The Poetics of the City: Living and Writing Hamburg

The Poetics of the City: Living and Writing Hamburg

Luis Varela (ed.) / Tula-Marie Joane Necker / Melis Özen / Aida Berberi / Syanindhita Wizari / Bertil Gürtler / Aiad Saad / Franklin Andrés Quisnancela Romero / André Jentzsch / Jelena Rehder / Katinka Oertzen / Jasmin Drutjons / Bright Anim Obiri / Adelia Zahra / Sofia Rakseeva / Kayra Schiffer

This book is the result of the seminar “The Poetics of the City: Living and Writing Hamburg” ([Q] STUDIES / Wintersemester 2021-2022 / HafenCity Universität). Ilustrations: Svenja Blum. Editor: Luis Varela.

Index

Foreword: Read to write, Luis

Shift, Tula-Marie Joane

What makes it home, Melis

Casino, Aida

Voyage, Syanindhita

The zombified city, Bertil

Everything has its weak spot, Aiad

del Sur, Franklin Andrés

Empty Love Mile, André

Hamburg - “A Pearl in a Grey Shell”. Life between grey sky and grey water, Jelena Rehder....................86

Running away, Katinka Oertzen................................96

Lockdown can be missed, Jasmin Drutjons............106

Time in the City, Bright Anim

Rainy Day, Adelia Zahra..........................................125

Rattle of time, Sofia Rakseeva.................................131

When we collide, Kayra Schiffer..............................141

Foreword: Read to write

Luis Varela

If the City is a text, how shall we read it?

Joyce Carol Oates

The space in which we live and develop, not only has meeting places and an atmosphere, but it also builds up narratives that shape our identities and biographies. Every place has its story. By reading and analyzing poems and fragments of novels about the city, students wrote their own stories about their own unique urban experience.

We approached literature from the perspective of creative writing. On the one hand, we read to write. That is, when we read, we are focused on discovering how the fragments of the novels and poems were written, we are attentive to the narrator and their point of view, to

the described space and its atmosphere, to the emotions that were generated and their impact on us. On the other hand, we appropriate the narrative strategies used, to later apply them in our own creations. We assume both reading and writing as an active exercise, inseparable and focused on creation. The short stories created are based in Hamburg. We think of the city as a text that constantly reproduces itself, expanding, easily and unexpectedly like the wind, but which has an impact on our life story. We think of the city as fiction, something that we can interpret, and above all, intervene. The students invented stories parting from their own lives and their own urban aesthetic experiences in which different urban spaces in Hamburg are appreciated, as are, most importantly, the lives of its inhabitants. It is with them, that Hamburg unconsciously and playfully, leaves its footprints of cement.

Shift

Tula-Marie Joane Necker

A woman walks in as Francis starts her shift. “Excuse me, do you sell bottled water?” she asks. Francis keeps repeating her words silently to herself while she searches for a bottle of water on the dusty shelves. “Why would she come here to ask for such a silly thing? There is a kiosk right next to the bar!” Francis is thinking to herself, shaking her head inconspicuously. Normally Francis would always respond in the same way to a stupid customer’s question – she’d just offer something else, that she likes better and that she doesn’t have to search for. But this time she somehow enjoys the simplicity of the woman´s question and as she has never seen her as a customer before, she finds her presence refreshing. Francis hands over the bottle to her and turns around to get the wallet. The woman pays and leaves. It’s a thursday evening and it is going to be busy as always. Francis looks at the clock. 4:30 pm. She puts the dishes from the breakfast shift into the sink and

opens the tap to let them soak. Hot water is flushing into the steel container. Soon the first thirsty regular clients will come in and she shivers at the thought of the beginning shift. Willow, a well-known customer, comes in and his heavy stomps awake her from her thoughts. He sits down opposite the counter at the window site and nodds to Francis to make her aware he is ready to get his first Pils served. Francis leaves the tap running. She can smell the sink – the place where dirty dishes and lime-fresh detergent meet. Accompanied by a slow piano intro coming from the loudspeakers Francis is admiringly observing the scene. “There is something exciting about dishes” Francis whispers to the sink. But she can’t finish her thoughts, because she feels Willow staring at her. With a cold beer in her hand she walks over to him and leaves it right in front of him. She comes back and looks at the sink again. Soap bubbles are growing out of the spout. She can hear how Willow opens a pack of cigars, takes one out and lights it. Francis notices how the air is thickening with smoke. She coughs. The door opens again and a couple comes in. Francis

knows them. They would visit the bar every day, as if it was cheaper here than to drink selfmade Gin Tonics at home. Francis smiles, raises her hand to greet them and starts to prepare three drinks, two for the couple, one for herself. She again stares at the dishes. They aren’t clean yet and tell her stories as if they have an identity by being used by the customers. Everyday the dishes meet somebody different and traces of these meetings reflect on their plain ceramic or glass surfaces. “Bottles stay alone, while dishes bathe together”, Francis sighs. The crackling of the melting ice cubes reminds her to get her work done. She delivers the Gin Tonics to the couple, now sitting on the shabby red couch in the left corner. Back behind the counter Francis bites into her dry croissant from the breakfast leftovers and watches the clock again. 4:57 pm. Not even an hour had passed. She has to cough again and hides behind the bar to rinse away the rest of her croissant with a sip of rheumy

Gin Tonic. Willow’s friend Paul is joining him. “Hey, sorry for the impatience, but could you please bring me a vodka? Just plain vodka?” he asks with a slurred

voice. Sweat is running down his neck, dropping to the floor. He smells like sweat and his casual suit can’t hide it. “Of course. I love to serve vodka!” Francis replies smiling. She fills up a glass and wishes the alcohol would expel his stench. Paul walks up to the counter and grabs it. Francis stares at the floor in front of her. It is fully covered with brownish sink water. All the identities and their stories had melted into a blurry viscous liquid. She turns off the tap and starts wiping the floor. She can hear the clock ticking behind her. Tik tok, tik tok. She hears the words of the couple in the left corner. They are discussing heavily about their cat. Francis looks at them. While arguing, the woman nervously rips apart her sodden coaster and a tear runs down her face. “They probably need another drink”, Francis decides and prepares two more Gin Tonics. The couple seems to be happy, that she interrupts them with new drinks, so they can forget their cat for a second. Back at the counter Francis realizes, that the bar is full of familiar faces. It’s 5:30 pm now and the air is stuffy and filled with noise. She sits down behind

the counter and looks through the glass of the fridge to see, if there will be enough cold beer. A young man, who Francis knows from former shifts, shouts at her: “You better play some music or I will leave again!” She restarts the playlist. Otis Redding’s voice sounds: “Sittin‘ in the morning sun, I’ll be sittin‘ when the evening comes...” Francis looks into his direction. He shakes his head and shouts again: “A bottle of Sauvignon, please.” His girlfriend left him some months ago and since then he comes to the bar. Every time he visits he drinks at least six glasses of wine. After the third one he would always start to tell Francis, that it wasn’t his fault, that his girlfriend left him. Willow orders two more Pils and two vodkas for him and Paul. They are sharing the last cigar of the pack. Francis comes back to her counter and stacks up the warm dishes. She continues to state, what she likes so much about them: “The fact, that they are being used daily, but retire perfectly clean at the end of every night”. She herself doesn’t feel clean at the end of the night. She cannot wash off her shift like dishes do. Not today and

probably neither tomorrow. Francis can still hear the couple arguing in the corner of the room. Their voices are louder than before and they have changed the subject. Their new problem seems to be the perfect mixture of a Gin Tonic. Willow’s friend has left and so he starts talking to Francis instead. “Did I ever tell you about my real best friends?” Francis nodds politely. Willow grabs a seat at the bar counter and goes on: “You know, Paul is cool, but he could never keep up with us. He never experienced what we did. He has some vodka every now and then and that’s it. Then he’ll go home to his wife and his kids and act like the boring married man, that he is.” Francis turns around to check what time it is. 7:30 pm. Her shift finishes at 12:00 pm and sometimes later, if the guests wouldn’t want to leave. “So there is Lucio, he is a Brazilian gangster and I can tell you, he loves women. He would like you. Lucio is a crazy guy. I remember, how we went to a concert together in 1984 to see…” Francis opens the tap again and listens to the relieving swoosh of the water jet. Hil St. Soul‘s words come to her mind: “All my worries

are likely man’s, I watch my worries, wash away, wash away”. She collects the dirty glasses from the counter and watches them sink into the steamy bath. They try to stay above water, but at some point, when they can’t resist the weight of the pouring water anymore, they drown. “John tried to help, when the car hit the tree. You know, he always tries to help. But he never can, because he is always too high. Too high to go to work, too high to seduce his wife and even too high to drink with us…” Francis hears Willow continue his story. She brings him another beer and looks around. The couple is waving to her. Francis smiles and prepares them new drinks. While she places the glasses in front of them, the woman babbles: “If your man cheated on you with your sister in law, would you stay with him, just because you have kids together?” She turns around to see Francis‘ reaction. “Oh, stop it, Gina!” The man yells, rolling his eyes. Francis walks off. Tik tok, tik tok. It’s 8 o’clock. “To be honest – they both died in the end, poor guys. But I am still here, you know”, Willow is announcing. “Let’s drink a toast to them, pretty lady.

I need three beers. One for me, one for Lucio and one for John. And one for you, of course”. Francis opens three bottles of beer and puts them on the bar table in front of him. “I am telling you about my best friends and they don’t even deserve to get a glass for their beer? That’s pretty rude.” Francis looks at the glasses she had just cleaned and places them in front of Willow. “Here you go, friends!”. Francis wants to fill up the glasses, but Willow does not let her. “I am a selfmade man, look at me!” With shaky hands he pours the beer into the glasses and sips from each of them. “God damn, these drinks are hotter than you are!” “Time to pee” Francis thinks to herself. “I’ll be right back” she explains to him and Willow kindly explains it to Lucio and John.

As Francis heads for the staff restroom in the basement, someone grabs her arm. “Did you forget about me?” The young man grins at her. “No”, Francis replies quickly. “I know, it’s hard to forget about me, right?” he retorts and points to the empty glass. She keeps a straight face and assures to bring a new bottle of wine as soon as possible. In the restroom Francis sits down onto the closed toilet

seat. Her hair smells like cigars and beer. She looks at her white shoes, which are sprinkled with mud and Sauvignon, and mumbles: “Now you’re dirty, too. But at least you carry me.” She stands up, turns off the lights, lifts the toilet lid and sits down again. She can hear the clock ticking again and for a while she sits in the dark and listens to it. “What time might it be?” Francis asks herself, gets up and turns on the lights again. She looks into the mirror, trying to find out, what time it is. The clock is right above her head, but she finds it difficult to read inverse. She decides to turn around: 8:15 pm. Opening the restroom door, Francis can see the labels of stacked water bottles reflecting the green glimmering light of the sign »EXIT«. She feels a fresh breeze coming in.

What makes it home Melis Özen

I pity those confined in walls. Home, you might think. Nay, I say. I pity who can’t see the sky. Sheltered, you might think. Nay, I say.

The last sunrays for the day pierce through the tiny gaps in his grey headscarf, tightly tucked into the hood of his raggedy lumberjacket. With a skeptical gaze he examines his shelter for the night: newspaper, neatly folded and carefully placed onto the pile of ever so slowly but continuously decomposing autumn leaves he had gathered into a tiny corner between the two office towers that shape the skyline of his home. They were the tallest buildings in sight, yet within the reach of their shadows he had never met another wanderer like him.

With his clothes and shoes stuffed with newspaper and rags to keep warm, he sets one foot onto his makeshift bed and feels the leaves give in beneath his step. They’d

last another night. As he lies down and closes his eyes, he prays, that he would, too.

Birdsong awakens him. Not the pretty kind, but the cooing and curring of a pigeon, staring him down from a porous piece of wall. Its red eyes, almost glowing in contrast to the pitch-black vicinity around it may have read as a threat to most, but he could see a sense of emerging fear in them. A warning. They are looking for him. And they are close. Careful not to make a single sound, he crawls backwards further into his alcove, and gathers his few belongings. He glances around to identify the quickest route of escape but sees his way either barricaded by rubble and clutter or just utterly impassable. He feels his body react to the looming menace, his breath shortening as his chest slowly tightens up in panic. Triangle men. They couldn’t be more than fifteen steps away. He can hear them clicking and ticking like a pocket watch that fell out of rhythm. Unseen for the better part of a decade, his mind bears only foggy memories of his last encounter with these

malicious abominations, but the knowledge of what needs to be done should they appear, remains. With every passing moment his bivouac transmutes into a deathtrap, as he is less than a stone throw away from his sure demise. One short, courageous glance he could catch reveals that there are three of them, each towering nine feet high, their faceless chiseled heads turning left and right, scouring for him, as they communicate with their eerie sounds. Tick. Tick. Tick.

