Today I went back to the Refugee Protest Camp. About six weeks ago, I decided to find out more about the collection of tents occupying a public park in a fancy area of town. I found out that it's called Refugee Protest Camp Hannover: part refugee camp, part political movement.
On that gloomy Saturday at the end of January, nobody was home in the camp. And in my post about it, I promised you I'd return. I know what you were thinking: 'of course she won't go back, she'll get distracted and move on to posting more about Germans wearing scarves.' It seems like I would give up, since we've established that I would make a really bad investigative reporter. Last time I was too shy to try knocking on the tent flaps.
Well, doubting readers, you are wrong.
I remembered the camp and I went back there today, bearing groceries. What does one eat while camping in a city park for months on end? Last time, I saw some kind of hot plate rigged up there, but not a refrigerator. And the people in the camp are from Sudan - I certainly was not going to bring sausages or frozen pizza or cheesy puffs. I don't know if they'd even like cheesy puffs. So I got apples, carrots and a bag of rice.
This time there was no need to knock on tent flaps. Two guys were sitting in the main tent facing the street, just waiting for visitors like me to awkwardly ask them questions in German. There are about 25 Sudanese men who have been living in the camp for the last nine months. They are there because Sudanese people have no official refugee status in our state of Niedersachsen. Therefore, they have no right to work and no way to receive public assistance. But it's not safe or smart to go home. Therefore, they wait and try to draw attention to their cause. The guy I talked with told me that the group has had two meetings with the state government, but with no real results. They must keep waiting.
If I were a real investigative journalist, I would have asked how the group survives if they can't work legally. I didn't. I wasn't sure how to make that a comfortable question to ask. I truly hope that the men in this camp, like undocumented people in my country, have found work despite their status.
I handed over the food I had brought and kept chatting with one of the men in our mutually clumsy German, while the other one pulled out his iphone. I know not to wonder too much about the iphone - of course you need a phone and internet access to lead a political movement, and it's not like these guys have a computer or a TV or an ipod or a land line. It just made me realize that I truly am one of the last people in the world without a smart phone.
Will the state award the Sudanese refugee status or not? I have no idea, but I hope so. As I left, I wished the guys at the table good luck.
I just wonder whether I should have brought along some cheesy puffs.
A book recommendation:
If you are interested in the experience of Sudanese refugees and haven't read it yet, I highly recommend What is the What by Dave Eggers.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Green grass, blues music
Yes, it's a cliché, but the grass may just be greener on the other side of the fence. Or maybe on the other side of the ocean.
Fact: The grass actually is greener in Hannover. It doesn't snow much and there are no frigid temperatures to kill the grass and turn it brown. In the winter it's just a pleasantly dormant pale green.
Weather and lawn care aside, the whole greener grass saying comes to mind a lot on the days that Brian and I reminisce about life in Minnesota. How much do we trust ourselves to remember the good along with the bad and the mundane? When does happy nostalgia take over?
Let's consider this week's exhibit of greener grass: live music.
Fact: The Twin Cities have a vibrant local music scene. There are a lot of famous bands that come from Minnesota and on any night of the week, you can find good live music at venues large and small.
Hannover seems to have mostly big, expensive concerts in big, expensive stadiums. It's rare to find a bar that just happens to have a band playing that night. It's something we like to complain about.
Of course, when we lived in St. Paul, did we go to a ton of live music shows? Of course not. Or at least not as many as we should have. We took it for granted, like great restaurants and 10,000 lakes and cheese curds.
Maybe the grass really was greener and we were busy mowing the lawn.
On Thursday night, we may have found our answer. We went to Tante Minchen's. That name translates as something like Aunt Mindy's (I kind of made up the Mindy part of the translation, but it fits). Tante Michen's is not much bigger than our apartment. It has a stage at the front and a long bar and dim lighting. There are live bands there a few nights a week, with no cover charge.
"This is the place we have been looking for," Brian said, as we listened to a blues act called Deep Down South.
