Rugs and Kilims
Outside a rug and kilim shop, a young Turkish man caught my hand and would not let go. Like all conversations in Istanbul that start with “where are you from?” he lured me in with his enamoring smile and beguiling curiosity. Inside the carpet shop, he wanted to show me his world of carpets. I told him I was a student without money in my pockets, but he insisted I stay and offered me çay.
Outside, the street roared on with yellow taxis, bargaining tourists and distant callings of “colwata colwata colwata!” The clouds raced through the mid-afternoon sky behind half crescent moons and minarets while bodies, glistening with sweat, slid sluggishly passed each other shoulder to shoulder. The humidity left a mask of condensation on my face and a damp band on my right shoulder where my messenger bag hung, filled with cashmere scarves, evil eyes and blue jeweled earrings - all the little pieces of Istanbul I could afford to take home with me.
Inside, the room was hot and stuffy, a musty smell of wool and old incense drifted towards me slowly and disappeared quickly. Bright colors and bold geometric patterns insulated the floors and walls, turquoise and purple to the more traditional red, pink, ivory, green, and blue. Heavy textures, some wrapped in thin plastic, draped from the ceilings.
But this was not what he wanted to show me. Taking my hand and without a word, he led me to the back of the room and down a long spiral staircase dimly lit by a single orange bulb at the bottom. I wanted to walk quickly, longing for the thin cool air rising from beneath. But I walked slowly, uneasy to part with the refuge of the busy streets and clammy crowds outside.
The so called “friendliness” of strangers in the street, especially that of men, is all too familiar to me. They come in forms of flattering words to sell jewelry and cat calls to intimidate, or even to degrade, if you cross to the wrong side of town. And even though the hospitality of Istanbul is renowned, my guards are kept up high, always in fear of tourist traps and trickeries, afraid to be taken advantage of as a single female wandering through an unfamiliar space and culture. In the states, there is always thin line between nice men and creepy ones.
We stepped into a room furnished in one corner with a couch, loveseat and coffee table, and the others with rolls of rugs. The walls, like upstairs, were dressed with carpets and kilims, but this time arranged with a more tactful touch. I was invited to sit on the couch draped with furs, silks and textiles, and our çay arrived in the familiar “ince belli” glass with two cubes of sugar.
He flipped through a book of business cards and spoke of his high society costumers from all around the world. I learned that he shared this family business with an uncle and cousin, that he was excited to visit the states for the first time this December, and that Turkish oriental rugs is more than a job, but a passion.
He asked to show me his favorite rugs, and slowly unrolled one after another onto the wooden floor. One by one, he translated to me the patterns of the borders – tree of life, birds of prey, horns of ram. He pointed out the central themes and motifs – strength, fertility, fortune. He revealed to me the material and animal of which the rugs were weaved from – cotton, camel, sheep. Many other insights though, became lost to me through the Turkish language of rugs.
His eyebrow crinkled inward as he delved deeper into the history, and when he noticed my confused stare and blank nods, he would look up, smile and ask “do you think it’s beautiful?”
All the while, I let the black tea drain through my system and relax my senses, filling in English words that he stumbled on, smiling at his shy but obvious attempts to boast and noticing that outside, the afternoon was progressing to evening, the crowds were dispersing into restaurants, and the rendezvous time with my friends was quickly approaching. But I was not concerned, because inside, I was immersed in the most exotic world of ancient nomadic travels, camel woven rugs and Turkish hospitality.
When he thought I had enough, he sat down next to me, scanning over his kingdom of rugs, silently admiring and expecting me to do the same.
I admired with him, and I admired him.
When the silence became uncomfortable, but before I could try to make an escape back to the outside world, he stood up and again took my hand. “I have another room” was all he said as he led me again towards the back of the room, and down another long spiral stairway, deeper inside.
This time I could see nothing at the bottom of the stairs.
He let go of my hand and I heard him walk away. I stirred quickly out of my Istanbul dream: I was alone with a stranger, three floors down in a dark room...
Before my nerves and frightening thoughts could translate into a fleeing response, the lights flickered on from one corner to the other, illuminating an even more ancient world.
“Antiques” he said through his wide grin.
There was also a couch and table in the corner of this room, but we did not sit down. He led me gently by the shoulders, walking from rug to kilim. I saw reverence in his eyes, but only dull worn textiles on the wall. He touched the delicate embroideries as if he felt magic; I felt stiff and crusty wool and quickly pulled away. He traveled to Egypt to bid for that one, this one is in a rug book. Each is original and unique, the only one in the world. I nodded, smiled, told him they were beautiful, but I knew nothing of their beauty.