His body shifts further and further backwards, and his guiding hand suddenly slips into a cold wet hole, framed by what he could only identify as a row of vertically aligned metal rods. Holding his breath as to remain completely silent, he turns his head to find behind him an old entrance to the city sewers. The two center rods had been bent outwards to create a small opening into the black tunnel that lies behind. Unsure if he’d fit, he tries pulling himself up and through the gap, when, halfway through, he feels a sharp pain, as something pierces his jacket and, slowly but deeply, cuts open the skin in his

back. Unable to conceal his hurt, or out of sheer reflex, he lets out a short whimper. Faint, but loud enough for them to hear. The ticking abruptly stops. He holds his breath. One heartbeat. Another. Silence. After what felt like eternities had passed, he finally dares to squash the rest of his body into the sewers. The nauseating stench of acid and feces suddenly hits him and as he helplessly retches and gags, the noise returns louder than ever, rapidly approaching him. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The second he manages to drag his last limb into the pipe he is hit with an overwhelming strength enabling him to get onto his feet and run into the darkness behind him. Without turning back, he leaps further and further into the sewers, drowsy from his sleep and blinded by adrenaline he lacks to notice the stream of warm blood dripping down from his back, leaving an unobscured trail for his pursuers. All that is on his mind is that they mustn’t catch him. As he keeps his eyes forward and takes his first corner, he is unaware of the smallest of the three Triangle Men entering his escape tunnel behind him inconspicuously. The moonlight doesn’t

reach these depths, and as he continues his getaway he incrementally loses orientation. Even now that his eyes had adapted to the darkness, he couldn’t see more than three feet in front of him. But he could hear it still: Tick. Tick. Tick. At the next bifurcation he stops, just to realize he had gotten lost. The endorphins, that had enabled him to get this far, are starting to wear down and only now does he begin to feel the searing pain of his wound. His scarf, that had untangled from his head, provided only miniscule care as he winds it around his waist to limit the bleeding. He notices his consciousness waning and forces himself to push further, deeming the pipe to his left as the right one to continue. About two steps in, he hears something. His heart starts racing again and, forcing himself to breathe as flat as he possibly could, he stops, puts his ear onto the icy moist wall and listens. Cooing. A delicate tap-tap-tap of what sounded like the tiniest feet one could imagine. Then he sees it. The pigeon. It must have followed him in here, fleeing from the common enemy. Around two feet from him, the pigeon stops, looks at him and currs. He takes

a step backwards. The pigeon follows. Another step. The pigeon follows once more and flaps its wings in urgency. Dazzled as to what the bird wants, he suggests it go forward, and so it does. Seemingly knowing its way, it leads him through wide roads and tight tunnels, together they surmount heaps of rot and piles of long forgotten waste, sometimes accompanied by rats and roaches, side by side through the underworld. Focusing on keeping up, as his movement down here is sluggish and clumsy, and the paper in his shoes makes every step a pain, he forgets the Triangle Men that had chased him in here for a swift moment. Although it happened less than four hours ago, their ticking and clicking now seems as far away as a memory of the old times, from which he has barely any left. Lost in his thoughts his gaze wanders around, fixated on the pigeon, which, after they had crossed what looks like an overpass atop of a stream of guck smelling of manure, suddenly stops, turns, and ruffles its raggedy grey feathers. Raising his view from the ground for the first time in hours, he is surprised to see a faint light in front of him, illuminating

what appears to be some sort of abandoned storage room. To him, a space so large one could mistake it for the overworld, if it wasn’t for the near absence of any sign of life. The ceilings are high and the remains of what once were shelves and boxes had formed into rusty intertwined structures, splaying out aluminium shreds like a tree does its branches and leaves. Unsure where the light comes from, he approaches the delicate glow on the ground, whose origin, even up close, didn’t reveal itself to him.

“Can you believe this, bird?”, he asks in wonder, now unafraid of the sound of his own voice and too baffled to contain his curiosity. But the bird doesn’t seem half impressed with the strange little light. While he was benumbed and hypnotized, drawn to the gleam with subconscious instinct, the pigeon had remained unfazed and was now gathering little shavings of scrap and soggy deadwood, building itself a petite nest on one of the metal trees. It finishes, reviews its work, and sets down in the concave center of the pile. It takes one last

look at him, then turns its head and buries it within its feathers.

Looking at the tiny bird in its nest, he himself starts feeling the sudden urge for rest and comfort and scans the hall for familiar shapes of shelter. He spins around in a disoriented fashion, unable to make sense of his whereabouts. And with his motion, the room seems to move with him, grow and shrink, turn and tumble, like a storm it throws him around, like ocean waves would puppeteer a meager raft. He spins until the dizziness and pressure in his forehead become unbearable and he is forced to halt and sink to the wettish ground. Accepting his disoriented state, he decides to face the dark scenery and reclaim power over his way. Next to one of the trees, he recognizes the silhouette of an armchair, and as he reaches out to pull it into the light it liquifies and dissolves between his fingers. Unsure of what he had just wrecked, he tries to take a hold of what looked like a wooden plank. As he jerks it, it folds towards him like clay. The state of decay of most of his surroundings was so advanced, that it had all become soft and malleable.

He sticks both of his arms into the bulk, elbow-deep, grabs, whatever his fingers could get a hold of and pulls with one single motion. His arms return from the mass covered in grey dust and sludge, but not empty-handed. Collecting his crumbling and weeping yields next to the little light, he slaps layer onto layer to form a nest, just how the bird had done.

Like a child playing with sand on the beach he went around and around the edges, raising walls that grew from knee-high to waist-high, turning his sandcastle into one he could enter. Warmth emits from the sludge, as it hardened like cement, and after a while, he had molded himself a building reminiscent of one that he had once called his home. Proud of his creation, he leaves its now unbreachable walls and calls into the hall: “Can you believe this, bird?”. As he checks for the pigeon’s reaction to his accomplishment, he steps towards its nest to find it empty. The bird had left, flown out through what he now realizes, as he frantically spins and turns around quizzically, wasn’t a magic light

at all, but a small hole in the ceiling of his world, so high up, that from down here it appeared like a star in the sky would to someone overground. He tilts his head backwards and stares at what had been his star. Unable to fly himself, he starts to worry. How would he live down here? Grabbing two handfuls of sludge to drop as a trace for orientation, he returns to the tunnels that had led him here, only to realize he had relied on the bird to guide him so much, he doesn’t remember the way back. Hunger sets in, and he stops looking for it. He returns to the hall, and as he sees the silhouette of his house emerge from the darkness, he feels a sense of relief. Deciding to combat his hunger, he walks up to one of the trees, chooses a piece of hot sludge from a low hanging branch, examines it, deems it worthy and dares a taste. It isn’t so bad. He enters and lies down onto his new bed, the first real bed he has had in eternities. This place could be whatever he wanted. Why return to the upstairs, where he was scorned and hunted, when he had a paradise down here all to himself? He would build magnificent structures, bridges and parks, shops and

walls, however many his heart craved. He could make this work, and the bird would surely return, like it had before to save him. Convinced, he covers himself with a piece of newspaper from his shoe, drenched in his own blood and sewage, yet to him, the coziest blanket his imagination would allow. What a fool, this bird, he thinks to himself, filled with euphoria and felicity. And as he drifts away into blissful slumber, he feels his state of bliss disturbed by nothing but a blunt object pressing into his ribs. While losing consciousness, he reaches into his pocket, grabs the intruder, and feels its surface, a round brass disc, then pulls it out in front of his aching eyes. It was a pocket watch.

Ticking.

Lost Casino

Aida Berberi

“Five simits, a half of the whole grain and four croissants, please”, the cashier busies himself with my order, while I check if I forgot something. I shake my head to “Can I also get you something else?” and he hands me the bag. Nana is baking bread either way, so I don’t really have to wonder about dinner. We need bread. Always. Just as we need cheese, tomatoes and the olive oil Nanas brother makes back home. As I arrive back home, I see my younger sister and my cousin fighting. Something about Harry Potter and who watched it without the other one. They barely notice me slipping inside the house. “A ke tret?!” my grandma shouts in Albanian. I ignore her comment and set the table. “The bread..” she points at my purchase “Not enough”. “It’s enough, you already started to bake one loaf”. She shakes her head, but I know she feels defeated. “Your uncle eats way too much, he’s going to get fat”, she continues. I see her scanning me, wondering if I got fat as well. I suppose I

did not, since she says nothing.

My uncle enters the kitchen in his underwear and glances at the croissants: “We only ate bread with water and sugar back in the day”. They always say that, and how delicious it was, but I have never seen my uncle putting something else other than Nutella on his bread. They did not have Nutella, because of communism, he always explained.

Five minutes later the whole family is sitting at the table. My grandmother serves us tea and the whole “Could you pass me the [insert food here]” begins. My cousin tells a story, and my grandmother tells him to stop talking that much. In Albanian though so he doesn’t understand. She always tells him that, but since his stories are in German, my grandma doesn’t understand the funny part and only the slightly illegal part, so he always ends up getting scolded.

My Grandma was one of the prettiest girls back in town

and even now you can tell. Light brown eyes, which always seemed melted. Her hair was long back then, now it is cut into a bob and grey. But she is still pretty, in the way actresses mature into these queen roles. Nana is from a country that doesn’t exist anymore. In 1992, 26,3% of the asylum applications were from people out of Yugoslavia. She was 30 when she fled from her home country and made her way to Germany. First arriving in Munich and afterwards being driven by an acquaintance to Hamburg. She there ended up in a refugee camp. Living in one room with her family of four.

Nana has an old picture of herself standing in front of a building. It was taken a few months before she would leave her homeland behind and never see it with its original borders again. Our hometown now belongs to Montenegro and my grandmother now has a Montenegrin passport. Being Albanian is not shown anywhere. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her looking at her younger self and it’s almost like I can hear her thoughts talking to herself. Speaking with a soft voice,

as if she’s trying to comfort her. Saying it’ll get worse. It’ll be hard. Life will turn into chaos, but aren’t you used to it already. Who would’ve thought that you would choose to divorce that good-for-nothing husband right in that particular moment, when ashes cover the ground and plaster gets lost in your hair? But it has been enough, you’ll think, after all these wars you cannot also fight at home. You will divorce him even if you end up, like your mother used to say, old and lonely. Working day in and day out, so your children aren’t hungry.

Her eyes land on me, as if she heard my thoughts. They soften and she continues talking to the family. After breakfast we help her clean the table and she tells everyone to stay seated. She would like to tell us a story, she says. Unpacking old photographs, she tells it in Albanian. Sometimes confusing it with Montenegrin. She started to talk more Montenegrin as she became older. As if her mind reset itself back to her schooldays, when speaking Albanian was prohibited. I see a picture of her and some other ladies playing cards at a table.

“We were all new in town.”, she begins and continues to tell us who these people on the photograph were. One woman was named Aleksandra. She was from what is now Macedonia and had fled the civil war with her husband, who was called in to join the military. Nana said she was married to nji burr shum i keq- a really bad man.

Another woman was from Kosovo. Irina and her sister Bianca were part of the revolution fighting for Kosovo’s Independence. They fled from the country because they were threatened to be tortured and put into prison after their parents met that exact fate. They came to Hamburg in 1991. One woman was named Fatima. She was Turkish, slightly older and had already been living in Hamburg since 1985 as her husband was part of the immigrant worker deal between Germany and Turkey which started in the 1960s. Their German was broken but they all played cards each Sunday, as the families of the houses they cleaned stayed home on Sundays and

wanted their privacy.

Then she shows us another picture she hid behind a small piece of paper. At first sight you would have thought it was the bottom of the box, but Nana drew out an old picture where you could see a bunch of people in what looked like a laundry room. The people were playing. Nana explained they mostly played Rummy, Blackjack and Poker. “I wanted to tell you the story of that basement”, she said. “Are you ready to hear it?”.

It was located in Altona, in Osdorf to be exact, and was the basement of the house where the two sisters lived, and where many other refugees had their flats. The house was part of the social housing projects at that time and the room housed the washing machines and a drier to be used by the residents. It also had a small table and four chairs. “Perfect for Rummy”, my Nana said. “So, every Sunday we would meet there to play cards for a few hours.”

My uncle nods. He seems to know the story. My uncles were 13 and 10 at that time, so I figured they would know. Although she was just a baby back then, my mother nods as well, meaning she also knows. Her eyes widened, almost as if it was the first time, she was hearing the story with her mother’s words.

“At first, we played just for fun, but after some time a few people from upstairs noticed and came down to play along. It happened so fast”, Nana says. “Suddenly so many people, many men, wanted to play in there too. Irina was smart. She threatened to tell townhall, that people who didn’t live upstairs were playing in the laundry room. She said there was a way to make her keep her mouth shut”. Being an activist in Kosovo as a woman made Irina reckless. She let the men pay her for her silence. Saying: “I don’t know if my friends can keep it shut though” led to all of Nanas friends being paid. “I never wanted the money for me”, Nana said. “But we were poor, and the cleaning job didn’t bring in much. So, I took it”. “I think the shajtan took my soul

for a minute.”

I look at the woman in front of me. The woman I knew stood up every day at five o’ clock to pray fajr. Now I know a part of her did it to repent. To repent the sins, she committed and felt guilty for. To wash away the dirt that money had left on her hands. Nana and her friends started what became known as the “Lost Casino”. Lost because it would become a basement the second someone entered who searched for it. It was a whisper. A little casino led by four women. Entry price was five German marks. Rummy was cheaper than Poker and Beer was cheaper than Raki. It was perfectly planned. Nobody apart from the players knew about it. Irina’s sister used to guard the front door pretending she was folding laundry. They used to take shifts. Two served the drinks, one was the Poker- Dealer, another one took care of the entry fees.

They were young, poor and Irina wasn’t afraid of anything. She was sure the government wouldn’t

let them stay for much longer anyway. Worst case scenario: leaving the Heimathafen they just found. But there wasn’t really much consistency back then, their residence permit was temporary, their homes were narrow, their identities were lost. “I considered myself a respected woman back home, but here… nobody knew me here. Who would’ve cared if I started making a little extra money by letting men play poker in a basement? It seemed like nothing at first.”

Soon the casino was frequented often. Word spread about a lost casino hiding in the shadows of HamburgAltona and especially the upper class of Hamburg’s noble Elbe suburbs began to worry.

The money they earned needed to be laundered and with the friends past occupations they were experts on cleaning. Fatima’s Brother, who had a German permanent residence at that time, had a company which wasn’t doing well. They used it as a cover up and soon opened a second lost casino in Flottbek. “Aleksandra

was the most scared one out of us”, Nana says, “She always told us to stop it. Often threatened to blow the whole thing. But her husband was a drinker and drank away all their money, leaving Aleksandra starving. She hid it from her husband, pretending to still clean homes.”