A word on the blues in Germany: The only reason we gave this band a chance was that the singer is from the U.S. I don't even trust a white man to sing the blues right, much less one from Germany. With great social programs and not a lot of rhythm, how can a German really get the blues? Luckily for us, blues man Greg Copeland is a black guy from the South. This gives him automatic coolness points in Germany. His guitarist is a white German, but he played well and wore sunglasses the whole time, so that was ok.
Other than the waitress and a music fan sitting by the bar, we were easily the youngest members of the audience. We sat next to the only other people who were clapping during the songs and singing along and cheering. That's how we knew that they were Americans too. The woman's name is Sydney Ellis, and she's also a musician. Her husband, with wavy gray hair flowing down his back, is her guitar player. They told us that Germany is a great place for musicians to live, if you can get over how the audiences behave. They sit and listen respectfully, then applaud after each song as if listening to classical music. The last time we saw an American band in concert, the lead singer said into his microphone that it was like "performing in front of a firing squad". I think he spoke fast enough in English that most people didn't understand. They just clapped politely.
So score one for Hannover. Tante Minchen's is a place that could almost fit in if it were in St. Paul. Though it would help a lot if they served cheese curds...
Fact: The grass actually is greener in Hannover. It doesn't snow much and there are no frigid temperatures to kill the grass and turn it brown. In the winter it's just a pleasantly dormant pale green.
Weather and lawn care aside, the whole greener grass saying comes to mind a lot on the days that Brian and I reminisce about life in Minnesota. How much do we trust ourselves to remember the good along with the bad and the mundane? When does happy nostalgia take over?
Let's consider this week's exhibit of greener grass: live music.
Fact: The Twin Cities have a vibrant local music scene. There are a lot of famous bands that come from Minnesota and on any night of the week, you can find good live music at venues large and small.
Hannover seems to have mostly big, expensive concerts in big, expensive stadiums. It's rare to find a bar that just happens to have a band playing that night. It's something we like to complain about.
Of course, when we lived in St. Paul, did we go to a ton of live music shows? Of course not. Or at least not as many as we should have. We took it for granted, like great restaurants and 10,000 lakes and cheese curds.
Maybe the grass really was greener and we were busy mowing the lawn.
On Thursday night, we may have found our answer. We went to Tante Minchen's. That name translates as something like Aunt Mindy's (I kind of made up the Mindy part of the translation, but it fits). Tante Michen's is not much bigger than our apartment. It has a stage at the front and a long bar and dim lighting. There are live bands there a few nights a week, with no cover charge.
"This is the place we have been looking for," Brian said, as we listened to a blues act called Deep Down South.
A word on the blues in Germany: The only reason we gave this band a chance was that the singer is from the U.S. I don't even trust a white man to sing the blues right, much less one from Germany. With great social programs and not a lot of rhythm, how can a German really get the blues? Luckily for us, blues man Greg Copeland is a black guy from the South. This gives him automatic coolness points in Germany. His guitarist is a white German, but he played well and wore sunglasses the whole time, so that was ok.
Other than the waitress and a music fan sitting by the bar, we were easily the youngest members of the audience. We sat next to the only other people who were clapping during the songs and singing along and cheering. That's how we knew that they were Americans too. The woman's name is Sydney Ellis, and she's also a musician. Her husband, with wavy gray hair flowing down his back, is her guitar player. They told us that Germany is a great place for musicians to live, if you can get over how the audiences behave. They sit and listen respectfully, then applaud after each song as if listening to classical music. The last time we saw an American band in concert, the lead singer said into his microphone that it was like "performing in front of a firing squad". I think he spoke fast enough in English that most people didn't understand. They just clapped politely.
So score one for Hannover. Tante Minchen's is a place that could almost fit in if it were in St. Paul. Though it would help a lot if they served cheese curds...
Friday, February 27, 2015
Scuba school
It's hard for me to think of the word scuba without thinking of scuba instructor Claude from the movie Along Came Polly (if you don't know what I'm talking about, click on the link - it's just a 30 second clip).
As Claude would say, we were for scuba.
