Teaching English in Halle, Germany

I sit in a cafe in Halle, Saale,  Germany. I'm here on a program where I volunteer to teach English to individuals who come from Syria, Yemen, Palestine to name a few, most of whom came to Germany to flee from the dangerous conditions of their homeland. The system calls them refugees; I have come to treat this term with a little more caution. It shouldn't be so, but it's unfortunately quite inevitable, that the awareness of people called 'refugees' and the conditions they have been exposed to is tied to a lot of sympathy. And it is from personal experience and reflection that I realise such feelings can become quite one-dimensional after a while.

It took a lot of what I imagine as pot-holing; the erosion of the surrounding matter (media's placement of refugees, personal moral expectations, pre-existing social understandings) to come to a far deeper understanding of what a refugee is. And I conclude that what? is not the question, but rather who?
When such institutional and systemic titles are embedded into our mind, it is so incredibly easy to unintentionally generalise and be satisfied with the perception of someone as only the violence and hardship that they have endured, and that yield our pity. I was so readily feeling sympathy, but sympathy is not enough. I viewed the idea or situation as merely conceptual - headlines on a newspaper,  governmental issues, the images that made me shudder or shut my eyes closed so tight, an example we should not follow, an emblem of why-I-should-be-thankful. It was always at most 5 minutes of my day that came and passed.. it was only a sad story.

A concept is not enough.

I came here, engaged, and realised that 'refugee' was a minuscule part of their identity. It is so tiny! And not to mention so inadequate I am guilty that I had subconsciously fit them into so small and limiting a category and genuinely believed that was as big of a part of who they are. God knows what I expected it to be like- for us to shake hands, exchange greetings, for them to sit me down and explain their unfortunate history and for me to feel all the more assured of the need to feel/think everything as detailed above. I had dehumanised them, believing it was humanity.

""The moral law," answered Magis, "forces men who are beasts to live otherwise than beasts, a thine that doubtless puts a constraint upon them, but that also flatters and reassures them; and as they are proud, cowardly, and covetous of pleasure, they willingly submit to restraints that tickle their vanity and on which they found both their present security and the hope of their future happiness."

France's words from "Penguin Island" reverberates in my mind. And I am glad that I have exposed a beastliness of my possession, one that I'll continue to betray and condemn because of the single example of the past few days in Halle.

In African dress and iconic afro, Abodi (pronounced 'Aboodi'). German teacher for the past 4 years, says he has not washed his hair for the past 9 years and 3 days now.

In the far right, Makki (pronounced 'Marky'). Doctor, father of a beautiful daughter named 'Laureen' from the laurel tree, "particularly" hates flies.

Both Abodi and Makki have been friends for 10 years, since before they came to Germany 8 years ago. You can tell they are good friends. Both believe themselves to be the craziest people from Yemen.

Hadid. Moved to Germany 4 years ago if I remember correctly. Doing his masters in Nutrition, does not believe in the BioMarkt, loves Prague, gave away the blanket his mother gave him to some people in a refugee camp in Austria.

love,

elle

There's a feeling within my body, shapeless, nondescript and in the areas you can't quite pinpoint. I wonder if my fatigue has something to do with his, or if it is merely something I've never recognised or wanted to acknowledge before. I don't know what it is, I only theorise, and they all sound about right.

"good and maybe never done".

not wrong, maybe only different.

magic, on the outline of my heart

A little while ago, I questioned what I have to offer. Today, I twirl and tangle in the warmth that is reassurance. Today, I was a little more patient with myself; today, I made peace with the fact that perhaps it takes a little more time to love me, and that the people who are worthwhile would wait and see.

I am just fine walking on the outer edge, listening in rather than speaking. I am just fine allowing someone else's preferences be heard-- I am not fussy, but that doesn't mean I do not have my opinion. I merely save the energy for issues more important. And perhaps on the surface I am bland, uninteresting, typical, but I believe I have something to offer that others might not. Today, I floated far from the shore, looking at the mountain view on the opposite coast, making that resolution.

But that is not to say that my woes on the related subject of 'sufficiency' are over. Instead, I brood over something of a similar strand only much more beautiful. As I worked on the fields of Le Petit Bochet, letting my sight extend as far as the scenery allowed, I could only inhale deeply. As I traversed through the trees where light fell in magical ways, bouncing off in bronze and gold, I could only attempt to widen my eyes a little more, to blink a little less, and I inhaled deeply. As I laid on the pebble beach of Allaman, with the soft sound of the waves, sinking my hands into the fur of a gentle canine who wanted to play, I looked up and could only inhale deeply. As I walked on the side of the road, in awe of the tall trees on both sides and the postcard sunset in tinges of pink and purple, with a bag full of white flowers we will make syrup out of tomorrow, I held still for seconds at a time and I could only inhale deeply.

That is all and only what I can do. I think a part of me wishes that all of that could somehow envelope all that was in front of me and all that I was feeling, just to keep for a piece of forever. That somehow my sight was an expanding cinema screen, and I could revisit this personal movie theatre whenever I want, just how it was. As if each inhale would catch a bit of air from that precise moment, and I would hold it in my lungs knowing that the beauty lives inside me. But each time the recognition of all its fleetingness washes over me. That this view, this sunset, this person, this noise and music, this feeling, would all be over as soon as it began. That any other day I would find myself struggling to remember if it was real at all.