The casino was always full of regulars. Smoke was in the air, filling the lungs of even those who did not smoke. But the ones who did not smoke, drank. And the ones who touched one of the women were denied access the next day. It was everyday life; it had its principles. However, what they didn’t know was that they did not just gamble with money, they gambled with morals. Taking what was forbidden, filling it with Raki and pretending it changed directions.

One Saturday as Irina was working as the Poker-dealer, Nana served drinks and Aleksandra took the entry fees, a man rushed into the basement. Irina’s sister wasn’t guarding the door, but even if she would have, she couldn’t have stopped the angry man entering the

“Lost Casino”. Finding what was supposed to be secret. The man was no one other than Aleksandra’s husband searching for his wife. “He was so loud, interrupting everyone’s game. Some men became angry and wanted to take him back outside, but as they saw what he was holding in his hand, they all froze.” Nana doesn’t remember the man’s name. She only remembers his actions.

Aleksandra came closer to him, spoke to him softly, apologized and then knelt down to beg for his forgiveness. “Poor Aleksandra, she was in on it because we made her. She paid for our sins that night.” A shot was fired, the husband ran away, Aleksandra bled to death on that cold floor and one question remained: How could a laundry room become a casino and then a crime scene?

Nana wasn’t sure what led to the escalation she witnessed that night. Was it the despair of refugees? Was it the lack of security, the lack of consistency? Was it that they all never gave Hamburg a chance to become their home?

Maybe because Hamburg never took a chance on them.

I began to recognize patterns in my nana’s behavior. She was scared to be alone, scared of the dark, scared of life itself. She tried to keep us close. And there was one advise she repeated steadily: “You shouldn’t be alone. Always stay with your family, always stay at home.” She wanted us to marry early, have three children at best and never show our weakness to anyone outside of the nest. My nana was a proud woman, who lost her pride in a foreign country. And lost herself in one that did not have borders anymore.

We realized that she was never on board on our little container that was stranded at the port of Hamburg. We called that narrow container home. We decorated it.

Learned about the tides and our neighbors’ ships. About the Wallanlagen and Jenishpark. However, nana never felt at home. She was marked by the time her documents only stated “Toleration” – Duldung – “A temporary suspension of deportation”. A permanent crack in one’s

self-determination.

Ever since we heard the story, we shivered each time the gunshot of Aleksandras death-bullet echoed in the screams of those psychopaths holding their signs. “Ausländer raus!”. Rightwing slogans which made transgenerational scars apparent. As we sat on the floor of our living room and listened to the dua my nana made for protection, I heard my sister asking: “Is this not our home?”. That night my nana shared one piece of advice, we never heard her share before. “Bad people always come and try to take away what is yours. It may have never been mine, but I lost myself for it to be yours. Home has always been a difficult topic for you, I know. Is it here or is it there? Are you Albanian enough or German enough? I brought you here and I fought for you to deserve to call what has always been yours, home. Sometimes we must be strong, stand up and defend what is ours. Defend the Heimat we found.”

Voyage

Syanindhita Wizari

Spring comes earlier this year. The weather starts to get colder, as we realize it’s our time getting ready for the long journey. I peek out through the window to see what’s going on outside. No doubt, this is the best room I’ve ever had so far. I can see the famous Alster canal from my room and even the water fountain in the middle. People walk along canals, drinking coffee at the café nearby. I am absolutely going to miss this place, too bad I have to leave in a minute. The sky looks grey today, I wonder if it’s going to rain soon. I’m actually really nervous about this, not because it’s my first time doing this kind of thing, but because I’m not in my best condition today. However, I put my problem and bad thoughts aside to stay focused. Before leaving, we always have the tradition of hugging each other, as if it’s our last time. Well, you know, something bad can always happen during long travels. As I hug my brother, I feel a slight pain in my right wing. It’s actually not

that bad, but I’m afraid it’ll get worse. Before I can say anything to him, the commander tells us to go. We fly off one by one and leave our temporary-beloved home behind. I follow them, trying to match their pace. We’ll fly to the south for the next 60 days and it has never been an easy trip. I look back one more time and holding back my tears, I’ll definitely come back to Hamburg someday. What I like the most about this city is the urban landscape. Many cities weren’t this beautiful and balanced between buildings and green spaces. We flew above tall buildings, passing through some large gardens and lakes. Four hours passed by. The weather was still as bad as it was when we left. We finally take a short rest to drink some water at the lake nearby. Before we continue the trip, the pain on my right wing comes back, but still, I insisted to fly, because I am afraid of being left behind. We fly off through the sky, as it starts to drizzle. I don’t like rain and such a thing because it makes my senses dull and sometimes even blurs my sight. I am not sure if it’s because the water hits my head so hard it makes me dizzy, but then my vision gets

darker, even darker, and gone.

The sun shines so bright. Faintly I hear voices from the distance. I open my eyes and find myself in the middle of nowhere. My family is nowhere to be found. I don’t remember much about my last flight, but I surely fell to the ground. I don’t even know for how long I was unconscious. Luckily, I am still alive but unfortunately one of my wings is broken. I don’t have a choice except

walking through this unknown forest. All I can see is trees and bushes, plus the road seems muddy because of the rain.

Looking for food and water in a strange place is hard. I am not used to walking, so I get tired easily. As I take a quick rest under the tree nearby, I see a rabbit eating grass from afar. I gather my courage and slowly walk closer, hoping he knows where the nearest lake is. As if he knows something is coming, he slightly tilts his head towards me. I startle and try to communicate with him. I have no idea how to talk in rabbit language, but

I am desperate at this point. After a while chirping and communicating with him, I give up. He still doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say. When I go back to where I was, he suddenly runs away and jumps into the deeper forest. I follow him half walking half flying because he is so fast. In my mind I thought maybe I can sleep at his house and be friends with him despite the language barrier. I try to keep up with him but sadly I can’t anymore. I got lost in the dark and deserted forest. I climb to the highest peak in the tree next to me. Tears come out of my eyes. I really miss my family and friends. What are they doing right now? Where are they? After crying for ages, I go to sleep and hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

Thunder wakes me up the next day. It’s raining again like yesterday. While climbing down, I see a familiar thing from afar; It’s berries! Without hesitation I rush and start to eat as many berries as I can. I finally realized it was a dumb idea. My family and I eat berries, seeds, and nuts. But since I’m still young, I never went collecting food

with my family. My knowledge of food is very narrow, no wonder I now get food poisoning. Not long after the incident, the rain stops. It is past midnight, and I can’t sleep. I make a plan to go after my family and decided to fly at sunrise. This is the first time I am flying alone without guidance from the commander. After waiting for hours, the sun rises, and I start flying. My wing is now getting better, but I still have to fly slowly so I don’t fall again. It is really nice to feel the wind blowing through my feathers. Hours and hours of flying making me tired. I’ve never been this tired of flying for just one day. I rested by a lake and tried to find some food. When I was minding my own business, I suddenly sensed that something is after me. I look around and see a big tall shadow behind me; it’s a snake. I fly as fast as possible, while the snake is moving towards me. I’m starving and tired. I can’t remember what happened after because I got knocked out.

It’s strangely warm here but I’m too scared to open my eyes. I thought I’m on the snake’s belly, so I’ll just

wait for death to come. Strange enough I slightly smell something delicious. I gather up my courage to open my eyes and I’m so surprised to find myself in a cage with a cozy blanket that covers me. Am I in heaven? Am I dreaming? I don’t really know. When I was thinking hard, a giant come through the door behind me. I’m so shocked and panic. When he realized I’m already up and look terrified and surprised, he takes a step back and tries to shush me. I can’t sense danger, but I think maybe he’s not trying to hurt me, or maybe he’s the one who saved me from the snake. I calmed myself and tried to analyze my surroundings. This place is actually not bad, in fact this place feels safe. I checked my broken wing and find it wrapped in a white cloth. The giant is trying to communicate with me, but I understand nothing. He looks very worried and he gives me seeds. Without hesitation I walk towards his hand and eat the seeds. I feel recharged after I don’t know how long I starved. It’s been two days since I have lived with the giant. My

wing is getting better every day. Frankly I enjoy being here, but I still miss my family. I look up to the blue sky through the small window above me and I can’t lie that I miss flying. It must be good to be blown by the wind, spread my wings, and let me be exposed to the sun. I wanted to try flying, so I tore off the cloth on my wing and snuck out of the cage. The door cage was not really heavy plus he forgot to lock it. I’m hopping to the boxes near my cage and walking through a dinner table. This room is huge. I never realized it since I was always in the cage. The gap between the ceiling and the floor is quite a lot. The wall and the floor are made of wood. Near where I’m standing is a cozy fireplace with a dark brown couch. I fly to the handle so I can warm myself up. Not even a minute has passed since I sat by the fireplace, when I was surprised by a deer head hanging on the wall. At first, I thought it was alive, but strangely it didn’t move when I screamed. His body is missing though. Next to it is a leopard, an elk, and many more. I’m so in shock and can’t believe what stands next to them. It’s an eagle. No, I’m not an eagle

but still I’m a bird, that means we’re still in the same family. I fly towards the eagle, make sure if he’s alive. I got goosebumps when I see the eagle eyes are missing. I panicked. I don’t understand this situation, but my gut says I have to leave this place immediately. I fly here and there to find a window, but they are all closed. From afar I can hear footsteps, so I fly back to my cage and pretend to be sleeping. The giant enters the room and I peek a little and finally find a tilted window in the next room. The giant sits down on the couch trying to sleep. My heart beats 10 times faster while waiting for him to fall asleep. After a while, I slowly and carefully open my cage door again and try to not make a sound. I don’t fly because I’m afraid he will hear my wings flapping.

I am tense as I’m walking across the floor passing him. I look at the eagle one last time, feel sorry that he has to hang in there. I’m already half way on the way to the open air when I hear the giant make a sound. I panicked and choose to fly towards the window. The gap between the window is actually not big enough for me, I don’t have any other option but to force my body through

it. I don’t know how I did it, but I suddenly fell to the ground. Even though I had a rough landing, I hastily got up and flew right away. I can hear the giant shouting something from afar, but I’m not looking back and will never ever come back. No one knows what would have happened if I had stayed longer in that place. And so my voyage to the south continues.

The zombified city

Bertil Gürtler

I usually tend to condemn the city. After thirty minutes, I fall in love with her again like a teenager fighting with his mom. I am in love with the usual suspects, repeated a thousand times among inhabitants of big cities worldwide. The urbanity, the diversity and not to forget the coffee shop just around the corner. Ten minutes to downtown, needless to say with a bike. We also have our own theater in the town right next to the cinema.

Culture everywhere. Maybe its simple - how can one not fall in love with good coffee, forty-two different nationalities in the neighborhood and the feeling of living in a metropolis. It is that simple. So I decided not to tell another story about city life filled with beauty and harmony. Do I try to draw another picture showing the darkness in our cities? About poverty and despair? Certainly not. But what is my actual problem?

There is a word in economic science which describes

the state and its banks which lend money to non-viable companies to keep it alive. After some time, they turn to into economic zombies and this could lead to something what economists call a zombified economy. The same thing happened in Japan during the last 40 years. What follows, is years of low- or even no economic growth. Simply put, there is no progress in these economies as weak firms and banks impede each other and are only kept alive by the state, who plays the market. I found this process is not so far from the mentioned phenomena. Exaggerated, the zombified city. This is a story about a slowly dying city, kept alive by foreigners, by third parties.

Walking through a non-moving city feels weird. It is the first thing you notice when you leave the door. The smell of interruption, of opportunism. After the first steps you feel it, like a cold breeze on your face. Automatically, you start to look for indications, simple things that don’t look normal or people behaving differently. It is so obvious! Physically, everything runs

smooth, everything is there where it is supposed to be. It is moreover the feeling which is different. Something crystal clear like a glass of water. I went to my parents for a cup of tea, but this isn’t important. Once there, I immediately told them about my feeling. The smell of rot in the city. A progressing decay of the people living in it. How they look at you on the street, talk to each other. I struggled to categorize it. Was it pessimism? Madness? To underline what I meant, I tried to draw a picture of my view of the people. From what better perspective can you read cities than from the people who live in it and who use the public space. Looking into all the faces when I changed trains, made me aware that, fading out superficial things like dresses or haircuts, everybody looked similar to me. I don’t mean the “exterior design” of humans. I talk about an inner layer. People invented smart stuff like the wheel or the lightbulb to save money, time and work. Moreover they made things possible like the efficient transportation of food which allowed settlements and thereafter the

construction of towns. There has always been a certain hunger among humans to push things forward. This hunger let us build and invent extraordinary stuff. A moment where all this comes to an end was never planned or foreseen. It does not fit in our schedule. But I saw exactly this when I looked into all these faces of people crossing my way between the gates. My father was shocked, calling my view of the world too negative. He told me I am too young to understand it and I am still seeking the right grip in my life. But I was sure. I was sure I saw exactly the same emptiness, this lack of progress, in his eyes. The cities pulse, I felt my entire life, was gone from one day to the other. How they could not feel it. A prompt end.