I had chosen our hotel because it had a dive center next door. But on Monday morning, a man with a scuba sign picked us up and started driving, and driving and driving. It's a funny feeling not knowing where you are headed, in a vehicle driven by someone who does not speak any language you do, in a country where you don't feel entirely safe. We were also about to try an activity where we could get attacked by sharks, drown, or at least explode our lungs.
On that first day of scuba, we just watched DVDs. It was very secure. The scuba place near us was short-staffed, so they had taken us to another location. We saw movies of happy people blowing bubbles, confidently checking their air levels and making the ok hand signal while watching fishies.
Brian and I took our quizzes and figured this thing would be a breeze. We barely studied the text books. The next day we realized that learning to scuba dive is hard.
Our instructor, Saef, is half Egyptian and half Finnish. He recently served a couple of years in the Finnish military. True to his training, Saef had us assembling our equipment, safety checking it, re-assembling it, repeat. He had us connecting hoses and fastening weight belts like a Finn would clean his rifle before skiing away to fight the Russians.
As soon as we put on our wetsuits, I realized that those happy people blowing bubbles were lying. Day 2 was cold, cloudy and stressful. How do I get all the water out of my mask? How do I keep from floating up? What is that hand signal for lunch break (there isn't one, drill seargeant).
It didn't help that Brian and I were the dumbest people in our group. There was Tim, a 14 year old German boy who had watched all the DVDs at home, twice, and had been studying for weeks. There was Ron, a Dutch physical therapist, who handled it all with the composure of a man who speaks five languages and would not be rattled by sharks, terrorists, or salt water up his nose.
On the morning of day 3, I woke thinking of regulators and emergency ascents and taking my mask off underwater. We were supposed to do our first real dive off the boat. I had butterflies (or guppies?).
But when we arrived it all fell apart. It was too windy to take the boat out and Saef was home sick. (We learned from the DVD that if you are congested, the pressure underwater can blow out your ear drums). Instead we had Mahmoud. If Saef ran our lessons with military precision, Mahmoud ran them like a middle school gym teacher - content to roll out a few balls and let you run with them. While gym teachers use a whistle, Mahmoud had a bell. When he wanted our attention, he rang the bell. When we did something wrong, he rang the bell. When we rose too high or sank too low, he rang the bell. We swam out from the shore to a reef for our first two dives. I was remembering to breath, stay with the group, stay at the right depth and avoid getting the bell rung at me... I forgot to look at the fish.
Each time we dove (there were four), it got a little easier, I floated a little better, and the bell rang a little less often. By the end of day four, I had cuts on my feet, a bruise on my nose (from the mask, not from shark attack) and wetsuit chafing on my wrists. I was salty and cold, but I was the humble owner of an open-water dive certification card. It had been a lot more difficult than grabbing a tank and jumping in to blow bubbles.
Claude wasn't there on the beach to task "are you for scuba?".
But if I ever find him, now I can say yes.
As Claude would say, we were for scuba.
I had chosen our hotel because it had a dive center next door. But on Monday morning, a man with a scuba sign picked us up and started driving, and driving and driving. It's a funny feeling not knowing where you are headed, in a vehicle driven by someone who does not speak any language you do, in a country where you don't feel entirely safe. We were also about to try an activity where we could get attacked by sharks, drown, or at least explode our lungs.
On that first day of scuba, we just watched DVDs. It was very secure. The scuba place near us was short-staffed, so they had taken us to another location. We saw movies of happy people blowing bubbles, confidently checking their air levels and making the ok hand signal while watching fishies.
Brian and I took our quizzes and figured this thing would be a breeze. We barely studied the text books. The next day we realized that learning to scuba dive is hard.
Our instructor, Saef, is half Egyptian and half Finnish. He recently served a couple of years in the Finnish military. True to his training, Saef had us assembling our equipment, safety checking it, re-assembling it, repeat. He had us connecting hoses and fastening weight belts like a Finn would clean his rifle before skiing away to fight the Russians.
