I wasn’t really politically aware, let alone articulate, but I could tell this was special. In front of bars, hanging from balconies, clipped onto cars: black, red, and gold. At every triumph the flags multiplied, with each round the fever rose and whenever the ball rolled into the back of the net, the whole country sighed in harmony: “Ahh, finally, the right to be proud again.”
It was 2006, Germany’s turn to host the FIFA World Cup. Back then, I saw heroes not football players. My heart thumped out of my brittle chest as I watched athletic drama unfold for the first time in my life. Germany matched Portugal in their final game to decide who would earn bronze. Facing the likes of Deco, Figo and Ronaldo, it was never going to be easy. After a goalless first half, German starboy Bastian Schweinsteiger received the ball, cut in from the left, float it past a defender and bang!
Before we knew it, Germany led 3-0, and with ten minutes to go, the game was pretty much over. Baba and 3amo wanted to see the celebrations. We jumped in the car. I remember chants echoing through tunnels, traffic, and horns blaring rhythms out of tune. There was a blur of white kits and red faces in every direction. Flags dragging through sweaty air. Beer on our windshield. Glass shattering all around. On my side though, tears were running down my cheeks. I hated it. My parents had taken me to overwhelming celebrations before, but this one didn’t feel happy. I didn’t feel nice and I wanted to go home.
It used to take very special occasions like these for scales to be tipped in Germany. The most momentous and symbolic occasion of this kind, backed by Gorbachev and soundtracked by the Scorpions, was the fall of the Berlin Wall or the German Reunification in 1989. After a 45-year-long time-out, Germany could be Germany once again. Stories about this event are often accompanied by nostalgic images of heartfelt embraces and crowds atop the crumbling wall peering excitedly into a limitless future.
That said, these stories rarely mention the spike in xenophobic attacks that started with the reunification of the country and that ended with the reduction of asylum seeker rights in 1993. Barely anyone speaks of Sept. 17, 1991, when right-wing members attacked a hostel housing Mozambican workers in Hoyerswerda. Hardly anyone remembers the riots in Rostock a year later where housing for Vietnamese workers were set alight. No one honors the three Turkish residents murdered in a firebombing in Möllln the same year. No one knows what’s left of the Turkish family’s house that was burnt to the ground shortly after, injuring fourteen, and killing five. And the list goes on. The fall of the Berlin Wall was a crucial occasion, but it had its consequences.
As I write, this same Germany is hosting the Euros. Under normal circumstances you would find me as one of thousands lost in a cheering crowd. But those normal circumstances are gone. Festivities kicked off on June 14. Exactly five days after far-right party Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) came second with 15,9% in the last EU elections. What is “just football” has become a month-long free pass to exercise justified and timely nationalism. Even if I were to go watch a game, statistically speaking more than 1/8 of the country’s citizens would rather I, an immigrant of color, stayed home (wherever my home is in their mind).
The recent EU elections really were the icing on a stale and moldy cake that is recent German politics. Whether it is Germany’s unwavering support for a criminal government (read: Israel) or the rise of fascist parties, immigrants are always first to condemn it. We sit around for hours shaking our heads and looking into the distance with disappointment. Do we have to leave Europe soon? Is it because of our skin color? Did you see the recent headline? We go around in circles and the same conversations stuck in our jaws. Here’s the chasm: If Germany is defined by values I do not hold, I am not German. If I am not German, I am not responsible for Germany’s actions. Quite handy, just like when I watched Germany playing football growing up. All I did was point at the screen and loftily claim: “I would’ve scored that.” The reality is that we are not spectators. We are players and the game is passing by us.
For German politics to be our concern, we need to identify, at least slightly, as German. That itself is a difficult task. Growing up surrounded by other immigrants, German, or Alman, identity was never attractive. Being Alman means eating cold dinners, policing your neighbors, and religiously sticking to waste separation protocols. I knew these were just idle tropes, but there were other tropes I would rather identify with. It felt as if Germany never wanted me to be German anyway, and so, I did my thing, and they did theirs.
However, if I am German, that is one more German that stands for Palestine. It makes one more German that knows our responsibility to protect refugees. It makes one more German eating dinner late, warm rice and hot stews. Deciding to be German transfers responsibility and a statistic that matters. Maybe it shouldn’t be this way, but sometimes it is.
The point is then to find a new meaning to being German. The German shame project has not worked. Historically, Germany has not had the time to develop national pride based on positive cultural notions. The result then is a patriotism that is centered more on the non-German than the German. It relies on xenophobia to delineate its own cause and manifests in dangerous ways, from the firebombings in the ‘90s to the most recent elections. Instead, I’d rather rely on a kind of Germanness that is fun to be a part of, like the one I felt the first time I tried on Lederhosen (a traditional piece of clothing associated with Bavaria). A Germanness that comes in different colors and flavors and that is united by its historic responsibility to do good in this world. The solution is first creating our own version of German and then being it.
This requires a brainstorm. I am currently looking out of a window in Mehringplatz in central Berlin. To my right, a kebab spot, guarded by a slick group of boys, curly hair peeking from under their baker boy caps. To my left, elderly women drinking their tea in a U-formation, allowing the boys to be their illusionary guardian until each is called to dinner by their respective diminutives. In front of me are two men, one wearing a keffiyeh, the other wearing glasses, building a pyramid of sunflower seed shells. This is the Germany I know, this is the Germany within which my wondrous childhood took place, and this is the Germany I want to share with people, whether they’re German or not.
The captain of Germany’s team, Gündogan, and playmaker Musiala have migration backgrounds. Rüdiger’s mother came to Germany from Sierra Leone, and he grew up playing on Neukölln’s concrete pitches. They are all ballers, all international and they are all German. This text is not another plea for natives to tolerate what they think are aliens. On the contrary, it is an invitation for any immigrant anywhere to claim the space around them. A reminder that your experience of the nation around you is not just valid but an essential aspect of the country’s sense of self. A lot needs to happen and a lot needs to change. If you won’t be German, then who will be?