When I left their house I struggled with myself. Were they right? Maybe I was just tired of my surroundings. I heard of people quitting their jobs, selling their houses and leaving everything behind. All because they were tired of what they did. But do I belong to this group of people? Am I crazy or ill? I got a strong headache that

evening. It made me incredibly frustrated that I wasn’t able to clearly figure out what was going on. Cities are complex systems, which are always developing throughout time. But wasn’t time also a human’s invention? Who guarantees that time exists at all and that progress is part of it and not only fiction. A watch is just a mechanical item built by humans to measure changes, and maybe progress at the end of a human’s life. But progress, like living, needs willingness. What is a city without progress? The people seemed like individuals who have not lost their will to live but who have lost every other deeper aim in life. I went to bed early, woke up the next morning, brushed my teeth and went to work. I started to have tea with my parents every Wednesday and never again spoke another word about this feeling. Maybe this cup of tea was one of the last things which made me feel that there is progress. Simply because it tasted better every single week. I never got rid of this weird feeling, not in the following ten or fifty years. I moved to cities far away, all over

the world to find peace. I started to talk to different people all over the globe to find confidence. No one understood it. No one saw it or was willing to see it. I met experts, philosophers, people who refused to accept the concept of time as we know it. I hold lectures about the topic at the world’s best universities, without success. Despite the fact that I saw cities growing, shrinking or disappearing I never accepted this as something contradicting my theory. These towns with all their inhabitants were deemed to be zombified. Only when I found myself in the last chapter of my life, I was able to define the issue. Progress requires non-progress to be justified. Between the ones who address progress there is always one needed who goes in the opposite direction. A third power who allows others to go the right way. Maybe that was me. What if everybody else was going forward, while I was going the wrong way. What if I needed my whole life to understand this. All the years, the strong efforts wasted are over now. I looked at my dad at this moment, still talking about life being difficult sometimes and that there is no surrender.

I have never understood him and never found him that old. It was a Tuesday afternoon and I finished my tea.

Everything has its weak spot Aiad Saad

This year will be very exciting. I am in high school now and this means that I have to make more of an effort in school. I am sitting in class listening to the teacher in our new subject philosophy. Philosophy is very interesting, because you learn to question everything.

“Hello students, the first topic I would like to teach you about is Utopia and Dystopia.” said our teacher at the beginning of the lesson.

The difference between Utopia and Dystopia is that Utopia is when society is in an ideal and perfect state and Dystopia is the complete opposite of Utopia, which is when the condition of the society is extremely unpleasant and chaotic.

“Utopia and Dystopia? How is that supposed to work?’’

I asked the teacher. The teacher replied that it is difficult

to imagine, but this world was created by people who know what the world needs to live peacefully and harmoniously with each other. A Dystopia on the other hand is created in such a way that you put everything bad you know together and make it even worse. “Do you really think it’s possible?”, I still brazenly asked.

I don’t believe that there can be Utopia or Dystopia. How does the creator want to know that everyone has the same needs? There are people who don’t like monotony and want drama. There are people who would get depression after a week, because being perfect is boring. There will never be anything just perfect or only bad. To create this, we would have to know not only some people, but every single person who exists and will exist.

The teacher didn’t answer me. I think that she understands my point of view, but wants to hold back on this. The lesson ended and we got the task of listing some of the characteristics that make a Utopia or a Dystopia.

On the way home, I tried to write down a list of things in my mind that I see as properties of Utopia and Dystopia. For me a Utopia would be: no quarrel, no grief and the whole family on my side, as well as being able to go anywhere without money problems, buy and eat everything when and where I want. Nobody is limited to their looks. Accordingly, a Dystopia would be the opposite. Of course, those would be properties that everyone would want, right? I can’t determine that for everyone. To me it sounds natural, but for some people it doesn’t. We always only look at the average person, the rest is ignored. And then it is thought that all people think like that.

All of a sudden I hear a speeding car out of my mind and the only thing I saw afterwards was a place that I cannot describe.

A place that is just perfect. It feels like all of my burdens are gone and only happiness remains. I feel so healthy

and strong and have a smile on my face. People walk past me whose beauty is indescribable. The light that penetrates my eyes is so bright that even the sun becomes jealous and yet it doesn’t hurt me. No matter where I look, I see happy people. People who live in peace and laugh, eat and drink and do not gossip about anyone else.

I don’t believe what I am seeing here, is it a dream, or is this real? I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and turn around without being attacked, but feeling a familiar warmth.

“Hello sir, who are you? Do I know you?”, I asked the man who was incredibly bright and happy.

“Hello, who I am is not important at first, but I know who you are. You’re Julia, 16 years old and you go to high school, right?”

I was completely amazed that he knew me like that.

“You are right sir, but how do you know all this?” , I tried to ask politely.

“My child, I sent you here to help you with your problem. I noticed that you don’t believe in the one perfect place and in one bad place, is that right?”

“You’re right. I do not believe that. For me it is unimaginable to satisfy everyone’s needs” I answered. “As unimaginable as the place here? How would you describe all of this to other people? Look at nature and the animals, how beautiful they are. Everyone seems happy and not everyone owns the same thing. My child, what I would like to say to you is that every person who can own everything will not feel envy towards the other. Who says everyone has to live the same life? Everyone lives here as soon as they imagine their perfect life and everyone is independent and you can see everyone you love at any time.”

I was shocked a short while. I couldn’t answer and felt myself getting warmer.

“Where exactly are we?” I asked confused.

“Let’s put it this way: You are in a place where you can be yourself. You have everything you want here.”

I realized what was going on here. He wants to show me an example of a Utopia and apparently it really does exist. I looked around and tried to convince myself of what I was seeing.

“Let’s assume that this is not a dream and that I am in a kind of Utopia. Where is the Dystopia? It’s definitely the opposite, right?”

“Exactly but you don’t want to see this world.”

“I don’t know how I came to this place, but strangely enough, I believe every word you say and believe everything I see. I feel that it is real.”

“My child, I want to show you that it can very well happen that you cannot explain some things and that it seems illogical to you. But people are not able to know everything. Humans can only use 10 percent of their brains. Imagine if it would be 100 percent. Then everything would be known and explained correctly? But when the time comes, that’s how it will be. Then people will be able to explain everything logically.

See the world as a kind of a test. A place where you learn to be the way you want to be. We will meet at this place later when the time comes and you will tell me about everything you learned in life. You will have certain wishes that you will get here. Just wait for it and live your life in wisdom and dignity. Now my child, I have to say goodbye to you, you have to go back.”

The next morning I woke up to my alarm clock. I had to think of everything that happened. How did I get there? Wasn’t I on my way home and ended up somewhere else? So it has been a day? But I was sure it wasn’t a dream. It was real. But I couldn’t tell anyone credibly, which was not bad for me, because I know it’s real and that’s enough for me.

When I arrived at school, I noticed that I had philosophy and didn’t do the task and I hoped not to get called on, but unfortunately that is exactly what happened. I was asked to present what I had found because the teacher knew that I had problems with the topic.

So I stood up in front of the class and read everything out loud: “After a long time of reflection, I realized that it is very possible to live in a Utopia. It’s a place that you have to imagine for yourself. You get what you want and like. How you want to look and who you want to see,

you get. Without envying or limiting the other, because everything is infinite. In a Dystopia it is exactly the other way around. You will suffer there all the time and live in fear. Nothing you want will be there and it is certainly not comfortable. How you define bad or good that is how it would be for you.”

I was so absorbed in my thoughts in which I tried to remember everything in that place but then I heard everyone clapping and the teacher gave me a thumbs up and said that what I was presenting was very good.

I will live my life in wisdom and hope to rise in Utopia.

Ojos del Sur Franklin Andrés Quisnancela Romero

Finishing university and traveling to the other side of the world to start a new chapter. Sounds like a dream come true, but it is quite harsh. Adapting and learning to live in a new country and culture, while trying to maintain the essence of who one is. This is the story of an Ecuadorian immigrant and his new life in Hamburg.

A few weeks later after his graduation, Álvaro was already at the airport ready to start the next part of his life. The 12 hour flight would take him to the other side of the world and so Álvaro would leave everything behind. Álvaro knew this was the right choice for the life he dreamt of. A life with better opportunities and better chances to succeed and reach all that his parents never could.

After a long trip he was finally on German ground, completely shocked, not being able to understand the

language and not knowing where to go. He has always been good at orienting himself, so after a couple minutes and the help of Google Maps he found the way to his hotel. Álvaro didn’t have a flat yet, so he would have to spend the night at hotels until he found an affordable place to live. Finding an apartment as a foreigner is also something no one prepares you for and here is where he would start to discover how it really feels to be an immigrant. Being judged and discriminated only because of your place of birth, not being able to get an apartment because people don’t trust you. They don’t say it, but also, they don’t have to, their looks, the condescending way they talk to you. It really makes you feel like an outsider.

Nevertheless, Álvaro decided to stay positive. He was convinced at the end everything would be fine, he would find a job and he would be able to live a good life.

As months went by, he finally settled down and had found a job position he would like to apply to. Álvaro

was still learning German and was only looking for jobs where English was the main language, which didn’t make the search any easier. But Álvaro did it, he got invited to an interview.

The day of the interview was getting closer, and he was getting more nervous by the day. Álvaro knew he had to make a good first impression, since he couldn’t afford to wait any longer to find a job, due to his visa. Álvaro only had six months to find stable employment or he would have to return to Ecuador. When the day arrived, Álvaro was as nervous and anxious as one can be. He arrived at the office 20 minutes earlier than he was supposed to, since punctuality is very important here in this new culture. He couldn’t risk it, either way Álvaro couldn’t sleep so he was awake very early anyways.

The interview began, his hands were sweaty, and Álvaro tried to dry them off on his pants. His throat was a bit dry, and he could hear his heart beating fast. Then the HR people arrived, one of them said hello in Spanish,

which quite startled him. The interviewer then went on to explain, that he had spent one year in Spain as an Erasmus student, and that this was the reason why he could speak some Spanish. This relaxed him, knowing that someone there actually liked and accepted his culture and his language, so that shouldn’t be a barrier anymore. After that the interview went very smoothly and Álvaro had a good feeling about it.

After one week the email finally came. The waiting was unbearable. He could hear his heart pounding again before opening the mail. When he opened it, he saw the: “We are happy to tell you…” and he knew then, he made it. The first thing he did was call his family back in Ecuador. They were all very proud of him and hearing them say that made his happiness even bigger. Afterall, something did go as planned.

But back to reality. The first day of work was here. Álvaro would socialize and face the German culture as it really is for the first time. He would totally dive into

this new environment and begin to interact in it. The thought gave him a stomach ache.

When he arrived at the office, he tried to appear as friendly and nice as possible, he smiled and greeted everyone as good as he could. Some of the coworkers answered quite politely, but he did get a couple of strange looks. He didn’t want to think about it and let it ruin his first day. When he finally arrived to his desk, he got a weird look from his coworker, that sits right in front of him, Felix. He smiled and greeted him, but Felix only answered with a cold “hi”. After a few minutes his colleague broke the silence and said: “What are you doing here?”, he thought he meant what his job position was and started describing it, but he was abruptly interrupted by Felix, who said: “I mean what are you doing in our country, why don’t you go back to where you came from”. Álvaro was startled and didn’t know what to say. When he finally got the words to try to explain what he was doing in Germany, Felix interrupted him again and just said, “whatever, just stay

away from me, you won’t last long here anyways.”

Álvaro was quite discouraged by this. He knew prejudice was a thing that immigrants must face, but he never experienced it so directly and so harsh. He was even beginning to doubt of his own capabilities. Was he good enough to be working in Germany? Did he dream a little bit too high?

The next day he was a bit hesitant to go back to work because of Felix. But he didn’t fight so hard and come all the way here to be stopped by something like that. So, he decided he would power through and try to be the best at his job and as friendly as a work colleague can be. This way he would avoid any possible confrontation and would only talk to Felix when necessary. But little did he know, his first assigned project was with Felix. He was dreading it already. He then talked to Felix about it and asked how they should begin and develop the project. Of course, Felix

looked at him with disgust and only answered him in very short and unfriendly sentences and finally just said now go do that and leave me alone. He thought it’d be better to just do his part as fast and as good he can, and he got to work. As the weeks went by, he kept doing his part, but he couldn’t make any progress until Felix gave him a document that he needed. Álvaro had been waiting for a couple days already, since they agreed upon a date for it, but it didn’t come. He then, somewhat scared, asked Felix what was going on. Felix didn’t seem as annoyed anymore, but somehow even a little bit ashamed. This surprised Álvaro. Apparently, Felix didn’t even know how to do the thing he was supposed to and obviously didn’t want anyone to know this. Álvaro could have told their bosses and asked for a new project partner, but he wasn’t like this, so instead he decided to help him. He showed Felix how to use the program and how to create the document they needed.

Álvaro’s generosity and understanding changed Felix´s opinion about him. Even after all the mistreating and discriminating, Álvaro helped him and even taught him something he didn’t know. That showed Felix how capable Álvaro is, even though he’s not German and doesn’t speak his language, his is more than qualified to do his job and to have a good life in this country. After this Felix and Álvaro became quite good friends. They even started to hang out outside of the office. Álvaro felt pretty good.

At the end he had achieved everything he set himself out to do. He got a job doing what he knows and does best. And he even changed the mind of a German who didn’t like him and who now calls him his friend. The road wasn’t easy but he did it all on his own.

Empty Love Mile André Jentzsch

Story song: Lonely Streets · Jimmy Cliff

It’s a different place from two years ago. No traffic, no crowds, no lights, no sounds, no love. No one rushing to board the train. No groups of middle school girls sipping on bubble tea and cackling along the pavement. As much as that used to annoy me, I must admit, I really miss it. The cold breeze is now more chilled than ever.

The absence of warm moving bodies roaming around and causing mayhem has taken more toll on the city than I ever could have imagined.

You are wondering what has happened? My Name is Thomas, I am 55 years old and have lived for over 25 years in St.Pauli Reeperbahn. I came to Hamburg because I got a wonderful job by Shell as an engineer at the harbor. I love this job! Every day I ride my bike from my home nearby the Reeperbahn to Landungsbrücken.

Afterwards, I buy a coffee and take the ferry to Steinwerder.