He forgave my ignorance.
Who knew that every moment I spend in Istanbul, I would become more in awe of this city. I fell in love the first night as we drove in from the airport. Through the dusty windows of our tour bus, I saw antiquity; I saw deteriorating brick walls; I saw mosques illuminated by an orange glow of the street lamps at every turn; I saw a city that did not sleep. I drifted in and out of slumber each morning to prayer calls, breathed in the scent of the Bosphorus, and stuffed myself with Turkish meats and delights. The merchants of the streets, with their trinkets and treats, made comedic remarks and indulged their visitors. The hills grew from both sides of the deep blue, sometimes turquoise colored Bosphorus, and all around, domes of the mosques and their minarets, remains of the Byzantine and Ottoman treasures, pierced through the hills and valleys of red tinted roofs.
And here, two long spiral stairways below ground, far removed from the exhausting city outside, calm and cool inside, I am drawn to a Turkish carpet man and his rugs.
He asked me to accompany him to Taksim Square that night. I took his business card as if I had a phone. He would be waiting there, in his rug and kilim shop, but I made no promises.
He drew me close and showed me a Turkish goodbye, his hands firmly on my shoulders and his lips lingering on my cheeks. I thanked him for the çay, walked up two spiral staircases and reentered the noise and commotion of the streets outside.
Inside the Egyptian Bazaar, a good five minute walk from his shop, I paused to let my thoughts catch up with me. Amidst the aroma of tea and spices I thought about rugs and kilims.
I walked outside onto the cobblestone square and the evening prayer rang from all sides. I closed my eyes as the breeze of the Bosphorus swept through my hair and the wings of the pigeons glided across my skin. I took a deep breath and salvaged the spices, the bodies, and the beef of the döner stands.
Outside, I was surrounded by a mystic Eastern melody, drifting from minaret to minaret, lifting me high where the seagulls hovered over the fishermen. Inside I was filled with content, but overwhelmed with longing to stay in this moment forever.
The prayer ended and I stood a moment, letting the three day dream of Istanbul and all its sensuous wealth wash over me before I crossed back over the Bosphorus to Bilgi Dorm.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Antiquity outside my window
Outside the window of Bilgi dorm, the tips of a mosque and its minarets are illuminated by a dull yellow light. These lights illuminate the city, casting antiquity and arousing a surreal feeling in my stomach. Just behind the mosque, I can barely make out shadows of stone buildings on a hill, with specks of the same yellow light. Below the window several stories is a tin roof, worn and patched, and below that, is a hole in the ground with a few thin boards thrown carelessly over it.
The alley way three stories down, illuminated by a single warm orange-hued light, is scattered with old chairs and rolled up rugs tossed in the corners. A few stories above, in the black of the night, a window shines with a blue tintd cold white light. The figures capped white gowns and white hats, rolls and pounds on a white lump of dough.
The outer layer of concrete sheds into an inner layer of bricks. Every wall here reflects the unkind aging of the city and dark marks of weather and pollution.
The city is calm, but alive at 3 in the morning. Not with flashing lights like Vegas, or with clicking of wine glasses like Italy, and not with a rumbling base of a techno beat like the beach bars along the Spree. The night is cool, and perhaps that is the reason why there are so many still out.
Along the bridge men and boys fish, their long slim poles arch over the dark still water. Beneath the bridge, a long line of colorful draperies flow with the morning breeze as women and men sit, chatting and sipping chai out of thin-waisted glasses. Old men blow smoke out of the colorful water pipes and brush their game pieces back and forth on the green velvet table top.
Along the bridge men and boys fish, their long slim poles arch over the dark still water. Beneath the bridge, a long line of colorful draperies flow with the morning breeze as women and men sit, chatting and sipping chai out of thin-waisted glasses. Old men blow smoke out of the colorful water pipes and brush their game pieces back and forth on the green velvet table top.
Would I be too Western or too cliché in feeling that I have stumbled upon an exotic jewel that is the orient? 
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Turkish Mosque in Berlin
The prayer hall is well lit by the sunlight through the stained glass windows on the dome. It is the brightest mosque I have ever seen. Oriental blue patterns and designs surround the pure white ceilings, as if the sky is outlining the clouds. A delicate gold and silver chandelier hangs from the center, like the sun rising into the sky. Columns around the dome hold up arches painted with red stripes like the trunks of a palm tree holding up its leaves beneath the sky. The green carpet is soft and luscious, fertile soil and rich green grass beneath my feet.