But I guess that is alright. I think the beauty does find ways to live on, even if that is within my ever-changing body, as corporeal as it is. Tonight, particularly, I feel something magical tingling at my fingertips, the tip of my nose, the edges of my lips, and the very outline of my heart. 

choking on cotton wool

Dear you,

On this night I ponder about transience, and sufficiency. As my eyes pull me toward sleep after a long day of exploring, the one brooding feeling that still sustains is a sense of emptiness. A void that swirls and rumbles, it hollows my centre and reaches down to my stomach. It frustrates me, because once again I am aware that it is an exaggerated feeling over a fleeting relationship. It pulls at my conscience, because once again I am aware of the part of me that yearns for something more than it was. There are a lot of things that I rebut in theory, but never seem to truly reconcile with, and in this case I cannot deny a hope to belong and be loved despite coaxing myself that I am wholly enough.

Thus I engage in a tug-of-war within my mind; I can hear my internal self exclaiming in exasperation that I expect too much, but behind it all are intermittent sparks of maybe’s— they are undeniable, persistent, begging to be heard now and always. I wonder why I put myself through such agony. It seems to be par for the course to such hypersensitivity, and it is a daily, continual battle to convince myself that my stark awareness of my surroundings is necessary.

I wish I didn't have to do what I believe is necessary sometimes. I wish I could be so unapologetic and oblivious, so secure that regardless of how I am 'morally/socially careless' that I would have a place and people who embrace me. I wrap my words in cotton wool, encircle my thoughts around the torsos of others, walking on tip-toe with my arms stretched out hoping to break anyone's fall. Like balancing china on all fine points of my skeleton, I am bound to let some slip. I sacrifice fun, light-heartedness, true open-mindedness and forgiveness... I am dispirited by my inability to connect, to share in the humour, to let go.

There is no epiphany here; I have spent too many times reciting the 'right' answer only to return to my usual way. It's not like the skin that is scraped so many times it becomes dry and numb, each time it hurts just the same, sometimes even more.

What matters to you?

Dear you,

"What matters to you?" is the question that seems to be posed over and over again. My mind and flesh still seem to be settling in, like those few moments before the drop of a roller coaster and you hear the tyres creaking. Maybe it will be like that for a while, maybe it will be like that for the rest of my life. I'm still figuring out what it is that I believe in, who I am, and where I belong.

I still ask myself the difficult questions of This or That: money or passion, family or experience, friends or self, enough or more, want or need, speak or be silent. And this list goes on. And even though I've been bothered by it before, tonight I am particularly burdened by whether there is a selfishness in me that overrides the importance of my friends and family. I always seem to be overcommitting and eventually bailing out on plans. I always seem to have people wait on me and depend on my schedule, and rarely the other way round. It is no surprise or secret that I am one of the "busiest", "overworked" people with one of the most "happening" lives. Sometimes I take it as it is-- I just have a lot I want to do and a lot of people to meet. But other times, I wonder if it such traits would then have certain connotations. That I'm never around for things, or that I have to be chased to have a moment with. What if they don't want to chase anymore? And what if chasing in itself is problematic?

For what it's worth, and with no intention of actually defending myself, I acknowledge that I do make efforts to reach out and 'do the chasing' once in a while. But maybe this nagging feeling in my heart is telling me that my efforts are not enough. That I kind of drop those who aren't as easily in reach, but whom I really have a chance to build wonderful, meaningful relationships with. That those who I do reach are very fortunately in arm's length, so benevolently willing to bend their body backwards just for me to have the impression of proximity.

If I have thought about this so many times through, why haven't I changed then? Is it fear; the fear of people and relationships I know so well, that translates even into relationships that I treasure and people whom I adore? Is it that selfishness that I know runs through my veins, the almost innate drive to grasp everything I can for myself even if it is in sacrifice of others, the selfishness I question myself of as I skim over this passage so starkly aware of the number of 'I's there are? Is it this ceaseless heart, which falls in love with every beautiful thing, which runs to the ends of the earth in her dreams-- this wonder over everything?

What matters to you?
I thought it'd be an easy answer by now, the ripe old age of 18 going on 19. I thought it would be as straightforward as   blank  over everything, blood over water, others before self. Of course, when difficult times come there is no doubt that I would give my life for the ones I love. But what about the in-betweens, when life or death is not necessarily concerned? The in-betweens is what they rarely teach us and what we rarely perceive, and I now know it is because the in-betweens are ever-changing. The in-betweens have to be chased, consciously and so fervently, for the conclusion that we decide.

Love,
elle

I suppose we were all meant to come and go, in and out of relationships, of everything. And the ones who get left always feel it the most, and the ones who do the leaving barely know that's what they're doing.

It sucks that I feel you leaving this much and this hard. Most times I can shake it off and say "well, that's the way of life." But not for you. The distance between us sends pangs that shake my earth and I can only grasp on for air. I have so many theories, prepositions, blame-games, but eventually you realise that the Why doesn't matter. It can't wheel you back into my life the way you were in it, regardless how many times you say you will not leave. Because the leaving already began.

A catalyst. She was the catalyst. And that's none of her fault-- we often waltz into lives with the purest of hearts with no particular intention. She only sent your waves diverging, your waves which I seemed not destined to ride from the start.

My fiascos... for as long as I've been able to remember. Because it is better to hurt and strip away than feel the slow, scalding process. For milliseconds you hammer it enough for me to think I'm really completely, surely, only paranoid. And I hate that you do; you make me feel like I don't know anything.

You don't know anything, I repeat over and over. My mind was sober.

Because the leaving already began.