As soon as we put on our wetsuits, I realized that those happy people blowing bubbles were lying. Day 2 was cold, cloudy and stressful. How do I get all the water out of my mask? How do I keep from floating up? What is that hand signal for lunch break (there isn't one, drill seargeant).
It didn't help that Brian and I were the dumbest people in our group. There was Tim, a 14 year old German boy who had watched all the DVDs at home, twice, and had been studying for weeks. There was Ron, a Dutch physical therapist, who handled it all with the composure of a man who speaks five languages and would not be rattled by sharks, terrorists, or salt water up his nose.
On the morning of day 3, I woke thinking of regulators and emergency ascents and taking my mask off underwater. We were supposed to do our first real dive off the boat. I had butterflies (or guppies?).
But when we arrived it all fell apart. It was too windy to take the boat out and Saef was home sick. (We learned from the DVD that if you are congested, the pressure underwater can blow out your ear drums). Instead we had Mahmoud. If Saef ran our lessons with military precision, Mahmoud ran them like a middle school gym teacher - content to roll out a few balls and let you run with them. While gym teachers use a whistle, Mahmoud had a bell. When he wanted our attention, he rang the bell. When we did something wrong, he rang the bell. When we rose too high or sank too low, he rang the bell. We swam out from the shore to a reef for our first two dives. I was remembering to breath, stay with the group, stay at the right depth and avoid getting the bell rung at me... I forgot to look at the fish.
Each time we dove (there were four), it got a little easier, I floated a little better, and the bell rang a little less often. By the end of day four, I had cuts on my feet, a bruise on my nose (from the mask, not from shark attack) and wetsuit chafing on my wrists. I was salty and cold, but I was the humble owner of an open-water dive certification card. It had been a lot more difficult than grabbing a tank and jumping in to blow bubbles.
Claude wasn't there on the beach to task "are you for scuba?".
But if I ever find him, now I can say yes.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
The bucket list, the desert, the Russians
This latest trip resulted from a bucket list discussion.
I am generally opposed to the term 'bucket list'. It comes from the phrase 'kick the bucket', which comes from Middle Age suicide and/or pig slaughter. Yikes. But that's not the point. Here we are talking about the list of those things you would like to do, see, or try some day, before you kick the bucket. Several months ago, Brian added "learn to scuba dive" to his list.
Several internet searches later, we booked a trip to Hurghada, Egypt. This, we decided, was the ideal budget destination for a four day diving course, because there is nothing else to do. We wouldn't be missing out on anything except maybe getting lost in the desert and/or abducted by terrorists. And we were right.
Remember those movies where you see a group of nomads riding camels through the desert, with nothing on the horizon but more rocks and sand? And finally, they see an oasis in the distance. Instead of a mirage, it turns out to be a swim-up bar full of sunburned Russians.
Hurghada is just like that. Except our hotel did not have a swim-up bar.
Normally, Brian and I are not all-inclusive resort tourists. We are more like nothing-at-all-included tourists, so we felt a little out of place. But the price was right and the reef was waiting. Our low-rent resort had around 70% Russians, 29.5% Germans, and us. I had never seen so many Russians before. They are like American or British people who go to cheap resorts, except they drink more vodka. The Russians at our place were a little loud, a little fat, and a lot sunburned. A few had Putin t-shirts, and one couple even brought their own Russian flag to hang from the balcony.
In a political sense, it's funny to have Russians and Germans mingling together at the lunch buffet. Their governments are not exactly getting along. For the most part the Russians and Germans seemed to stay out of each others' way. But Brian told the bartender he should wear a light blue UN helmet, since he was keeping the peace while mixing mai tais.
We were just lucky that other people were staying in our hotel. We passed a lot of resorts that were half-built and abandoned, and visited a few that seemed to have more staff than guests. Tourism is down in Egypt these days, and even the camels are out of work.
I am generally opposed to the term 'bucket list'. It comes from the phrase 'kick the bucket', which comes from Middle Age suicide and/or pig slaughter. Yikes. But that's not the point. Here we are talking about the list of those things you would like to do, see, or try some day, before you kick the bucket. Several months ago, Brian added "learn to scuba dive" to his list.