Here the mystic Arabic melody of her voice fills the mosque as she recites a part of the Quran. Like the golden calligraphy painted on the walls, it dances in unpredictable loops and curves, taking me the hand and lifting away my worries.
Under the luminescence of this dome, surrounded by serenity of these walls, I felt relaxed, refreshed and at peace with the world. If every world leader had such a glorious space to stop and think, to surround themselves with this woman’s voice, I could see the world being a better place.
And for me, if ever I wanted to be closer to God, here is the place I would wait for Him.
Stumbling Stones
In certain areas of the city, the sidewalks are scattered with small copper colored plaques about the size of my fist. These stumble stones are carved with names and dates, marking the location of where the homes of Nazi victims once stood and where their lives once flourished. Some of these stones are under newly erected apartment buildings, or next to high traffic roads where residents no longer lived. Some stand alone in a long stretch of sidewalk and some line up one after another, densely packed into a square block. At each site, it’s an exercise on the imagination to tear down the modern city layout and reconstruct a pre WWII neighborhood where these homes once stood.
Where today a plaque may be outside of a poorly fenced empty lot, overgrown with vegetation, the dynamics must have been quite different seventy some years ago. I want to imagine that the shrubberies were cut back from the old brick walls and the graffiti vanished. I would have liked the think that the streets were crowded with locals, tending to their own business, but without first stopping for a chat with a neighbor, or milkman, or barber. I want to feel the richness in diversity of this block through music, food and laughter. But these are my own selfish fantasies, created mostly to avoid thoughts about what happened when the owners of this land were forced to leave behind their homes. I dread thinking about how the streets of Berlin were cleansed and sterilized of those who were not of the Aryan Race, and how their properties may have been taken, pillaged, torn down, bombed, desolated, flattened, and left alone until the city was rebuilt, first after the war, then after the unification of Germany.
Although these stones are small and do not obstruct the path like an erected sculpture, knowing the meaning behind these stones draws the attention of passerbys. These small singular memorials are present in your everyday life. As you go about your daily tasks, walking to work…going to a party, when you stumble upon this small reminder that someone who once inhabited here endured one of the most unstomchable crimes in history, it pulls you closer to society. It is not just a reminder of the unfortunate events in German history. These small stones allow you to reflect on present. Who are we forcing out from their homes? What will we make disappear in our lifetime that will serve as a lesson, a warning, to the next generation? How will our actions today, as an individual or community change the social landscape around us?
These thoughts and others overwhelm me as I walk down the sidewalk of Berlin and come across a copper-colored plaque about the size of my fist.
Where today a plaque may be outside of a poorly fenced empty lot, overgrown with vegetation, the dynamics must have been quite different seventy some years ago. I want to imagine that the shrubberies were cut back from the old brick walls and the graffiti vanished. I would have liked the think that the streets were crowded with locals, tending to their own business, but without first stopping for a chat with a neighbor, or milkman, or barber. I want to feel the richness in diversity of this block through music, food and laughter. But these are my own selfish fantasies, created mostly to avoid thoughts about what happened when the owners of this land were forced to leave behind their homes. I dread thinking about how the streets of Berlin were cleansed and sterilized of those who were not of the Aryan Race, and how their properties may have been taken, pillaged, torn down, bombed, desolated, flattened, and left alone until the city was rebuilt, first after the war, then after the unification of Germany.
Although these stones are small and do not obstruct the path like an erected sculpture, knowing the meaning behind these stones draws the attention of passerbys. These small singular memorials are present in your everyday life. As you go about your daily tasks, walking to work…going to a party, when you stumble upon this small reminder that someone who once inhabited here endured one of the most unstomchable crimes in history, it pulls you closer to society. It is not just a reminder of the unfortunate events in German history. These small stones allow you to reflect on present. Who are we forcing out from their homes? What will we make disappear in our lifetime that will serve as a lesson, a warning, to the next generation? How will our actions today, as an individual or community change the social landscape around us?
These thoughts and others overwhelm me as I walk down the sidewalk of Berlin and come across a copper-colored plaque about the size of my fist.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Book Burning Memorial
Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen
Heinrich Heine, From his play Almansor (1821)
The book burning of 1933 is marked by a small square window into the underground in the middle of Bebelplatz. Without a crowd surrounding the small memorial, I would have easily walked over it without noticing. Even as I squeezed through the people to one corner of the memorial, the glare from the sunlight and shadows of the strangers around me made it difficult to make out anything beyond semi-translucent glass. When my eyes finally did adjust and focused passed the glass window beneath my feet, I could make out an empty square room surrounded all four sides by empty white book shelves.