In the last 30 years, the picture of Hamburg’s harbor has changed enormously. Before the whole harbor was merely a workplace, but with the new Hafen City everything has changed. It is Europe’s biggest city development project because it extends the city center by more than 45 percent. Now, the east part of the Elbe is publicly available.

After work, I usually take the route through the Old Elbe Tunnel. It’s an amazing tunnel under the Elbe and is over 100 years old. I always hurry because I have to prepare dinner for myself and my son Mike. He is 24 years old and studies music production at the SEA Institute. The institute is located within the old bunker in Feldstraße, which remains from world war two.

The music shop Just Music is located on the ground floor and second floor. Here everybody can find what they

need to make music. The third through the fifth floor, is the SAE Institute for music and film production as well as graphic and game design. On the sixth floor there are more rooms like Übel und Gefährlich for events like parties and concerts. In the future, the bunker will get five new floors that include a hotel, restaurant, and a bar on the top. The grey bunker will soon be green with a lot of plants, flowers, and trees. With a ramp across the bunker, it will become more publicly accessible.

After Dinner with Mike, we almost always make music together. I have played the guitar for more than 35 years, 15 of which with my band Reeperbahn Flaschen. Every second weekend we played live music at the Reeperbahn. We played at many venues such as Docsland, Underground, Molotow, Drafthouse, Molly Mallone, The Academy, Grünspan, Große Freiheit, and Kaiserkeller. But now, the party and love mile fell into a silent sleep. No Parties, no events. The only place where people meet is at the supermarket, Penny. One year ago, they invested over 700.000 € for lights and modernized

the interior design to look like a club. I remember when it opened 15 years ago. Penny opened right after closing the famous Esso gasoline station, which sold more alcohol than petrol.

Mike is a talented musician and I learned a lot from him. One day he told me: “Dad, I will be a world-famous music producer but I can only reach this goal with your help”. In that moment I was very proud. I instantly thought about the words my father told me when I was a little boy that encouraged me to play the guitar. He told me “Music is like an invisible power, music is the world language that everyone understands. It connects people! Thomas, I know you will play the guitar all your life but your lifetime is limited. You must carefully choose with which people you want to make music with and how much energy and love you can invest”. At the same moment, I was sad because I know the music business is not easy! We talked a lot about this and I came up with a plan to produce our first album. We worked together with two friends of Mike from SAE, two members from my

band, two producers that I know from the Reeperbahn, and two other musicians. We are a team of ten people but we don’t work together as a company. We just enjoy the journey of inspiration. Everyone is working on different projects. In the summer, we want to celebrate a jam session all together at the Elbe between Teufelsbrück and Blankennese next to the Airbus complex. I love this place, because you sit in the grass, enjoy nature, look at the big Elbe River, see the huge halls of Airbus, and the harbor with all the cranes from afar. A lot of people can’t understand why I like this contrast between nature and industry, but I love it and it gives me inspiration for my music.

Break song: Streets Of Love, The Rolling Stones

Now I will answer why “It’s a different place than it was two years ago. No traffic, no crowd, no lights, no sounds, no love”. Covid-19 takes us and the whole world as a scourge of humanity. Our life is not as it used to be. Three people out of my music team lost their jobs and

now they are full-time musicians. However, it’s hard for them because we can’t play at bars right now. I am also very scared about losing my job, because if I lose my job, I know I must leave Hamburg to find another good job and I have been living in Hamburg for more than 30 years. All my people and contacts are here and I don’t want to switch places and start from zero. My Company

Shell has also encountered a lot of problems, and now most of the employees must work a half-day, so Shell can save jobs at this time. I am very happy with this situation. I work three days a week and have free time four days. I have 75 percent of my earnings, I have my job, and three days of daily routine. I use my free time to work on our music projects. It is very important for me that I have my music friends and projects to keep busy.

A lot of people can’t understand why I like to live at the Reeperbahn. It´s like I told you, its my favorite place at the Elbe with the contrast between nature and industry and buildings. In the daylight, it is like a

sleazy abandoned district without attraction. At night its change completely. The whole area is full of drunken crazy people who want fun. All the people create an atmosphere of unity and freedom. It looks like a sleazy district with all the people, lights, and traffic, a real alive party district. It is crazy for me and I see this contrast change in another area or place. It is like ebb and flow, life and dead, beautiful and ugly, utopia and dystopia.

Now the Reeperbahn is only ebb, dead, ugly, and dystopia. Without the contrast change at night, I don’t feel at home anymore. It is like the area lost its fire and spirit. I don’t feel alive in the city. I feel like I live in a small village at the end of the world. With this feeling, I don’t feel like being home. In this situation, I am not so afraid to lose my job and switch places anymore. But home is not only buildings, places, and events. It is society, friends, and family. I am very happy to have all my important contacts near me. But during the pandemic, we don’t meet up and see each other so often anymore. To stay in contact, we talk on the phone

together. Therefore, it doesn’t matter if I live near my friends and family. However, it is a good feeling knowing that you could spontaneously meet up without traveling for hours.

One day Mike told me: “Dad, now is the right time to produce professional music videos of our projects”. I was confused and asked: “Why now? Corona fucks us up and where do you want to film. On top of that, how much do you think you end up paying for professional video records?”. Mike laughed and said: “My friend Daniel studies video production and can’t find a band for a study project. I thought you could talk to the club owners at the Reeperbahn so that we can rent the location for some video records”. I answered:” It sounds great. You are right, it’s the perfect time for this project. We must use the empty clubs during the pandemic for this kind of productions. Tomorrow I will ask some club owners from the Reeperbahn”.

The next day I went to a special location at the

Reeperbahn, it’s called Ritze. It’s a small bar with a boxing ring. I thought that for our first video project it would be the perfect location because at this rough point in time it feels like a fight. We fight and keep fighting and no one knows how long we must hold on. The owner of Ritze told me: “Thomas I must be honest with you! Very often we get requests for music clips in our box ring in the Ritze, but we always revoke these requests because it’s a fight club and not like all other clubs on this mile. Thomas but you are lucky, maybe you know or you don’t know, my wife and daughter are the biggest fans of your Band Reeperbahn Flaschen and often go to your concerts. I would get a kick in my ass from my family and would have to pack my bags and sleep in the boxing ring. Therefore, I can´t deny your request. Please do me a favor. The first song should be the Rocky Theme Song. I smiled and answered: “Alright, I will get a trumpet player from Berlin for the Rocky Theme Song. Also, I like the guitar solo on this track. This would be a great start to the night at this specific location. Best regards to your wife and daughter”.

First song in the Ritze: Gonna Fly Now, Bill Conti

We practiced all the songs for one month and played them all uncut like a concert. It was amazing! I got the energy and fire back. I felt like a fire Phoenix over the Reeperbahn. Two weeks later all pubs, restaurants, and clubs opened their doors again. Spring is coming, Corona is gone and the Reeperbahn woke up. I finally got my life back! We all celebrated getting our lives back and every week we have a live show with our new program. We record all shows and get invitations for big festivals. It is like a dream! I never played at big festivals and everything is heading into the right direction! Mike and I got a request to go to Los Angeles to work and live there. We were proud to get this amazing request but we looked into our eyes and started to laugh and said “Nooooo. St.Pauli is our home and we want to stay here!”

We released a new song, St.Pauli Tanzmusik with our

Friends. The video clip starts with Mike playing his new favorite instrument on the Bunker where he studies music production. Then you see me on a bike tour at the Reeperbahn with a bunch of flowers. The last two years were hard for all of us, but we never gave up the fight and stood up! We had a lot of fun working on this song and it was like a family project that gave our fans a piece of love and freedom back!

Ending Song: LE FLY - St.Pauli Tanzmusik

We agreed on the invitation of a three week-long club tour with the full band in L.A. We got a lot of inspiration for new songs and grew together into a real music family!

Hamburg - “A Pearl in a Grey Shell”. Life between grey sky and grey water Jelena Rehder

If only these shoes could talk and tell a story about Sana, a girl who came from the south to the north. “A few years ago it was a sunny day. July. I have just put on my summer ankle boots and was ready to explore a new city, my new hometown. My neighbour looked at my boots and me, and said: Put on some sandals, here in the north, you get fed up with boots after a while. I found this comment a bit funny, like a joke, or even rude. Someone telling me what to do or what to wear isn’t what I think of as a conversation. Later I realised this strange conversation was the beginning of my conflict with the weather, with the climate here in the north... A decade later, I opened my shoe closet and this is what I see inside: Wellington boots in different colours and designs.”

The weather in Hamburg is what makes or breaks the city. The biggest downside to living in Hamburg is the grey, sluggish, rainy weather which takes over this beautiful city a good percentage of the time.

For Sana, “weather” means much more than a “weather forecast” for tomorrow, which is useful if you plan your day. For her, “weather” means change of lifestyles, habits, and even more than that. It is the struggle of a south-born being for survival.

She plays cello. An instrument of passion that involves the player’s whole body in creating the music. Emotion, passion, eagerness, pain, struggle, pride, justice. You can feel all of these when she plays her cello.

Her passion led her to Hamburg. Hamburg is the “capital of the music industry.” Passion for music and love for a man. The man who loves her just the way she is.

It is a rainy day in Hamburg. The rain makes the air smell fresh. Raindrops fall onto the umbrella like

whispering music. The umbrella plays the music and at the same time protects from getting wet. Sana feels the rhythm of the steps dancing in the rain. How to compose music, to hear, to feel, to be inspired, to live your own music is a secret. She likes being in the rain. Rain is like music.

It is another week of rain. A gray layer of low, fastmoving clouds. October rains in June. Refreshment before it comes to real summer and long sunny days. The sun, the source of our life on earth, the source of a good mood, the source of passion. “I like those weeks and months of long sunny summer, this ease of living, being immersed in nature using your house just to sleep in for a few hours” - Sana used to praise summer. It is another week without sunshine. Endless summer weeks without a single sunny day. A gray layer of low, fast-moving clouds. The sun, the source of...is hidden... hidden behind layers of gray clouds. Birds, they feel that. They do not sing on a cloudy, rainy, muddy day…

“How can I keep myself busy so as not to “stop singing”

like birds on rainy days? ... How to play music? How to “play music of my happy life”? How can I keep playing my cello? How should I not leave this town? How should I not leave my soul’s greatest mate, my greatest support, the right man? “It is another dull, gloomy day. It is drizzling. The color of the sky is one of many shades of gray. A raincoat or umbrellas are not needed. You will be soaked anyway as the wind throws the raindrops in all possible directions. My semi-wet hair is dancing in the wind. Wet hair in the cold wind. A few seagulls swim on Alster. Their white feathers appear gray in this weather. They lie close together with their heads bowed. I also look down to avoid the wind and to watch my steps as the pathway is slippery. A few raindrops that have collected on the leaves above my head fall behind my neck like a cold shower. It is summer.”

Sunshine! After two cloudy summer weeks, the sun sneaks through the large, high window of Sana’s studio. Passion is in the air. Get ready and go! Sana plans to

walk around the Alster, enjoy the sun, be among people, breathe in the summer breeze by walking around the lake. The shadows of the trees and the glittering reflection of the sun in the water are all inspirational. She feels she can create; she can compose her music. It takes some time to get to the Alster. She is enjoying the walk, passing by her neighbour. “Moin!” The golden fur of his lovely dog feels so soft while she is stroking her. Red brick, typical Hamburg scenery; red brick houses alongside a green alley; the atmosphere that reminds her so much of grandma’s cozy little house. The red brick house in the woods, the sound of her cello; the long summer heat in her hometown. “Hamburg in the sun” brought back memories. She feels so lightweight, as if she could fly.

As she “was walking on her clouds” of memories and had positive vibes and inspiration, the real clouds were moving faster and faster, covering the blue sky and the sun, like curtains fallen at the end of a play. If she had left the studio ten minutes earlier, she might have managed to reach the Alster before “the end of the

play.” She decided to continue walking without giving up hope after five years of trying to get used to this uncomfortable climate. It is another dull, gloomy day. It is drizzling. The color of the sky is just one of many shades of gray. A raincoat or umbrellas are not needed. You will be soaked anyway. And again, it is summer.

Sunshine! She is in her room, looking through the large high window. It is nice to at least enjoy the sun and blue sky by watching them through the window. Her heart would like to go out... but her strength is not sufficient to keep her on her feet long enough to be able walk. Today she is home alone; she can not make it anyway. Instead, she occupies herself with some nice thoughts to take her mind off the endless nausea that has been going on for several months now. Just go out and take a walk, such a simple action! It is like breathing, given to us from birth. – “I’ll stay inside. Anyway, it’s awkward putting on my wig and all that weird makeup to make me look natural, not like a chemically washed pale face

without a single hair.” -“How can I keep myself busy so I don’t stop singing like birds on a rainy day?”... After so many years of trying to accept the difference, she did not make it; instead, she just “stopped singing”. Quit composing, stopped playing her cello. But she did not leave Hamburg; she did not leave her soul’s greatest companion, her greatest support, her husband. Feelings of depression and tiredness come from their inability or lost interest in going outside, or the fact that rain makes it harder to get to where you’re going without getting wet.

All her favorite places in Hamburg faded out into the gray clouds. Over time, she got to the point that if she tried to imagine any of those places, she would only picture them on a cloudy day. There are not enough colourful wellingtons in her shoe closet to brighten up her dull days. It is another gloomy day. It is drizzling outside. The color of the sky is like one of many shades of gray. Sana is in the hospital, looking out through the large high window. Gray picture framed in a white PVC

window. This time she is not alone in the room. Her roommate, an elderly woman who was lying in bed next to her, was having breakfast and chatting with Sana. Sana partly participated in this conversation; partly she was far away in her thoughts...