Several internet searches later, we booked a trip to Hurghada, Egypt. This, we decided, was the ideal budget destination for a four day diving course, because there is nothing else to do. We wouldn't be missing out on anything except maybe getting lost in the desert and/or abducted by terrorists. And we were right.
Remember those movies where you see a group of nomads riding camels through the desert, with nothing on the horizon but more rocks and sand? And finally, they see an oasis in the distance. Instead of a mirage, it turns out to be a swim-up bar full of sunburned Russians.
Hurghada is just like that. Except our hotel did not have a swim-up bar.
Normally, Brian and I are not all-inclusive resort tourists. We are more like nothing-at-all-included tourists, so we felt a little out of place. But the price was right and the reef was waiting. Our low-rent resort had around 70% Russians, 29.5% Germans, and us. I had never seen so many Russians before. They are like American or British people who go to cheap resorts, except they drink more vodka. The Russians at our place were a little loud, a little fat, and a lot sunburned. A few had Putin t-shirts, and one couple even brought their own Russian flag to hang from the balcony.
In a political sense, it's funny to have Russians and Germans mingling together at the lunch buffet. Their governments are not exactly getting along. For the most part the Russians and Germans seemed to stay out of each others' way. But Brian told the bartender he should wear a light blue UN helmet, since he was keeping the peace while mixing mai tais.
We were just lucky that other people were staying in our hotel. We passed a lot of resorts that were half-built and abandoned, and visited a few that seemed to have more staff than guests. Tourism is down in Egypt these days, and even the camels are out of work.
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| BYO flag |
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| The "animation team" (summer camp counselors) leading water aerobics |
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There were lots of hotels that never got finished... |
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Snowflakes and Hollywood
The snow was falling in Berlin last week. It didn't stick much but reminded me how a real winter feels.
For a couple of days in February each year, I get a glimpse of the movie business. I was visiting my Hollywood friend, who had just flown in from LA. to be a part of the film market that happens during the Berlinale film festival. She sells movies (and she will, to protect the innocent, remain nameless).
They are all very friendly, these film sales people. All very smiling and hand-shaking and 'have I met you yet?'. Of course they hadn't, and didn't need to. I was just an intruder. These same people see each other, in various countries, several times a year. This time, I had barged in on their traveling club of selling, buying, negotiating, wining and dining and incessant talking.
Hollywood Friend and I had almost forgotten about the movie business on a snowy evening, as we got lost taking the bus across town. The snowflakes drifted down while we walked past chunks of the Berlin Wall, speculating which streets were most full of history. The streets now seemed full of expats and hipsters and families wrapped tightly in puffy coats. There are so many languages spoken, in Berlin sometimes you almost forget you're in Germany.
The next day, after smiling handshaking cocktail hour, my Hollywood Friend and her movie coworker told me they were perplexed. They just couldn't figure out the German film buyers. While most meetings with buyers from most countries are filled with pleasantries and catch phrases and light laughter, with Germans the conversations often reached a dead end. She was worried about this, like she was missing a cue, and couldn't see why the Germans wouldn't (like everyone else) want to find out that you liked to ski too, and how are your kids, and wasn't that a great hotel breakfast.
I told her not to worry. This sounds like something a German, upon meeting you in a work situation, might do. They are not your friends and don't plan to be. They are usually nice people, but they are not going to ask where you bought your shoes or rave about a film they have not yet seen. I haven't done business with Germans, but I would imagine that even movie people in Germany do not gush. Gushy is not a word that describes Germans.
Do they realize that this scares people from LA? My Hollywood Friend understands that she can't close deals with buyers from certain countries because she is a woman, she slips easily into French and Italian, she can tell which clients need to be left alone. But she is rattled when the Germans seem so disinterested in buying what they came to buy, and even less so in building a relationship with the person selling it. Of course, I wonder what they think of the movie sellers...