The presentation was simple: here is the site where the Nazis displayed that its ideology cannot be challenged by erasing the lessons of history with flames. But the implications are great. What begins as a book burning to silence opposition, would end with the burning of millions of corpses that fell victim to the same Nazi ideology.
As Heinrich Heine stated almost a century before the Nazi book burning “Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings.”
Heinrich Heine, From his play Almansor (1821)
The book burning of 1933 is marked by a small square window into the underground in the middle of Bebelplatz. Without a crowd surrounding the small memorial, I would have easily walked over it without noticing. Even as I squeezed through the people to one corner of the memorial, the glare from the sunlight and shadows of the strangers around me made it difficult to make out anything beyond semi-translucent glass. When my eyes finally did adjust and focused passed the glass window beneath my feet, I could make out an empty square room surrounded all four sides by empty white book shelves.
The presentation was simple: here is the site where the Nazis displayed that its ideology cannot be challenged by erasing the lessons of history with flames. But the implications are great. What begins as a book burning to silence opposition, would end with the burning of millions of corpses that fell victim to the same Nazi ideology.
As Heinrich Heine stated almost a century before the Nazi book burning “Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings.”
Berliner Dom
No matter what color the sky is, from dim rainy gray to bright sunlit blue, the rustic cyan blue of the dome with its golden tips and crosses stands out from the rest of the cityscape… almost unnaturally. The antique baroque styled building with blackened walls shows that it has withstood weathering and time, but only to share the space with other much less impressive and more modern buildings. Instead of a three dimensional cathedral erected tall and majestically over the Spree river, the antiquated structure takes on a two dimensional feel. As if too grand and elegant to be real, the Berliner Dom looks like large painting, towering over Museum Island. Every time I pass either under the Dom or from across Unter den Linden, I stare at the magnificent structure and it fades from a piece of architecture to a painting, a tangible structure to a virtual image. And each time, I stand in awe and try hard to absorb is presence. 
Little girl show me your eyes
Speak English?
Are you tired little girl?
I see your rattled clothes and worn through shoes,
I see your dirty finger nails grasping that spoiled teddy bear,
I see your mangled hair hanging over your round little face,
But I can’t see you eyes.
Did someone wipe dirt on your checks?
Speak English?
Show me your eyes, little girl,
Then maybe I can sympathize.
Then maybe I would know that your shirt was not torn on purpose
And your pants were not stained for show
And that you are not someone’s façade for easy cash.
I don’t want to be a victim to your quick little fingers
I don’t want to feel unsafe with you around
Show me your eyes, little girl,
I want to sympathize.
Is that your mother there?
Pushing the tattered baby carriage over the cobblestone road?
With her flower-patterned skirt hung down to her ankles
And a black headscarf draped over her faded sports jacket,
Do her feet ache from walking in those slippers?
Does she feel the heat beating down over Berlin?
Where is your daddy?
Is that your little brother there?
Sleeping so still at this hour, in this heat, in this crowd in your mother’s arms?
Look at me little girl
And tell me your brother is not just an ornament to your mother’s veneer
Or my sympathy will turn to pity, will turn to disgust.
Show me your eyes, little girl.
Speak English?
Are you what they speak of?
Wandering nomads? Pests of society?
Or are you really the victim of neglect, discrimination and crushing poverty?
Please little girl, look me in the eye
And show me who you really are.
Are you tired little girl?
I see your rattled clothes and worn through shoes,
I see your dirty finger nails grasping that spoiled teddy bear,
I see your mangled hair hanging over your round little face,
But I can’t see you eyes.
Did someone wipe dirt on your checks?
Speak English?
Show me your eyes, little girl,
Then maybe I can sympathize.
Then maybe I would know that your shirt was not torn on purpose
And your pants were not stained for show
And that you are not someone’s façade for easy cash.
I don’t want to be a victim to your quick little fingers
I don’t want to feel unsafe with you around
Show me your eyes, little girl,
I want to sympathize.
Is that your mother there?
Pushing the tattered baby carriage over the cobblestone road?
With her flower-patterned skirt hung down to her ankles
And a black headscarf draped over her faded sports jacket,
Do her feet ache from walking in those slippers?
Does she feel the heat beating down over Berlin?
Where is your daddy?
Is that your little brother there?
Sleeping so still at this hour, in this heat, in this crowd in your mother’s arms?
Look at me little girl
And tell me your brother is not just an ornament to your mother’s veneer
Or my sympathy will turn to pity, will turn to disgust.
Show me your eyes, little girl.
Speak English?
Are you what they speak of?