Three girlfriends, a sunny Sunday, brunch somewhere downtown, a gentle breeze in her hair, the smell of the river in the air, sunglasses obscuring her eyes looking at that handsome guy, who was sitting at the next table. She did not understand a single word, but for the first time the German language sounded like the language of love...

Her roommate’s comment awakened her from her daydreams. – “You should go back to see your hometown before it’s too late. This is an unpredictable illness…”. Sana was so shocked when she heard those words. Words, so real, hard, like a stone hitting another stone. Suddenly she realised she couldn’t feel the breeze in her hair anymore...there was no breeze, there was no hair...no home. That terrifying phrase still

echoed in the room. That must have been a dream. She will wake up... No… no… it is real. “How dare she say that?! Of course I will see it!” -This strong desire overwhelmed her. She stopped listening to this woman. A subconscious decision was made... she was unaware that she had just “signed the contract” called “Think positive.” It was quite a while before she could travel.

Years after… Now she has her own music studio. Two rooms in their house, now being transformed into her studio for playing and teaching cello. The music must go on! Every day must be music! Every day is music!

Sana and her husband have their own house on one hectare of land somewhere in the countryside near her hometown.

A long table, summer night, it is warm outside, a group of more than thirty people… they are talking, laughing… clatter of wine glasses… wine from the local winery… the sound of crickets coming from the garden… it’s a “No Special Occasion”… the best reason to celebrate… to celebrate life. Tomorrow they fly back home, another

home, Hamburg. She has two homes, and she belongs to both of her homes.

“Until the day comes when summer means again “ease of living”, and escape from the heat to my own house on my own land...” - smiled Sana. The music must go on! Every day must be music! Every day is music!

Running away

Katinka Oertzen

It was 8 pm when I took the rest of the pizza from yesterday out of the fridge. I sat down at the dining table and started to eat. When I finished dinner I watched a TV series and went to bed. I lay in bed and reflected on the last few weeks. Every day was the same - sleeping, eating, working, studying and running or doing some home workouts. Sometimes I want to escape, run away, stop thinking about everything, but I can’t – nobody can change the situation. I know staying home is the best for all of us in this situation. I’m staying home to protect me, my family and friends and everyone else I may meet when I go outside. I was thinking and thinking and thinking until I got tired and fell asleep.

It was 8 am when my alarm clock rings. I woke up, pressed the snooze button, turned around and fell asleep. Five minutes later my alarm clock rings again, I woke up, pressed the snooze button, turned around and

fell asleep. Another five minutes later my alarm clock rings the third time this morning, I woke up, turned the alarm clock out and the light on. I stand up and went to the bathroom for brushing my teeth, drinking a glass of water and then I went to the couch. On the couch lay two laptops. A black laptop which I use for private stuff mostly for studying and a grey laptop which I need for my job. It was Wednesday. That means I had to work. There was a time where I got up much earlier and set out for work. I needed to get to the train station every morning and get to work by train. That time seemed far away. I started the grey laptop, checked my emails, prepared a little breakfast and began. There was just one task I worked on for the last few weeks. The task was very monotonous. Every workday was embossed by the same task. After a few hours of working, I began to cook my lunch. I ate and worked another few hours. When I finished work for the day, I had to decide whether I wanted to go running or do a home workout. Some months before I went every Wednesday after work to the football grounds. I coach a soccer team and played

soccer for myself, but we were not allowed to train anymore. On this day, I decided to do both, running and doing a home workout and therefore I changed my clothes. After I went outside, I started running. I ran fast, so fast that I couldn’t think about the whole situation I was trapped in anymore. Running is my way to break out. I couldn’t think about not being able to meet friends, not being able to play soccer and being at home alone most of the day. I ran until I got out of breath and paused for some minutes. On my way back home I slowed down. The thoughts of escaping, running away and the wish to stop thinking about everything came back. At home I did my home workout, showered, and prepared dinner. I set down at the dining table and started to eat. When I finished dinner, I watched a TV series in my bed. This day there was no reflection on the last few weeks. Sometimes I wonder, is this what life is about? Doing the exact same things over and over again? How should I survive? It feels like I am trapped on some simulation game with no exit button. My head hurts and I can feel my chest getting heavy. I slept before

the show ended.

There was a big crisis that affected the whole world. Everybody is affected, everybody’s daily life is conditioned by this crisis. Many people changed their everyday life, many people lost their jobs, many people got sick, many people died, many people lost family members and friends. The whole world was paralysed by one crisis. The pandemic was noticeable everywhere.

On the TV news I saw pictures of coffins with death bodies inside. In the first weeks of the crisis I was shocked when I saw pictures like that. Instead of getting sad, I just got angry and afraid. I was angry because of the whole pandemic situation, but mostly I was angry because I wasn’t allowed to go to work, to the university and to soccer training anymore. The biggest fear was that I’m trapped in that situation without any way out. I wasn’t worried about getting sick. I wasn’t afraid that my friends or family could get sick. I was afraid that I must work and study from home for months or years

and that I can’t play soccer and meet my friends for a long time. There were people all around the world who were very sick and who have lost people they loved. I couldn’t be sad or angry because horrible things happened everywhere because I felt alone. I missed the lunch breaks with my colleagues at work, I missed working in groups and discussing our tasks at the university and I missed joking and having fun with my teammates after soccer matches and trainings. I never got sick because of the virus, I didn’t lose any family members or friends and I’m alive. I should be happy about that. But anyway, I have the feeling of being alone and trapped in a situation I couldn’t change. I don’t want to be alone all day long. It can’t go on like that.

A few days later in the evening my mobile phone rings. A friend was calling me. I haden’t talked to someone for more than five days. I didn’t talk to my colleagues from work or to my fellow students. In the online lectures I just listened to the professors. I got a little bit nervous when I answered the phone. “How are you?”, she asked.

At first, I wanted to answer, “I’m fine.” because that’s what you usually answer when someone asks, “How are you?” But that would have been a lie. So, I decided to tell her how I feel. I told her that I feel trapped in my everyday life and that I feel alone. I told her that I feel bad about not being fine because there are so many people that are trapped in situations that are worse. I told her how my everyday life changed and what it is like now and she told me about her situation. She works at a hospital. “There are so many young people without any health problems before the virus came. They got infected with the virus, got badly sick and died. Doctors and nurses try their best but in many cases they can’t help. I’m glad that I don’t have to get in contact with infected patients. I just have to treat patients that got injured during sports or accidents. I can help my patients.” “How do you feel when you go to work?”, I asked. “I’m glad that I’m able to work with people, talk to them and help them. The feeling of being alone which comes up when I’m at home leaves when I work. Seeing my colleagues getting frustrated because they

see people dying without any possibility to help every day is hard. Going to work got dangerous and it makes me feel afraid. Working got a lot harder.” We totally forgot about the time and talked for a few hours. It felt good to talk about how I feel and it felt good that there is someone who is really interested in how I really am. It was the first time that I told someone that I feel bad with my situation. She was very understanding. Both of us had totally different experiences. She got afraid of getting sick because she had to work with many different people every day and I felt bad because of being alone all day long but both of us felt alone while being at home. I felt a lot better when I went to bed that evening. I didn’t even feel alone while falling to sleep. We hadn’t even meet but through our conversation I got the feeling that there is someone who could understand me.

Knowing that I’m not alone helped me through the next days. My everyday life hadn’t changed but I felt a lot better for some days. The feeling didn’t last for long. I

slowly felt more and more alone again. I thought that talking about it could help like a few days ago. I called my friend and asked how she felt after our last call. She told me that she felt like me. She told me: “I felt so much better after our call. Sharing my fears helped me to deal with it but the feeling of being alone when I’m home came back.” We talked about the things we want to do when the pandemic is over. “I would like to have a big party to celebrate our freedom and to celebrate that we’re allowed to celebrate together after such a long time without parties.”, she said. I would like to travel with some friends. I wished that I could meet some new people and new cultures. Things like parties and traveling seemed so far away these days. Could such a big crisis come to an end? How would it be when the corona-pandemic ends? We had so many questions about what’s coming next and we couldn’t answer any of them. Just talking to someone about what’s going on felt good, so we arranged for another phone call a week later.

I looked forward to our phone call for the whole week. Weekly phone calls became part of our routine and these calls became the highlights of our weeks. We talked a lot about working, studying and doing sports during the pandemic. Both of us did a lot of sports before and during the pandemic. We talked about success and failure in sports and about the feeling of breaking out of the situation during a run. We supported each other by sending each other messages after our runs. We started a little competition. We counted the kilometres we ran and the one of us who runs more until we meet again, wins. The loser must invite the winner for dinner. That competition and the support we gave each other gave us some motivation to stay active and running gave us high spirits for the whole day. It felt like running away from the pandemic and leaving the problems and the restrictions behind us for a moment.

Today is the day we met for the first time after the lockdown and that means our competition ends. The pandemic isn’t over, but now we’re allowed to meet

some friends again. In the previous days fewer people got infected with the virus compared to months ago. That means that the risk to infect yourself when you meet someone sinks. We met each other in the backyard of the house I’m living in. The risk of getting infected outdoors is lower that indoors. Restaurants are still closed but we ordered pizza from a delivery service. We spent the whole evening eating pizza and drinking wine and talking about the things we experienced on our runs. When it got dark and cold, she went home. From now on we want to change our weekly phone call routine into a weekly running and talking routine. We want to meet weekly, run together and talk about our daily life or the challenges we deal with. Our daily routine is still embossed by the pandemic. We still have to study and work from home but meeting friends in real life makes everyday life a lot easier.

Lockdown can be missed Jasmin Drutjons

A paradox, a nightmare, or a little spark of the truth? A simple word, no more than a nightmare that is haunting minds - “lockdown”. It nests like a monster in the heads of most people but not for me. Let me take you back to Hamburg, 2020.

A warm spring day in April, no clouds in the sky. You are in the garden, lying on a blanket and surrounded by sprouting nature and busy insects flying around. The grass is tickling your legs but you don’t mind. The sun is blazing down and you can finally soak up all the Vitamin D that you need. Your whole body feels warm and you are at ease. A gentle wind blows the hair out of your face. Finally having all the time in the world, you started a book that has been on the shelve for ages, already covered in dust. A Steven King novel that was new when you got it. You’re turning the pages slowly, reading every word. Time goes by slowly in lockdown.

Every few days you’re meeting a friend outside to go for a walk. Distancing. 1.5 meters. Her border collie Dylan always running up front. Strolling through the neighborhoods. Always careful never to get too close to another person. Talking about everything, except the pandemic (is it imprudent to meet someone?). Getting back home and rushing upstairs to wash your hands as soon as you open the door.

Since the lockdown started you’ve had time to focus on your body more (to stop worrying about the pandemic?). You’re trying out new recipes and eating healthier. You’re making sweet potato fries, fruit salad, homemade pizza, green asparagus and stuffed zucchini. Eating more vegetables and less meat has regained a lot of your energy. On the downside, there is the burden to go to the grocery store.

Getting groceries. Early in the morning. 1.5 meters distance. Bread. Moving fast. No toilet paper. Stay

away. Joghurt. Hiding behind a mask. Sagrotan. Get two bottles. So many people. No flour. Headache. 4 bars of chocolate. Worrying about germs. Rushing to the checkout. Paying with card. Opening the car door. Ripping off the mask. Breathing in. Driving home to your safe haven. Breathing out.

There’s an inexpressible amount of motivation to workout more. You discovered Pamela Reif’s beginner home workout plans on Instagram. Working out to videos on an iPad is a perfect exercise. It’s so much better than having to go to the gym (because there are so many people staring?). You’re dancing your ass off to the dance workouts and your arms are get ting sore after the toned arms workout. Afterwards the sweat is dripping. You hop in the shower and feel a sense of fulfillment and confidence. New ideas come to your mind. Now could be the time to paint the walls in your bedroom in a brighter color. Maybe orange (but is it worth going to a building supplies store for that?).

Deciding to go. After days of considering. Considering every possible outcome. Intrusive thoughts. But you want to do it. Now. Driving to the store. Staying in the car for 10 minutes. Still worrying. Mask on and opening the car door. Getting a shopping cart. You already know exactly what you need. Going in fast. A man at the entrance spraying disinfectant. Rushing. The isle with the paint. Grabbing the paint kettle. Any orange. Hurrying to the checkout. Such a long queue.

You’re dreading fresh air. Paying with card. Snatching the kettle. Through the entrance. Finally outside. A huge amount of Sagrotan. Safety first.

You’re happy to be home. Finally surrounded by your own four walls. Your heart stops beating fast and you’re beginning to breathe in regular intervals. But still, the expedition to the supplies store was a success (successfully catching Covid?). With so much time on your hands, you can finally paint the walls of your bedroom. It’s a lot of work but it feels like you have all the time in the world.

In the evening, you’re running yourself a bath. Throughout the years you discovered that self-care is crucial for your well-being (a coping mechanism?). A bath ball that you got for your birthday slowly dissolves in the warm water and leaves a scent of lavender behind. A Netflix show is playing on your laptop while the water relaxes your whole body. Afterwards, you’re treating your skin with a face mask that smells like fresh mint. The whole bathroom smells like a perfumery. A pink bathrobe wraps you in a warm, cloud-like sheath. You’re opening the window to let fresh air in which gives you chills. Making a tea that makes your whole body feel warm and relaxed. You’re sinking into your bedsheets and fall asleep immediately.