As the snow fell on Potsdamer Platz in Berlin, I watched tourists take photos beside a painted chunk of concrete that used to divide the city in two. I remembered that it is not quite like any other city I know. It's a little disjointed and stitched back together, making it a place full of edges and interesting little corners, where something might happen as soon as you turn around.
At the Ritz-Carlton, there were a lot of deals being made. I have no explanation for why the Germans would seem so chilly in these business meetings. Except that they just are that way sometimes.
I left the club of film sellers and buyers, zipped up my coat and enjoyed the last few snowflakes in Berlin.
For a couple of days in February each year, I get a glimpse of the movie business. I was visiting my Hollywood friend, who had just flown in from LA. to be a part of the film market that happens during the Berlinale film festival. She sells movies (and she will, to protect the innocent, remain nameless).
They are all very friendly, these film sales people. All very smiling and hand-shaking and 'have I met you yet?'. Of course they hadn't, and didn't need to. I was just an intruder. These same people see each other, in various countries, several times a year. This time, I had barged in on their traveling club of selling, buying, negotiating, wining and dining and incessant talking.
Hollywood Friend and I had almost forgotten about the movie business on a snowy evening, as we got lost taking the bus across town. The snowflakes drifted down while we walked past chunks of the Berlin Wall, speculating which streets were most full of history. The streets now seemed full of expats and hipsters and families wrapped tightly in puffy coats. There are so many languages spoken, in Berlin sometimes you almost forget you're in Germany.
The next day, after smiling handshaking cocktail hour, my Hollywood Friend and her movie coworker told me they were perplexed. They just couldn't figure out the German film buyers. While most meetings with buyers from most countries are filled with pleasantries and catch phrases and light laughter, with Germans the conversations often reached a dead end. She was worried about this, like she was missing a cue, and couldn't see why the Germans wouldn't (like everyone else) want to find out that you liked to ski too, and how are your kids, and wasn't that a great hotel breakfast.
I told her not to worry. This sounds like something a German, upon meeting you in a work situation, might do. They are not your friends and don't plan to be. They are usually nice people, but they are not going to ask where you bought your shoes or rave about a film they have not yet seen. I haven't done business with Germans, but I would imagine that even movie people in Germany do not gush. Gushy is not a word that describes Germans.
Do they realize that this scares people from LA? My Hollywood Friend understands that she can't close deals with buyers from certain countries because she is a woman, she slips easily into French and Italian, she can tell which clients need to be left alone. But she is rattled when the Germans seem so disinterested in buying what they came to buy, and even less so in building a relationship with the person selling it. Of course, I wonder what they think of the movie sellers...
As the snow fell on Potsdamer Platz in Berlin, I watched tourists take photos beside a painted chunk of concrete that used to divide the city in two. I remembered that it is not quite like any other city I know. It's a little disjointed and stitched back together, making it a place full of edges and interesting little corners, where something might happen as soon as you turn around.
At the Ritz-Carlton, there were a lot of deals being made. I have no explanation for why the Germans would seem so chilly in these business meetings. Except that they just are that way sometimes.
I left the club of film sellers and buyers, zipped up my coat and enjoyed the last few snowflakes in Berlin.
Friday, February 6, 2015
The anti-Barbie, or why you can't buy a tankini in Germany
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| Lammily |
I honestly hadn't thought about body-image issues for a long time. But then I met with the German mother of an anorexic student. It wasn't about getting her treatment or anything - I am not that kind of counselor. She wanted to find out more about how her daughter could apply to U.S. universities. But then this attractive 50-ish woman told me how much she has learned from her daughter's illness. She said that now she can recognize how it looks - the control, the lack of confidence, the new reality the girl builds for herself - she sees it all over town.
And I thought body image issues were just an American problem. I guess I assume that unhealthy complexes and pop culture pandemics all come from Barbie and Coca-Cola and Hollywood.
I confess: I have never been on a diet. I realize that this is not normal. I do exercise an unusual amount, getting antsy and short-tempered if I can't move around enough. And, due to a permanent bulge in my middle, I have been asked three times whether I was pregnant. That was awkward. If it happens a fourth time I'll tell you all about it.
