A neighborhood exists in Berlin, Germany. The streets of Neukölln are narrow and packed with people from different places. They wear hijabs and tight, trendy leggings; dark peacoats with bright headscarves; military-grunge apparel mixes among tropical patterns. Languages are tossed about and haggled with, coaxing the ears and brain to slow down and listen, to learn more from hand gestures and expressions than actual words. The smell of kofta and falafel waft down the brick streets. You can buy currywurst and pommes for 5 euros with a glass bottle Coke thrown in. Spicy scents, cool kids, it’s a melting pot like New York or Vienna or any metropolitan area if you take a look.
Berlin is the city where people broke down walls and blew up churches before regaining unity. The rubble of the Berlin Wall stretches across 69 miles of the city. LaV and I walked a good deal of the residential areas during our trip. We saw the memorials along the Bernaur Strausse. We saw the museum dedicated to death, The Topography of Terror. We saw photos of people risking everything to be reunited with the ones they love.
How many borders separate communities today? How many walls must we tear down: ideological walls built between neighbors, metaphorical walls relying on litigation to keep people apart, or the literal Berlin Wall, stretching for miles and miles?
How many walls must we stop before we enter into a better world? One that is not perfect, certainly not always safe, but a braver world. A vibrant, courageous microcosm like a small neighborhood in South Berlin.