The next day is bright and sunny. No clouds in sight and you have to apply a tremendous amount of sunscreen. The smell reminds you of the beach and for a second it feels like you’re in Italy again. Wallowing in memories - swimming in the mediterranean sea and enjoying ice

cream on a lounger while admiring the azure shimmering sea. You’re digging out brushes, acrylics and a canvas. Outside you set up your painting tools. Something you haven’t done in a million years. The sunlight illuminates the colors and you feel inspired. Painting fulfills you with joy and comfort. You’re remembering that there’s a cool wine in the fridge. Pouring yourself a glass of rosé. Two glasses. Three glasses (is day drinking considered healthy?). You’re floating on a cloud. Sunrays on your skin. Everything feels light and easy.

The doorbell rings. Expecting no one. Should you answer? What if it’s important? Spying through the peephole. Fuck. It’s your sister. Pretending to not be home? She knows you’re there. Opening the door. Just a crack. She wants to come in. Your body is frozen. Not able to speak. She enters. God why. Space invasion. She is concerned. About you. Shaking. You’re concerned.

About germs. About health. About her being here. Bursting out “Get out”. Arguing. She’s offended. Shook. Hurt. You’re crying. So is she. “Leave me alone”. Tears

running down. Trembling. She turns around. And steps outside. The door closes. All-penetrating silence.

A few months later.

You’ve got a doctors appointment. Waited so long for this day to come and it’s finally there. On no other occasion were you so happy to go to the doctor. His assistant said on the phone that he would have the Johnson & Johnson vaccine for you. One prick and it’s going to be over. Some protection and at least a trace of security. One teeny tiny thing that has such an incredibly colossal impact. You’re meeting your sister in the evening. Even at her house for the first time in what feels like ages. She did a Covid-test, just to be safe. You’re glad that you can eventually give her a big hug. It is certainly needed.

Looking back on those times, a wave of nostalgia overcomes me. The word lockdown has an odd meaning to me, as my sister would say. For me, it was like living in a dream bubble where all my problems and anxieties

vanished. These times of lockdown are treasured in my heart. I know I can never go back and in a way I don’t want to. It was a spark of self-care and finding my inner peace at home. Now I need to adjust to normal life and expand this inner peace across the border of my walls of anxiety.

Time in the City Bright Anim Obiri

“Moin Maya!” Alfred the florist from the flower shop a block away from my apartment building in Altona greeted me as I came closer to his shop. The sun was already shinning bright this Saturday morning. I blocked the sun with my hand to aid my vision. “Didn’t know you would come this early today. I would have had your arrangement ready.” He winced as he placed his watering can on the floor before taking a couple of steps in my direction.

“Moin Alfred!” I greeted as we hugged. “I’m not here to pick up the flowers. I’m meeting Devin for Brunch” I explained. “The Devin?” he asked as he furrowed an eyebrow. “Yes, the Devin.” I giggled sheepishly. Devin was the first person I went on a date with after I moved here. For a second I thought about how close Alfred and I have

gotten over the past year, even though my first visit to his shop was during my first week in this city, Hamburg, about four years ago. It is still astonishing every time I think about the dichotomy between how I experienced the city when I first got here and how I move through it now, after some much needed growth. The purpose with which I moved through the city had to change. It had to transform to fit the ever changing requirements for fulfilment.

The first visit to his shop was plagued with haste and anxiousness like most of my early experiences in this city. I had been invited to my a coworker’s birthday party. Although I still had a lot of unpacking to do and a bunch of other things on my plate, I accepted the invite hoping that getting to know some of my colleagues on a more personal level would help me acclimate quicker into my new workspace. It also wouldn’t hurt to gain a couple of friends in this new city, although my schedule only left enough room for a hand full of close relationships. I had spent that whole Saturday unpacking and lost

track of time. I looked at the clock and 4:30 pm. The reservation for the birthday dinner was in an hour. I got ready as fast as I could and rushed out of the house. A quick google search pointed me in the direction of Alfred’s flower shop. Flowers, I thought were a perfect gift for someone I didn’t know well. As I approached the shop I realised it was closing. After pleading with the owner I was able to get a bouquet of lilies which I later found out, were my colleagues favourite.

Being in haste renders me oblivious to certain social queues and I forgot to thank Alfred. He let that slip during our conversation about Devin some months ago. I met Devin at that birthday dinner. We were seated next to each other. He told me after dinner how much he had enjoyed my company and would love to get to know me better. Sadly, he only had a week in town before his three-month business trip. Me being me, I agreed to fit him into my already packed schedule for the following week. Despite my interest in getting to know him, I wasn’t mentally present during our date which ended

sooner than I expected. My mind kept wandering off to all the things I had to do. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t get back in touch after his trip. I hadn’t seen or talked to him again until we bumped into each other a couple of weeks ago. He had noticed something different about me which he found intriguing. I apologised for that night and asked him for a do-over which leads us to today. “Well have fun and remember to be in the moment.”

Alfred joked as we hugged goodbye and parted ways. I continued my journey down the block. It was now quarter past ten which meant I still had enough time to take a stroll through Hamburg’s infamous red-light district, the Reeperbahn. As I descended down the Reeperbahn I could sense the remnants of the previous night which brought back so many memories. Some of which weren’t as pleasant but still cherished because they’re all vital to getting me to where I am right now. There were people walking at a quick pace probably off to clock in some billable hours, while others, like

me, made their way down the street sluggishly. A few groups of two to four young people in their late teens or early twenties were spread along the street cracking up at each other’s jokes while they took drags of their cigarettes.

It took me way too long after I moved here to experience this exciting borough in day light. I always allowed myself to get talked into spending most of my Saturday nights here. I might have been impressionable but the feeling of wanting to belong when I first moved to the city was also a huge factor. We would spend the night meandering through a crowd of newly-turnedeighteen-year-olds who were eager to have their first night club experiences, a hoard of bachelorettes selling spirits in questionable costumes and whole bunch of other different characters. We would hop from bar to bar, club to club, have our obligatory Mexikaner shots on Hamburgerberg and end the night at a fast-food restaurant. This coupled with my strenuous weekdays was a recipe for disaster.

A bar keeper at a bar which has been passed down a couple of generations, enlightened me with the rich and riveting history of the Reeperbahn which totally enhanced the lens through which I view this borough. The old architecture that makes up most of the buildings along the main street were rich in history and newer buildings which can mostly be found at the end of the street revitalised the whole neighbourhood. I have grown to cherish my monthly strolls spent discovering new parts of this area.

A loud honk drew my attention to a man who was jaywalking across the street. I watched him as he hurriedly descended down the stairs of the S-Bahn. It reminded me of how I would always rush to get to any destination. The habit of having more things on my plate than I could accomplish left my mornings very busy. I had a stacked morning routine that didn’t only include getting myself ready for work but also getting some work done just to impress my boss. I would always leave the house totally disregarding the fact that I might get stuck in the early morning traffic which sometimes

proved to be the case. This habit left no room to admire the beautiful city during my early morning transits. At work, I would take on way more work load than what I’ve been assigned which meant most of my breaks were almost spent lounging somewhere in the office building recuperating. The energy gained would still barely get me through the day. The evening transit was the worst part of my day as I spent it dreaming about how nice it would be to finally arrive home and get comfortable.

The streetlights that light up the road and the storefront lit up with neon lights and the trees were all indicators of how close I am to the comfort go my couch. The pedestrians were invisible to me except the Jaywalkers, whom I hated.

As I came closer to the subway entrance, I wondered what the train platform looked like at that moment. Probably not as crowded as it was a couple of hours ago but the stench still lingers. I have been using public transportation more often now. I’ve grown a liking to it. It allows me the freedom to be in the moment as I watch people hop on and off the train and the luxury to

utilise my transit time to delve into a novel or gaze out the window.

It was quarter to eleven and I had about 15 mins to spare. I sat on one of the stair cases of the Niederhafen River Promenade to enjoy the morning breeze. The Alex Cafe where we had agreed to meet was just a few meters away so I sat on one of the stair cases of the Niederhafen River Promenade to enjoy the morning breeze.

Like any typical sunny day in Hamburg, the harbour started getting more crowded as the clock ticked by. Most people just walked along the promenade probably taking an aimless stroll, something I’ve come to appreciate due to its therapeutic effects. Others, like me, made themselves comfortable on the stairs. A man with his two daughters, both under the age of ten, sat several steps below mine. The youngest of the two, stared at me curiously. I smiled and waved at her. She giggled and immediately coiled back into her father arms just to peek right back at me. I let out a chuckle.

As more and more people joined us, my attentions shifted from the boats and water to the people. People watching is a hobby I recently picked up. I do it on my train rides, walks and especially during moments like these. The thought of all these people that inhabit this beautiful city all having very complex lives filled with varying emotions makes me feel small but not in a bad way. It’s like looking up in the sky and knowing there is a plethora of stars, each with their own complex solar systems but we somehow find ourselves to be here on this rocky planet orbiting the Goldilocks zone of a yellow dwarf star, where it belongs.

I turned my head swiftly after I felt a tap on my shoulders. “Hey Devin!” I exclaimed as I jolted onto my feet. Filled with excitement, I threw my hands around his torso and gave him a huge hug. “You look beautiful Maya.” He proclaimed as he returned the hug. “Thanks, you too.” I confessed and I pulled back from the hug. “Nice shirt! Is it the same one you wore to our date?”

I asked. The excitement in my voice noticeably fading towards the end of the question as the cringeworthy memory flooded back. “Glad to know to you at least took in something that night.” He joked, earning himself a soft punch to the shoulder. “Ouch!” He cried out right before he burst into laughter. He then put his arm around me and drew me closer as we made our way to the cafe.

Rainy Day

Adelia Zahra

It’s raining again today, for the third day in a row.

It’s nice when it rains for a day. You can smell the water hitting the ground. Petrichor. It is the necessary drop that the earth needs. But when it rains for more than a day straight, it starts to stink. Especially if you live in the city. Water comes from every side imaginable. It rains from the sky, and it also splashes from the ground everywhere. It’s unpleasantly wet. Everyone is not in a good mood. Neither am I.

Every day is just the same old routine.

After I finish my nine-hour shift at a call center for an electronics brand, I walk to the train station, which is only a five-minute walk away. “Oh shoot, I forgot to bring my umbrella again!” I sighed. Obviously because of that I will get wet. Contrary to what most people think, I hate it when it rains.

Maybe I’m just not normal?

The commute to and from work is boring. Every day is the same old routine. Get up early in the morning, go to work, do a boring and monotonous shift, get yelled at by people and then go home, do chores, sleep, and repeat. Five times a week. The other two days you are just dead tired and don’t want to do anything. I’ve been doing the exact same thing for six years. Nothing fancy about it.

Have you ever wondered what goes on in people’s mind?

The highlight of my mundane daily routine, especially during the five-minute walk to the station through the busy shopping street, is what I call “people watching”. I like to watch people and sometimes wonder what is going on in their lives? What’s going on in their head? Where are they going? What do they do for a living? Do they have a family? What did they have for lunch today? Are they happy? When I look at certain people, I naturally try to imagine their lives and create scenarios.

This afternoon as I walk to the train station, my attention is drawn on two random people moving their feet very quickly. I think they are also going to the same destination as me. The first person is the one who looks like he is doing a ‘serious job.’ I imagine that he is maybe an executive at an IT firm, or maybe he is also the business owner. From his look I can assume that he must be someone important. A middle-aged man, grey hair with glasses in casual yet very business-like attire and is constantly busy on his phone answering calls and text messages while simultaneously balancing a large yellow umbrella. I think maybe he has a family. A wife, maybe three or four kids and a dog with a big house. A typical success story. He has just returned from a business meeting at an upscale lunch place in the city center and is now on his way back home somewhere in the suburb. He doesn’t look very happy. Maybe his day is just average and boring like mine?

The other is a young woman. I assume she is a student returning from a study session in the library, because she is carrying a massive transparent bag with thick

books in it. Probably a law student, I think. She is holding a black umbrella; the generic one you can buy at the local drugstore. Just like the man, I can see the frown on her face. She doesn’t look particularly happy. I imagine that she’s under a lot of stress right now because she has an important exam coming up, and if she doesn’t pass, she will be expelled from the university. Poor her. Or maybe it’s just because of the non-stop rain?

Too busy, I don’t realize…

I walk through the red light to the train station; my mind keeps wandering. Sometimes I think that if creating scenarios about the lives of others were a sport, I could slowly become an Olympic athlete.

Suddenly, as I arrived across the street, I feel like someone is pushing my body harshly. I fall and hit the ground. “Oh, what is wrong with people!” I try to get up, feeling shocked for a moment. Day-dream balloon burst. My knee is scraped, and my already wet clothes are now sticky with dirt.

“No, wait, where’s my bag?” I just realized I don’t have my bag on me. The person who knocks me over must have taken my bag! I feel a rush through my body. My consciousness comes suddenly all at once. Reality hits. For a second, I regret that I wasn’t fully aware on my surroundings, that my mind was somewhere else entirely. I look all around me. I start to panic. The station is really crowded with people. It’s hard to find anything. I search frantically in every direction until I see this strange, unknown, and tall person running away with a bag like mine in the distance. I try to follow this person, past all the people that are blocking my way. I am short of breath chasing this person. “Stop!!! That’s my bag!”

I screamed as if this person will listen to me and stop. Then I see that this person throws my bag away into a dumpster! “There it is, my bag!” I ran directly to that dumpster. The dream continues. It is really my bag.

I sigh in relief. Fortunately, everything is still intact. Actually, there is hardly anything important in my bag. It’s just a cheap tote bag, my do-it-yourself wallet, and

a few unimportant papers. I look in my wallet. The money is still there in the same amount. No card has been stolen. I can still feel my heart pounding, but now already a little more relieved than before. I remember an interesting back story about my wallet. I made it myself from an empty milk carton. I cut it open so I could use it as a wallet. My mother used to say, “make your important stuff look like trash!” and I never really understood what that meant. It’s strange advice, but today the lesson is learned. The robber who stole my bag may have thought that there’s nothing valuable in it and then just threw it away. So peculiar. Now, I start to wonder… why did this person try to steal my bag in the first place? What is the story behind that? I smile while quietly entering the space of my imagination. This is going to be an interesting trip home. I’m still trying to catch my breath as I slowly walk to the train platform. Of course, this time I will try to be more cautious with my surroundings!