In my old job, I used to go into the jail and the hospital drug treatment unit, making sure not to expose any unnecessary skin and gaining a new appreciation for the full coverage of scrubs and head scarves. It was a nurse in scrubs who once looked me up and down as she buzzed me on to the chemical dependency floor who greeted me with "I hate skinny people." I thought about responding with "I hate fat people." But it would not have been true, and that would have been politically incorrect. I think me and my skinny legs just kept walking.
Working around teenagers does make me rethink my outfits. While I don't wish for scrubs any more, I do sometimes wonder if anyone will notice that my pants are from 2008. There are few creatures on Earth more fashionable than teenage girls with money. There are few people more observant, and more honest, than kids.
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| German Barbie in dirndl |
I guess Barbie has her niche here in the land of blue eyes, long blonde hair and lower rates of obesity. It's not so crazy to think that some German girls want to look like her.
Barbie also has a dirndl in her closet.
Will Lamilly and her normal-sized thighs beat out Barbie in hair-pulling cat fight to become the doll of the future? I know one grandmother-in-waiting who sure hopes so.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Hannover's peace camp
Shortly after writing about my first protest and the campus peace camp of my college years, I noticed that Hannover has a peace camp of its own. On Weißkreuzplatz, at the end of the swanky Lister Meile shopping street, several big tents are standing in the mud. I saw some banners flying and the sign "Refugee Protest Hannover". Did Hannover have its own refugee camp? Right in the nice part of town?
So I decided to go back, take my camera, and talk with the people at the camp to find out why they were there.
This is a good example of why you should not hire me as an investigative journalist.
As bold as I may try to sound in my blog posts, I'm a little shy when it comes to knocking on a tent flap. I walked around the camp and took some photos, but I didn't see anybody. No one was making food, or walking to the portable toilet, or talking in the makeshift meeting room tent. It was cold outside so people were probably in their tents. Maybe they were sleeping. I didn't know and I was hesitant to invade whatever privacy they might have, camping outside along a busy street.
Ok, I guess I was a little shy.
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| Paragraph 23 (on the signs) is the regulation the protesters want to change |
But when I got home, with nothing to show for my trip but a few photos, I found the Refugee Protest Camp Hannover website. They may have no legal status and no solid walls, but they have a website and a blog and a bank account.
The people in the camp are from Sudan, but they are not refugees. The state of Niedersachsen (Hannover is its capital), decides which countries are unstable enough that their people cannot safely return. Sudan is not on that list, so Niedersachsen does not grant refugee status to the Sudanese. The camp is meant to draw attention to that issue, and get Niedersachsen to amend its laws. That would give the Sudanese in Hannover legal status and a right to work.
Not everyone who shows up at the protest camp just wants to say hello. One night in December, two tents were burned to the ground. I'm sure the city is not happy that the camp is there either, but it has been allowed to remain, ever since May 2014.
As I did a little more internet research, I saw an announcement that the Refugee Protest Camp Hannover was giving a presentation today in Berlin. Maybe nobody was home in those tents after all. I do plan to go back, maybe with some snacks for the protesters. I have more questions, like are Sudanese considered refugees in other states in Germany? Has anyone been granted asylum? How come they are allowed to protest and is anyone going to be deported? And who do they think started the fire?
I'll be sure to let you know what I find out, once I get up my nerve to knock on the tent flap and ask.
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About Me
- Julia
- Thanks for coming to my blog. It started as a way to keep in touch with family and friends, and now has become an ongoing project. I'm an American living in Germany and trying to travel whenever I can. I write about my experiences as an expatriate (the interesting ones and the embarrassing ones), and about my travels. There are some recurring characters in this blog, particularly my husband Brian and several of our friends. The title comes from the idea that living in a foreign country means making a lot of mistakes. So the things you used to do easily you now have to try over and over again. Hopefully, like me, you can laugh at how idiotic it feels. If you have happened upon my blog, then welcome. Knowing that people are reading what I write makes me keep going. Feel free to write comments or suggestions for future posts.