It's not always easy to remember. Especially not the nice experiences. But I try. I would probably be more successful if I were happy today, if I had the feeling that I had arrived in life. But that's not the case. Basically, I'm still looking for the good life, which must be somewhere. This is nothing new for me, I've always been searching.
I go back into the past and rummage through my memory for something that I haven't touched until today. It doesn‘t seem to be important. Now it’s here. It's one of those boxes that you know exists, but you can't remember where you last saw it or where you put it. And if you do remember, you repress it. Because remembering would mean facing what‘s in there.
I find photos in this box. I take them out one by one and look at them. Most of them are yellowed and partly faded photos. I see my father in them, holding me in his arms. I must be around two or three years old. He's laughing and looks happy. I'm laughing too from the bottom of my heart, I have my eyes closed and my mouth wide open.
They are beautiful, but I can't remember. No matter how long I look at them, they remain alien to me. I can't identify myself with that small person and the situation. I keep digging in my memory in vain, but I can't remember any other moment when I was as close to my father like in these photos.
They all date from the time when I lived with my grandparents. My parents were regular visitors, but I don’t have any memories about their visits. I think they came on all their days off. I can't imagine what it must have been like for them to see their little son again after months of working in a foreign country.
Then, after two or four weeks, to have to leave again. Back to this foreign country that never accepted them, never even welcomed them. A country that only accepted them as cheap labor, that was their only chance to have a better life. What must it have been to experience all this? They never talked about it. And I never asked.
There must be a lot of pain. A lot of desires and longings. And fears. Oh yes, I can remember fears. Years later even small things could have triggered very strong feelings which were so overwhelming that they could hardly process them. This pain became part of their story. And part of mine.
I remember many small behaviors, such as excessive anxiety or an incomprehensible anger towards everything this country stands for. Or a mistrust of everyone who didn't come from the same culture. They build walls between them and the rest of the world. I grew up behind this walls.
I don‘t remember joy and fun, I remember loneliness and sadness. But this was never captured on photos. Photos lie. They only ever show a small section of a posed scene. They never show your inner reality, which enfold over time.
A lot was passed on to me, as was the fear, the mistrust, a disproportionate amount of worry. I don't think any of it was really resolved, never processed, not even recognized. All of there feelings must be probably overpowering giants. Powerful like a force of nature that you are helplessly at the mercy of. They stayed helpless for most of there lives. And so am I in many situations.
I don't believe in an innate nature, I believe that we are mainly shaped by our environment. We are children of our time and it edifies or suppresses us. The knowledge that someone will come when you call for them is not in me. And therefore no trust, or only a very fragile one.
I also discover a different Photo. It contains peaks of mountains, somewhere far away but with the imaginable power of a new time on the horizon. I have fond memories of our encounters, which were so spontaneous and so full of joy. Do you remember when my call reached you and only a short time later we were sitting on one of those trunks of an old, fallen tree, looking over to the mountains, which hid behind a blanket of mist, especially on November days? I miss those moments.
I took a few trips into my past, as you can see. I don't know yet what it has brought me behind a few memories. I slipped into it somehow. Like in this city, where we have to stay for two more weeks. Berlin is gray, rainy and cold. It's the default mode during this time of the year. There's a lot to do and yet I don't tackle a lot of it with the seriousness that would be necessary. I don't have the strength. On top of that, I have a cold that is affecting my body as well as my mind.
I should give myself some rest. Well, I can't do that. I just can't get into a state where I'm calm and only enjoying being where I am. I can't sleep either. There are many short and restless nights in a row. I'm not in a good place, but I'm not fragile. I can get through this. I have to, because I have no other choice. And because on the other side there is a new, a better life. I cannot see it yet, but I know about it.
I go back into the past and rummage through my memory for something that I haven't touched until today. It doesn‘t seem to be important. Now it’s here. It's one of those boxes that you know exists, but you can't remember where you last saw it or where you put it. And if you do remember, you repress it. Because remembering would mean facing what‘s in there.
I find photos in this box. I take them out one by one and look at them. Most of them are yellowed and partly faded photos. I see my father in them, holding me in his arms. I must be around two or three years old. He's laughing and looks happy. I'm laughing too from the bottom of my heart, I have my eyes closed and my mouth wide open.
They are beautiful, but I can't remember. No matter how long I look at them, they remain alien to me. I can't identify myself with that small person and the situation. I keep digging in my memory in vain, but I can't remember any other moment when I was as close to my father like in these photos.
They all date from the time when I lived with my grandparents. My parents were regular visitors, but I don’t have any memories about their visits. I think they came on all their days off. I can't imagine what it must have been like for them to see their little son again after months of working in a foreign country.
Then, after two or four weeks, to have to leave again. Back to this foreign country that never accepted them, never even welcomed them. A country that only accepted them as cheap labor, that was their only chance to have a better life. What must it have been to experience all this? They never talked about it. And I never asked.
There must be a lot of pain. A lot of desires and longings. And fears. Oh yes, I can remember fears. Years later even small things could have triggered very strong feelings which were so overwhelming that they could hardly process them. This pain became part of their story. And part of mine.
I remember many small behaviors, such as excessive anxiety or an incomprehensible anger towards everything this country stands for. Or a mistrust of everyone who didn't come from the same culture. They build walls between them and the rest of the world. I grew up behind this walls.
I don‘t remember joy and fun, I remember loneliness and sadness. But this was never captured on photos. Photos lie. They only ever show a small section of a posed scene. They never show your inner reality, which enfold over time.
A lot was passed on to me, as was the fear, the mistrust, a disproportionate amount of worry. I don't think any of it was really resolved, never processed, not even recognized. All of there feelings must be probably overpowering giants. Powerful like a force of nature that you are helplessly at the mercy of. They stayed helpless for most of there lives. And so am I in many situations.
I don't believe in an innate nature, I believe that we are mainly shaped by our environment. We are children of our time and it edifies or suppresses us. The knowledge that someone will come when you call for them is not in me. And therefore no trust, or only a very fragile one.
I also discover a different Photo. It contains peaks of mountains, somewhere far away but with the imaginable power of a new time on the horizon. I have fond memories of our encounters, which were so spontaneous and so full of joy. Do you remember when my call reached you and only a short time later we were sitting on one of those trunks of an old, fallen tree, looking over to the mountains, which hid behind a blanket of mist, especially on November days? I miss those moments.
I took a few trips into my past, as you can see. I don't know yet what it has brought me behind a few memories. I slipped into it somehow. Like in this city, where we have to stay for two more weeks. Berlin is gray, rainy and cold. It's the default mode during this time of the year. There's a lot to do and yet I don't tackle a lot of it with the seriousness that would be necessary. I don't have the strength. On top of that, I have a cold that is affecting my body as well as my mind.
I should give myself some rest. Well, I can't do that. I just can't get into a state where I'm calm and only enjoying being where I am. I can't sleep either. There are many short and restless nights in a row. I'm not in a good place, but I'm not fragile. I can get through this. I have to, because I have no other choice. And because on the other side there is a new, a better life. I cannot see it yet, but I know about it.