Wandering nomads? Pests of society?
Or are you really the victim of neglect, discrimination and crushing poverty?
Please little girl, look me in the eye
And show me who you really are.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Asian identity in Berlin
More often than not, I am aware of my “Asian identity,” and have been accused for carrying the label too bluntly. I carry this label to set myself aside from the crowd and use it to express a point of view different from the norm of the western world I live in. In high school I felt lonely as one of the only few Asians in my white school, and clung closely to anyone who looked and acted more like me. In college, I found that I can become easily invisible in the sea of straight black hair and brown eyes, and always tried to sit as far from the Asian crowds as possible. In each case, I’ve use my Asian identity to filter my surroundings and influence my actions.
When I’m traveling though, I travel as an American: with my American passport, casual American attire, and sometimes, though I try hard to avoid it, an American tourist attitude. My parents used to tell me that it was safer to travel as an American; that the American life is worth more than the Chinese life. Every American life endangered or lost in a foreign country has a name reported in the news, but there are just too many Chinese people for the Chinese embassy/government to take notice of.
How things have changed, especially in the last decade, now the American identity does not ensure safety. My dad, working in Afghanistan, sometimes carries his Chinese passport around with him through the streets of Kabul, even though it is long expired.
Never the less, when I am traveling, I travel as an American.
In Berlin, more so than almost any other country I have visited (Ecuador, UAE, France, Italy...), I feel that my American identity has been challenged, maybe even over shadowed by my physical appearance. This question of who I am in Berlin, or more accurately, who Berliners think I am, has continually resurfaced during my stay here.
Psycho Christian homeless person
The first somewhat social interaction I had in Berlin was with a thin shaggy haired, shaggy bearded man, waving around a bible and proclaiming angrily (in German and broken English) God’s merciless plans for those who do not accept Him. Stepping off the train into Hauptbahnhoff late in the evening after most of the food courts were closed and people were sparse, this man approached me speaking German and flaring his arms. Tired and a little frightened, not knowing what he wanted, I tried to smile, shook my head and turned to head off the other way. He ran after me screaming “ni hao ma.” I was a shocked, but turned around and said hello to be friendly.
“Buddhist?” he asked a few times, before I understood what he was saying.
“No, Christian.” I said, starring at his bible. I am not really Christian.
“Nein, Nein… Buddhist!” He yelled, in a most disgusted way
“I am not Buddhist, I …love God…” I reinserted, as I frantically looked for the exit.
“Nein, Nein! You must turn to God for salvation!” More angry German words followed as I scrambled away.
Besides being overwhelmingly frightened for my life, I also had a different uneasy feeling. It wasn’t a new feeling, it was definitely something from my past, but it was not immediately recognizable. I thought about how strange it was that he wouldn’t believe my false claim as a Christian. I wondered if there were many Buddhist in Germany, or why he even brought that up in the first place. I thought that he was probably just crazy and drunk. But for some reason, the fact that maybe the assumption was made because I was Asian never came up in my head that day. I traveled with my American passport, spoke my English, and maybe I just momentarily forgot what I looked like to everyone else.
Construction men and Japanese
I am amused by how little clothes construction men wear here in Berlin and Eastern Europe. I wonder how they don’t burn their bare backs laying tiles on the roofs, and how they don’t rip up their bare shoulder carrying around lumber and metal construction materials.
One evening close to dinner time, I walked passed a group of topless construction workers wearing very small shorts each with a beer in their hands. Upon seeing me, one yelled “konnichiwa,” and the rest joined in. My immediate thought was: what a bunch of ignorant men, I don’t even look Japanese. I yelled back annoyed, “not Japanese!” and walked away.
Their tone was definitely not that of a typical group of bored young men, standing around the street, whistling and cat calling to anything with legs walking by. Their greeting sounded friendly and harmless; maybe just excited for the opportunity to practice their Japanese phrase. So thinking about that later in the evening, I felt that perhaps my response had been rude and unjustified. I had felt labeled and labeled incorrectly by a group of strange foreigners, but why did I feel so offended? When did I become so sensitive to labeling?
Children
It’s amazing how many occurrences I’ve had with little kids of running passed me screaming “ni hao ma.” Sitting on a bench along the Spree across from the Berliner dome reading, walking through Alexanderplatz trying to catch up with the rest of the group, sitting in a museum, sun bathing near the fountain under the TV tower, each time I become a little less surprised by the Chinese greeting spoken by little German children followed by giggling.
It makes me think of when we meow at cats and bark at dogs, as if we are communicating something to them.
