Charissa Isidro
borderline-europe
Berlin, Germany
The road I live on is long and wide with heavy traffic, built during the Soviet area to echo the majesty of communist East Germany. It’s located in Friedrichshain, a hip and rapidly gentrifying area where Berliners of all ages and origins flock at night, with its many famous clubs and bars.
This neighborhood also houses Berlin’s East Side Gallery, a popular tourist attraction known for the artistic expressions of freedom painted directly onto the old Berlin Wall, which stands along the Spree River. I ride my bike past these iconic images quite often, pondering what kind of world it must have been, that allowed a city and country to stand divided for almost half a century.
This weekend, something new caught my eye: a beautiful new exhibit along the inner wall facing the Spree, dedicated to Syrian survivors and refugees. Several large-scale photographs have been posted with corresponding texts, detailing people’s thoughts and memories of life. Some of the people are old, some are young, some stand alone, some by their children or partner. These are people who have had all the horrors of war cruelly and unjustly thrust upon them. They are a people who are faced with walls as well. And for many of them, these barriers are not just barbed wire fences and armed border patrols; it’s German bureaucracy.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my own concepts and preconceived notions, especially with regards to refugees. I know I have good intentions, but due to my personal experiences, I lack the kind of understanding and empathy that only refugees can know. When I first met my translator he addressed a class regarding his first experience being homeless. It made me wonder: how do you comfort people who have lost their home, who have no home, who cannot return home?
You can’t. You can only listen.
During a recent trip to a refugee camp, we witnessed a fit of rage by an Afghan refugee. The man flung shoes and chairs across the room and over tables as other men, women, and children watched. Security officers had not been alerted, and only one or two onlookers intervened to calm the angry man. I clung to my belongings, sitting silently in the corner with other refugees who looked on guard in case chaos came in our direction. I legitimately feared for my safety, thinking up the worst scenarios possible. I don’t know the outcome of the situation, because we left almost immediately after.
As I walked back to the U-Bahn, I thought about how uneasy I felt witnessing his anger and realized how easy it was for me to think that one shouldn’t be angry merely because he is a refugee. I asked myself: does he not have the right to feel angry? To feel ashamed or disappointed or sad? Who am I to deny him those feelings? Who am I to know what he should and shouldn’t be upset by? Whatever it was that set him off, could it be that his current circumstances contributed to the extremity of his actions?
I do not justify his actions, but I realized we are so used to packaging people into labels and attributes and criteria, simultaneously failing to see that their experiences are those of real people. We treat refugees as though we are their saviors, that we are here to civilize them with our liberal ideals, and that they should only feel grateful for what we are doing for them. I’m learning in different ways just how wrong this kind of mindset is. Refugees are people, too, and they hold a range of views and emotions.
It’s been such an eye-opening experience to spend time with refugees and listen to their stories. I know that I don’t want to be complacent within a system that keeps them down, and I absolutely do not stand with the offensive rhetoric that works to scapegoat these vulnerable populations.