Rattle of time

Sofia Rakseeva

As soon as she locked the door behind herself, the eternity of a lifetime began. Fifty-seven minutes of prison with a life sentence. Her heels pounded on the wooden stairs in staccato as she rushed down the floors. There weren’t many, only two levels till she reached the ground floor and the echo of her footsteps ended in silence. For a moment she stopped and looked at the old wooden door in front of her. It had cracks that started and didn’t end, the paint was peeling so she could see the brownish wood behind jade. As she touched the knob the acrid earthy scent rose into her nose. Her pale hand was tiny on the metal shaft, almost like one of a kid but the first signs of age showed the truth. She wrapped her fingers around the cold surface and pushed. The cold breeze flowed into her face and pushed her curtain bangs in her eyes. Her blond hair entangled

between her lashes, she needed to blink. One time, two times, three times as rapid as a colibris wing flapping. With a blink of an eye the cold air was crawling up her spine and she stepped forward on the streets. The sun was only rising as she walked down the street and her little stilettos echoed from one wall to another.

With every step she started to shiver so she put her arms around herself, grabbing the rough material of her coat and clenching a fist. Sometimes she walked like a hurt dear that was shot by a gun. Sometimes she even thought that she is this dear. Her small figure was stumbling on the stone path while she tried to balance, she could have worn another pair of shoes so she wouldn’t get stuck after every step but after all these years of walking down the street she started to forget how to find the easy path. She never shied away from hard things and mostly avoided barriers that would stop her. Most of the time she is alone, alone on the streets, alone in her flat, alone in her head.

On her way to the subway she passed pigeons, hundreds

over hundreds of pigeons that were screaming and yelling, that weren’t minding their own business. They disturbed her. She never understood people that were smiling at them, even feeding these creatures. They walked down the street as if it’s their own, pooping and choking on their own gargle, making noises like they are drowning. In the last years they were getting aggressive, or maybe she just imagined it to have another reason to dislike them. Sometimes she visited the Fischmarkt, it’s very similar to her, just like these pigeons on her way to the train station. It’s loud, it’s crowded, it’s not her world, like someone pushed her in this reality and locked the door, nailed up and put some heavy bookcases behind it. They were gambling, gambling for money, gambling for food, gambling for attention, maybe even for life.

At 6:52 her train was leaving the station, as always. In the past years she never missed it, even when she was younger after a rough night she was on time. Just as she took her train as her mom died. She almost crossed the street, the light turned green and she started walking as her phone rang. Her phone was in the depth of the

greyish handbag that she was saving on over a year. She rummaged while walking in a fast tempo, while she was looking at the grey asphalt of the destination on the other side of the road. People were passing her, some were running others were taking it slow as if everything could wait. When her fingers touched the pleasant cold glass of her phone she was simmering with excitement because…

The doors opened and she quickly looked left and right to find a seat near the window. She never liked this place and somehow it is the one constant thing in her life, unwillingly. After some seconds she spotted a seat on the right side. She always loved the right side of the train. The exit is on the left so she could sit on her side, looking in the opposite direction of people streaming in and out. As soon as the doors closed and the train started moving with a hobble move she blacked out. She felt the rattel, how her body automatically started to vibrate with the sliding rail. Often she closed her eyes for some seconds, breathed in and opened them while breathing out in a long stroke. This time some sort of

couple was sitting on the other side. Although the day just started, they sat almost on each other and shoveled their tongues inside each other. More precisely she was shoveling her tongue into his mouth. He seemed to be uninterested. His eyes were cold and empty as if he was watching an ad on YouTube. The girl on the other hand was splurging from joy and commitment. This girl radiated so much joy his emptiness seemed to be overshined, almost.

The doors opend and closed again. The train stopped and started the motion again. She closed and opened her eyes again. She closed them and took a deep breath full of the smell of dusty seats and a nuance of leaked and dried bear. She couldn’t blame him for leaving her. She never anticipated to be in a relationship and knew from the beginning she would never love him. He was a handsome guy and very kind. One of a kind that woman said “You’re so lucky to have someone like that

on your side. He will be a great husband and father.” No one ever asked her if she even wanted this. If she was happy. If she felt the harmony and happiness, everybody seemed to see. They assumed, they talked, they wished, they cursed. Not one single time she said “I love you” with pure feelings. The evening when he knelt down on his knee she started crying when she realized what was happening. It wasn’t tears of joy as everybody assumed, she was shattered. She never felt a pain so sharp and deep. The night was cozy and some sort of buzzing was surrounding her. The light summerdress softly hugged her and slowly waved with the breeze from the Elbe. Her bare feet touched the sand and burrowed themselves in the wet and sticky mass. The waves overflowed her feet and with every gush her soul was being cleared and embraced with a silky hint of sweetness. He stood behind her, his warm strong arms around her, embraced her, his lips softly kissed the back of her head. She was fully enjoying herself as she looked in the

distance on the other side, where small lights were dancing on the crashing waves in his arms. They stood there for an eternity just listening to the breaking crests of the river, quiet noises in the background from the restaurant, the warmth of his body on her back and belly, feeling the pound of his heart in her whole body. She slowly stroked his arms, line under her hands, smoothing the wrinkles with her fingertips. He started to kiss her hair with more and more pressure, embracing her with a force she could only breathe lightly. And then he said it. The first time. The first time she felt in danger. I love you. Her coat was rearing up when she walked up the stairs to the next platform. Although she walked everyday the same path, she looked at the signs on the ceilings to prove her way. As if over night everything could change. They were going in opposite directions, crossing each other’s paths and rushing from one point to another just to wait another minutes till they could jump in and drive away.

She couldn’t help herself to play the game of a happy life. She was smiling at him, his family, their friends and colleagues. She tried to believe herself but the bitterness never let her go. She saw him and there was nothing but emptiness. She would have loved to give him what he desired so she said yes. How could she not? She saw his hope, the softness in his brown eyes with which he looked at her. She broke them. She saw it.

The S-Bahn pulled into the station, the lights were blinding her and she squinted her eyes, although she wanted to look into the light so they would hurt. But it would be strange, wouldn’t it?

This time she wouldn’t have a seat and stood leaning on the glass wall behind her that was separating the sitting people from her. Sometimes a homeless person would pass but she was never reacting. He asked with a weak and deep raspy voice for some money or food. She didn’t hear him, she even looked in the opposite direction.

The phone rang and she thought her colleague was calling her to tell her that she would travel to Italy for the presentation. She lived the last month for that moment, all her power, all her energy focused on this opportunity to prove her qualification. She hadn’t the time to look at the display and harshly put the phone to her ear. When she heard the raspy voice of her stepfather, she almost stumbled. “Your Mom died yesterday night after the brainsurgery.” She felt a glimpse of guilt because she forgot about her mother’s condition. After the death of her dad when she was a little girl, she was prepared to lose others. She was right.

Her station was announced by the trainvoice, soon she would step out of the train. Changing her weight from one foot to another she tried to awaken her body and rush the blood through her legs.

She saw them together three nights after she told him that she never loved him. Two months after getting engaged and trying the last time to convince herself to want this to work. He was devastated and it was the

first time she saw him in a rage after almost three years of a relationship. He screamed at her till his face was burgundy red and his spit was flying to all sides. She was silent. When he left the flat with a loud door slam she breathed deeply and started to laugh. She felt so befreed, so empowered, so whole. With every step he walked away she felt the weight cracking up and turning to dust. They were feeding pigeons on the town hall plaza when she crossed the square. They didn’t see her, but she saw herself.

It took her nine minutes to get to the subway, twentyeight minutes in the first S-Bahn, thirteen in the second, seven to get to work and a lifetime to hide

Putting a smile on her face she walked out of the closing doors and waited till the fifty-seven minutes start again.

When we collide Kayra Schiffer

His perspective: It was late in the evening. I was already feeling a little buzzed from the drinks and the loud bass from the club and I needed some time to feel ready again to start dancing inside. I had never really heard about Club 17, but my friends kept pushing and asking me when I would finally feel ready to start “my bachelors life”. I stumbled along the long line with people being waved in by the doorman. Damn, what is up with these people? Already five o’clock and they’re still willing to dance and drink their guts out. I needed a toilet immediately, but then right there behind the last reachable streetlight I saw the perfect spot. But I was struck by the darkness and the silhouettes of maybe five human beings standing and swinging their bodies. My instincts wanted to get closer and get a hint of what these individuals were doing. You looked me straight in the eyes. I could never forget your loving face, but you look different now. So many

memories are stuck behind those eyes, our memories. But now, all I can see are swollen teared up eyes. Why am I suddenly feeling sick? Thoughts get stuck in my brain but I am too slow to process the details colliding with my memories of you. These feelings keep coming back: “All this time I dreamed about you and you left anyway knowing I was already giving you all I have. Even giving you everything was too little for you to stay. The big city is waiting. More opportunities for you to find your way of life worth living it. Still overthinking the last words you said to me.” Please stop now my dear little brain. Maybe I had too much to drink tonight. People always say these wise words “Drunk words are sober thoughts”, but is it the same thing as hallucinating about people? I decided to go home and clear my mind. It was all a little too much for one day. New day new me, that’s the spirit I will follow for the upcoming days. Right after I got home, a thick lump built up in my throat. My head spinned around, I was ready to throw up. Immediately, flashbacks gushed up of the time you were by my side. I suffer from inner

pain. You are always in my thoughts. They say not only a broken heart will end you, but also the memories you made with that person. I still see you in my daydreams. You will always be a part of my life. I didn’t lose you like being apart from death and love like my mother, but sometimes death is the only excuse for not sharing time together. God dammit you broke me so deep I can’t even remember me without those deep wounds. If bourbon was a sound it would have been your voice against your heavy breathing.I am so confused. Was that really you behind the club? They were prostitutes. How did you end up there?

Her perspective:

Just another cold night, another cold night outside in the dark alleys of Hamburg’s mangiest neighborhood. I saw you and could hardly believe to see you again just at this time. Our eyes met, but you looked too drunk to recognize me purely by my silhouette. Deep down I hoped you wouldn’t recognize me. I sank too low. I always thought we would meet again in four to six

years, if ever, and not at the lowest point of my life. You were the love of my life, but at the same time the biggest mistake. You are like a drug for me. Contact with you feels like a heroin injection that you shoot into yourself. Waiting for this meeting, like the anticipation when you are almost home and can take the shot. The moments after the much longed meeting, like cold turkey. You harm me, but still I long for the rush. For you. Selfcentered, despite everything I need this kick every few months. But are you worth it? You know you shouldn’t, but the addiction to you pulls me under your spell. I needed to go away from you. We harmed each other, but you would have never left unless I did it. That’s why I was the one who got away. Thinking about how I feel most at home in a city that I don’t have family in. I feel this too and realized it’s cause I felt free to be myself and myself is home. Keeping control and mastery in a city alone is the most difficult part of starting your own life, but I lost this control when I had to prostitute myself for my hoped-for lifestyle. You get to know the wrong people quickly. Just be careful because you can

slip into the abyss faster than you think. And finding your way out of the cycle is the most difficult task of all. Every day, I waste the thought of you at least once. What it could have been. I thought it would be different. Only the idea and then the actual implementation are two completely different facts. My pride is too great to admit that you could have saved me. You know when you are with someone who doesn’t feel right, but you are afraid to ask because the answer might be worse than the feeling at the moment. Will I now carry all the pain with me and let you go forever, or will I go in search of you and follow you back to our toxic relationship? I made a decision. I will wait for you. My sensation will last and your feelings for me will lead you back to me.

Release me from my presence because I would never find my way alone.

His perspective:

I decided to come back. It was you there in the gasp of a streetlight. I feel like I’m suffocating at any moment. Every step I take towards you makes it harder for me

to breathe. But it is you. My steps become slower the closer I get to you. I sink down to you and follow my movement. You have already felt so much. So much pain, but still you aren’t breaking. Searching in the ruins for your lost soul. Will you be able to find it? Everything you own fits in this one bag. How did you end up here? Every step you take reminds you of how great these streets were. The first time you went out with your friends. Right in front of you, the café where you got to know and love each other. Will you ever find me? You won’t stop believing and hoping he is fine. Even if the memories are the only thing to hold on to, you just won’t stop searching for your loving soul.

Her perspective:

And suddenly your heart goes to war with your head. You miss not only the person you lost but also the person you were while you were together. Memory is a window through which I can see you whenever I want to. The first love will always be the person to whom you will compare all others to. Love is a bitch, it destroys

you, insidiously but it does. It’s damn hard when you know from the beginning you are the person who gives more. You know you’ve lost when you like the person so much you don’t even care. And I knew it and still kept going for it. I wish heaven had visiting hours because whenever I dream about you I don’t want to wake up. Would it be easier if you were really dead? Then you wouldn’t be permanently floating around in my brain and the fear of meeting you in everyday life would be eliminated. Maybe it’s time for me to move away, too. No. I have to decide for myself to close that chapter so you don’t take away the city and the people who are good for me. And yes, maybe we will run into each other again, but I think then I would not be willing to look you in the eye anymore. And all the things that are on my bucket list are no longer worth ticking them off with you. I realized for me, the things and experiences that I still want to experience and explore, can also be done with friends. Even such trivial stuff as eating the spiciest noodles from the Asian market and almost choking on them. You are not a part of this experience

and for the first time in a long time it also makes me feel good that you are no longer there. I didn’t really think about how forever could end but it did… end. Back to strangers again.