Asians in a group
I don’t see groups of Asians walking together on the streets of Berlin during the day or chilling at a bar late at night. I don’t see many Asians at all. This gives me a strange feeling when I am out only with the “Asians” of the program. We see ourselves as a group of Americans, but I think I can tell that the passengers on the U-bahn may be confused by our combined presence.
We mention it every once in a while, in our “Asian” group, wondering what Germans think about us, or what Germans think about Asians in general. We’ve asked about it every once in a while, with Germans we meet at social events, most notably Steffan (Sam’s friend). But the responses have been ambiguous.
Do they think we’re loud and annoying? Like a herd of Asian tourists that obscure the view of monuments and sites? Are there traces of yellow fever here in Berlin? Are there popular spot where young Asians like to gather?
Group reaction to yet another “ni hao ma”
2 Koreans, 1 Vietnamese and a Chinese walked into Burger King in Alexanderplatz. When addressing the server in perfect American English, what does the she say?
She greets us all too confidently with “ni hao ma,” and smiles a huge smile.
All 4 Asians are left speechless and stunned. One Korean responds timidly… “I’m not Chinese…” then quickly asks her question “… is there free refills?”
Pretty hilarious… especially since I think all of us felt something odd and uncomfortable.
I think it’s been a long time since that has happened to any of us, especially living in and around Seattle. Most people I meet at home will make sure they know what I am before attempting anything cute like that. I think many of us even felt that in Seattle, that could have been offensive. But we’re in Berlin, and now we may understand a little bit more about how we “Asians” are perceived in this global city.
Reflection
It must be confusing for others to categorize Americans. Even as Americans, we try so hard to define the American identity to include everyone of all different backgrounds. Perhaps seeing a group of Asians, the first instinct of many is not that they are America, even if they are jabbering in English. But many of us, some who are 2nd, 3rd or 4th generation Asians can longer identify with our ancestral heritage. We belong to a new identity that is always changing, “Asian-Americans,” and who knows what that is. In the states, Seattle especially and safe in the UW campus, we don’t have to contemplate our identity as much on a daily basis. Here though, there are jarring reminder in the streets of Berlin that we are still associated by physical appearance with our Asian ancestors, or maybe just to Chinese people, whether we want to be or not.
When I’m traveling though, I travel as an American: with my American passport, casual American attire, and sometimes, though I try hard to avoid it, an American tourist attitude. My parents used to tell me that it was safer to travel as an American; that the American life is worth more than the Chinese life. Every American life endangered or lost in a foreign country has a name reported in the news, but there are just too many Chinese people for the Chinese embassy/government to take notice of.
How things have changed, especially in the last decade, now the American identity does not ensure safety. My dad, working in Afghanistan, sometimes carries his Chinese passport around with him through the streets of Kabul, even though it is long expired.
Never the less, when I am traveling, I travel as an American.
In Berlin, more so than almost any other country I have visited (Ecuador, UAE, France, Italy...), I feel that my American identity has been challenged, maybe even over shadowed by my physical appearance. This question of who I am in Berlin, or more accurately, who Berliners think I am, has continually resurfaced during my stay here.
Psycho Christian homeless person
The first somewhat social interaction I had in Berlin was with a thin shaggy haired, shaggy bearded man, waving around a bible and proclaiming angrily (in German and broken English) God’s merciless plans for those who do not accept Him. Stepping off the train into Hauptbahnhoff late in the evening after most of the food courts were closed and people were sparse, this man approached me speaking German and flaring his arms. Tired and a little frightened, not knowing what he wanted, I tried to smile, shook my head and turned to head off the other way. He ran after me screaming “ni hao ma.” I was a shocked, but turned around and said hello to be friendly.
“Buddhist?” he asked a few times, before I understood what he was saying.
“No, Christian.” I said, starring at his bible. I am not really Christian.
“Nein, Nein… Buddhist!” He yelled, in a most disgusted way
“I am not Buddhist, I …love God…” I reinserted, as I frantically looked for the exit.
“Nein, Nein! You must turn to God for salvation!” More angry German words followed as I scrambled away.
Besides being overwhelmingly frightened for my life, I also had a different uneasy feeling. It wasn’t a new feeling, it was definitely something from my past, but it was not immediately recognizable. I thought about how strange it was that he wouldn’t believe my false claim as a Christian. I wondered if there were many Buddhist in Germany, or why he even brought that up in the first place. I thought that he was probably just crazy and drunk. But for some reason, the fact that maybe the assumption was made because I was Asian never came up in my head that day. I traveled with my American passport, spoke my English, and maybe I just momentarily forgot what I looked like to everyone else.
