9909118.html Stray raindrops left behind by a passing storm dot my page. The recent showers stirred up the dirt which sticks to my shoes and greets my nose, evoking memories of home, digging holes for the tomatoes, pulling weeds, feeling the soil wet and rich in my fingers: good dirt. Yes, this is good dirt.
Sparrows flit about at the edge of the clearing, emerging then disappearing again into the vibrant green of the canopy, starting low then rising up in a dome above me. It all culminates at my tree. It is not my tree, no, of course, but in the moment such a title feels appropriate. It’s a beautiful tree, ancient and solid against my back. A breeze lifts the leaves, sending them quaking above, refracting the limited sunlight in varying shades of green. Homey scents, fresh brewed coffee and stew, waft in, mingling with the good dirt and wet leaves. It’s so easy to forget where I am. So easy to place myself in the isolated thickets I longed for in childhood: “Bambi was born in a thicket surrounded by rabbits and birds . . .” “May I take your photo, please?” And easily I am roused from my private Eden. She’s an older woman, with limp white hair and a phone in her hand; she speaks with a German accent and I wonder how she knew I spoke English (of course it is because she spoke first in German and received no response, as any German spoken here registers same as the twittering birds). “Oh yes, of course.” I return to my journal, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth as the woman snaps photos. Of me. Girl writes beneath tree in shared Eden. And it is a shared Eden. I sit beneath a tree in a community garden and artist colony in the middle of a massive and bustling city. Wanders weave and duck beneath low branches and groves of Aspen, snapping photos. Women sit at folding chairs beneath a tarp, laughing and weaving and occasionally taking bites from steaming plates of food. In a shack down the path a skinny man with grey hair and magnifying glasses gives stick-and-pokes. Two women with wild hair bend down and arrange leaves, rocks, flowers in intricate patterns on the good dirt. Who are these people? White mostly, yes. Some meander through in gortex rain coats wielding expensive cameras, clicking away. Some dress more artistically, in wool and homemade recycled shirts, painting and printing behind tables. These people are more varied. Many are white, some are black. Some are Arab. They all smile modestly at the passing gortex crew. A woman waltzes between stalls in a dress all of curled metal scraps. The artists and art appreciators. Mostly hailing from comfort, a comfort some have abandoned largely minus the privileges of which they will never let go. Amidst paintings and metal works, floral patterns and hearty food, are slogans: “We welcome refugees,” “Solidaritat.” I strain but see no refugees here. Nonetheless. Here is a shared Eden. Beautiful people weave through plots of vegetables and Aspen groves, art installations. I love it. It is an Eden in which I am allowed. An Eden in which I fit so well an old German woman asked to take a picture . . . of me . . . belonging. I love it and belong and hope that anyone can belong but in the back of my mind I can’t help but worry. How does my class standing impact the degree to which I am welcomed? Does any artist belong? What does it require to be an artist? How much must one have in the first place to give up for the sake of creative engagement? I rise from my spot beneath the shared tree. The cool of the ground seeps into the seat of my pants. The leaves quake. Voices flit. Children run. And I know I can be part of this Eden. I only wonder why. Old women work the good dirt on arthritic knees and a breeze rustles poppy heads and sunflowers. I race through on short skinny legs, skinned knees. Dodge the raised beds, skip over the puddle, stop at the raspberries but don’t let anyone see you. The shame which rose to my cheeks when a woman told us off for eating other people’s berries still courses hot. Not hot enough to stop me of course. It is wonderful, being a five-year-old free in a P-patch. Like this German garden through which I now wander, the P-patches of Seattle were havens, special shared spaces for the community. They drew the artistic, the connoisseurs of the organic, the urban liberals. Here is more vibrant, attracting a far more diverse population, yes, but there is a definite similarity. Both the community garden and the P-patch I love. In both I feel welcome. In both I wonder if my sense of belonging stems from my whiteness, my educated middle-class background. I think of the men of Muanana. Would they feel so welcomed in either of these places? Yes, both public gardens foster attitudes celebratory of refugees, but would they celebrate the actual presence of a refugee? These questions, as I breathe in pungent fresh wet vegetables and catch bits of stray German, I ask. Perhaps there was purpose behind the fact that there was no prior explanation delivered regarding the Palace of Tears. We had no idea what it was: some ancient palace? A Holocaust memorial?