Construction men and Japanese
I am amused by how little clothes construction men wear here in Berlin and Eastern Europe. I wonder how they don’t burn their bare backs laying tiles on the roofs, and how they don’t rip up their bare shoulder carrying around lumber and metal construction materials.
One evening close to dinner time, I walked passed a group of topless construction workers wearing very small shorts each with a beer in their hands. Upon seeing me, one yelled “konnichiwa,” and the rest joined in. My immediate thought was: what a bunch of ignorant men, I don’t even look Japanese. I yelled back annoyed, “not Japanese!” and walked away.
Their tone was definitely not that of a typical group of bored young men, standing around the street, whistling and cat calling to anything with legs walking by. Their greeting sounded friendly and harmless; maybe just excited for the opportunity to practice their Japanese phrase. So thinking about that later in the evening, I felt that perhaps my response had been rude and unjustified. I had felt labeled and labeled incorrectly by a group of strange foreigners, but why did I feel so offended? When did I become so sensitive to labeling?
Children
It’s amazing how many occurrences I’ve had with little kids of running passed me screaming “ni hao ma.” Sitting on a bench along the Spree across from the Berliner dome reading, walking through Alexanderplatz trying to catch up with the rest of the group, sitting in a museum, sun bathing near the fountain under the TV tower, each time I become a little less surprised by the Chinese greeting spoken by little German children followed by giggling.
It makes me think of when we meow at cats and bark at dogs, as if we are communicating something to them.
Asians in a group
I don’t see groups of Asians walking together on the streets of Berlin during the day or chilling at a bar late at night. I don’t see many Asians at all. This gives me a strange feeling when I am out only with the “Asians” of the program. We see ourselves as a group of Americans, but I think I can tell that the passengers on the U-bahn may be confused by our combined presence.
We mention it every once in a while, in our “Asian” group, wondering what Germans think about us, or what Germans think about Asians in general. We’ve asked about it every once in a while, with Germans we meet at social events, most notably Steffan (Sam’s friend). But the responses have been ambiguous.
Do they think we’re loud and annoying? Like a herd of Asian tourists that obscure the view of monuments and sites? Are there traces of yellow fever here in Berlin? Are there popular spot where young Asians like to gather?
Group reaction to yet another “ni hao ma”
2 Koreans, 1 Vietnamese and a Chinese walked into Burger King in Alexanderplatz. When addressing the server in perfect American English, what does the she say?
She greets us all too confidently with “ni hao ma,” and smiles a huge smile.
All 4 Asians are left speechless and stunned. One Korean responds timidly… “I’m not Chinese…” then quickly asks her question “… is there free refills?”
Pretty hilarious… especially since I think all of us felt something odd and uncomfortable.
I think it’s been a long time since that has happened to any of us, especially living in and around Seattle. Most people I meet at home will make sure they know what I am before attempting anything cute like that. I think many of us even felt that in Seattle, that could have been offensive. But we’re in Berlin, and now we may understand a little bit more about how we “Asians” are perceived in this global city.
Reflection
It must be confusing for others to categorize Americans. Even as Americans, we try so hard to define the American identity to include everyone of all different backgrounds. Perhaps seeing a group of Asians, the first instinct of many is not that they are America, even if they are jabbering in English. But many of us, some who are 2nd, 3rd or 4th generation Asians can longer identify with our ancestral heritage. We belong to a new identity that is always changing, “Asian-Americans,” and who knows what that is. In the states, Seattle especially and safe in the UW campus, we don’t have to contemplate our identity as much on a daily basis. Here though, there are jarring reminder in the streets of Berlin that we are still associated by physical appearance with our Asian ancestors, or maybe just to Chinese people, whether we want to be or not.
Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe
The first few steps into the memorial made perfect sense to me. The narrow path was straight, the sightlines were long, and I can see across the vast plain of grey blocks to the horizon framed by pastel colored buildings glowing from the sunset. The rows were clean, the paths were linear, and everything was orderly and predictable.
A few steps further, I began to descent in elevation. Or were the walls around me growing taller? I lost sight of the group of school children and their laughter became distant and removed. The pink horizon of the apartment buildings sank slowly behind the sea of gray and the dark stones reached upward towards cloudless red sky. The rolling cobblestone path lay before me, empty and serene, enticing me to crawl deeper. The tips of my fingers glided across the cold stone walls and guided me onward.
I caught slivers of other visitors and their shadows through the breaks in the stone rows and though I knew I was not alone, I felt separated from all that I was familiar to. The stones were now far over my head, dulling the commotions of the busy streets, slowing me down and challenging me to stop. To feel.
This would make a good playground to climb on and jump from block to block. It would make a good maze to play hide-and-go-seek in. If I was down here, busy running through the path and you were up there looking down at me, could I hide from you? Could you hide from me? Would I know you were looking for me? Hunting me? You can orient yourself by the edges of this stone garden, but I would have no idea where I am… there are no points of reference down here. How do I know I am running from you and not into you? I know there are others in here, but I cannot find them.
The rows were no longer parallel, their intersections no longer perpendicular. The stone blocks no longer stood vertically but caved in down towards me. They slanted and snaked and deceived me from my straight path. The path rolled up and down, carrying me through and I no longer steered.
The narrow breaks between stones only gave me slices and slivers.
A little girl with a yellow hat ran passed, I turned to catch the red glow of the sunset illuminating behind her shadow before she disappeared. Her footsteps echoed and her laughter lingered.
Who was she?
Is she running from what I am running from?
Should I run after?
Is she running from me?
Berlin Scenes and Impressions
Berlin is not beautiful like Paris, or magnificent like Rome, but it has many faces and that is its charm. Its identity is carved into the domes of ancient churches, graffitied in public spaces, and reinvented by contemporary artists eager to bring the city foward from its troubled past.
Many structures still standing in Berlin have withstood extreme political and social ideologies, endured the decades of war and its aftermath, and suffered tragic defeats that lead to years of foreign occupation. Some have fallen admist of the confusion and conflicts of men only to be rebuilt to symbolize a new Germany. Others have fallen at more civil times, and the space of its empty void awaits for new architect and plan.
Memory, remembrance, nostalgia, preservation, education, national symbols, German identity.
These are the stories told by the streets of Berlin and the trail of paving stones that interrupt the sidewalk. These are the stories of a country that fell one too many times on the wrong side of history.
These are the stories told by the streets of Berlin and the trail of paving stones that interrupt the sidewalk. These are the stories of a country that fell one too many times on the wrong side of history.
But Berlin, what do your stories mean to me?
Assignment #1: Buy a Journal in Berlin
I did not buy a journal in Berlin. I brought one with me from the Pacific Northwest. It is purple to show my Husky spirit in Europe. I always make sure to carry journal with me wherever I travel, some of my very best works have been on trips.
When I was seven , we took a road trip and drove my grandparents from Tuscan to the L.A. airport. I wrote in my first journal about the "overwhelming sadness that drowned my heart" as I watched the plane “Air China” sour into the clouds "taking away the only people I loved". Along with the crayon sketches of me looking sadly out a window at a rainy world, it made my kindergarten teacher cry.
When I was 15, inspired the movie Election I saw on the plane to Florida, I wrote a speech on the plane ride back that got me elected as class president.
Freshman year in college, heart broken by a recent break up, I wrote a poem professing my never ending love while canoeing down a river in the Ecuadorian Amazon. The poem never made it to my high school sweetheart , but I’m sure it would have rekindled his affection for me and he would have taken me back if my journal hadn’t fallen out of my bag… as I was fighting off a caiman in the middle of the night.
Here in Berlin, I have great hopes for this journal. I hope the right words will find its way and fall neatly onto the college ruled FIVE STAR® notebook. I hope that my sentences will be touching and lyrical and form stories that will make everyone at home jealous of my time abroad. Most importantly, I hope that something I write will be worthy of the praise of Shawn Wong.
When I was seven , we took a road trip and drove my grandparents from Tuscan to the L.A. airport. I wrote in my first journal about the "overwhelming sadness that drowned my heart" as I watched the plane “Air China” sour into the clouds "taking away the only people I loved". Along with the crayon sketches of me looking sadly out a window at a rainy world, it made my kindergarten teacher cry.
When I was 15, inspired the movie Election I saw on the plane to Florida, I wrote a speech on the plane ride back that got me elected as class president.
Freshman year in college, heart broken by a recent break up, I wrote a poem professing my never ending love while canoeing down a river in the Ecuadorian Amazon. The poem never made it to my high school sweetheart , but I’m sure it would have rekindled his affection for me and he would have taken me back if my journal hadn’t fallen out of my bag… as I was fighting off a caiman in the middle of the night.
Here in Berlin, I have great hopes for this journal. I hope the right words will find its way and fall neatly onto the college ruled FIVE STAR® notebook. I hope that my sentences will be touching and lyrical and form stories that will make everyone at home jealous of my time abroad. Most importantly, I hope that something I write will be worthy of the praise of Shawn Wong.
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