We didn’t even know where it was. First the group congregated in front of some ornate building beside Humboldt University, remarking that, “It definitely has ‘palace’ in its name.” After concluding that this indeed was not the Palace of Tears, we turned back to Friedrichstrasse Station and followed perplexing signs leading us to “Tranenpalast:” a blue a concrete building evoking architecture of the 1960s Soviet Union. Faced with the name’s irony-- this was no sort of palace we had ever encountered-- it began to dawn on us: this place, this “palace” served as the main means of contact between East and West Germans. And now I get lost. I don’t know what to say, how to extend beyond physical descriptions. There was a building. There remains a building. It was once the point through which individuals long separated could say hello, where they said goodbye before another long separation. There’s something strangely intangible about the story of the wall. Perhaps there wasn’t enough death: only 139 deaths along the wall are recorded, read a sign in the museum (only). Perhaps I don’t understand enough about life in the East, the level of surveillance, the extent of the DDR’s power. I don’t know. It’s as if the history does not strike me as gruesome and harsh enough to warrant my emotional response. They had their whiteness. It only lasted a few decades. Most survived well enough. And yet I know. I know this cynical voice fails to take into account the individual. It fails to note the artists banned from producing, the academics constricted in their thinking, the families separated. I know this. And yet as I meandered through the Palace of Tears, reading personal accounts and emotional footage, I couldn’t feel. I think I need to better learn the nuance of situations. Until then, I take it in with a perplexed face and stone heart. There has been a West African wedding at the church. A woman in a floor length dress (vivid green with twisting flecks of yellow, a sapphire-blue buttress) pushes a baby stroller, so drab and conservative against her vibrant wardrobe and immaculate makeup.
The whole neighborhood feel oddly flat against the bustling wedding guests. The air is still with just enough humidity to leave my skin feeling stiff and heavy. The traffic which passes unceasing emits but a dull murmur: every car seems some flat yet spotless shade of grey. The sidewalk is straight and as the balls of my feet hit the surface the only word which comes to mind is solid . . . solid solid solid. The sky is white, also solid, such contrast to the young mother’s dress. It feels close, almost oppressive (if it were slightly more humid). A limo wrapped in pink tulle (rose ornaments) rolls by so softly I almost miss it, only turning to the sleek vehicle’s purr at the last moment. Men in fitted suits usher it into the church yard as little girls congregate about it, their big probing dark eyes reflecting the starched white of their party dresses. Sweet perfume like jasmine mingles with the aged church bricks as a group of young men and women emerge from the yard. The women’s dresses are tight and electric in hue and pattern; the men wear shiny suits, sculpted jackets extending to their thighs, sharp pleats in pants. The speak in passionate and rapid fire German, the type which passes beyond your conscious while still penetrating your ears. Somehow I’m caught off guard, perhaps having expected instead to hear a more flowing African tongue. Church bells clatter but still as if muffled. I lick my lips and taste only the bleached dry skin of the dehydrated. This place is muted. A neighborhood cast by the Soviets as a simple canvas. Dry yet sticky, extending yet still. It is only the wedding guests which lend it life and what life. They walk upright and vivacious through the two dimensional landscape in a contrast almost more shocking than appealing. Shocking because such contrast can only exist if everything but the players is flat and I am not one of the players on this stage. I walk on and the laughter of young children and cheerful discussion of wedding guests slices through the starkness of all around them. I walk on and I am silent. Solid. A bit of canvas. |
AuthorStudent at the University of Washington, Sophie Aanerud, will be studying abroad in Berlin, Germany. Here are some of her thoughts . . . Archives
August 2017
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