Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 94. He was born at the eve of the Third Reich, served in the Hitler Youth as required by law, and even lived through the Battle of Berlin. Growing up he watched his fatherland go to war against its own people, Europe, and the world, only to collapse into ruin.
Already as a child my father dreamed of going to America, insisting to one of his teachers he had already been there. It was only after studying at the University in his native Kiel, then in Switzerland, and across the English Channel at Oxford and Cambridge, that he crossed the ocean to America as a post-doctoral student of English to see for himself what the land of opportunity had to offer.
He left behind a divided Germany, though as a professor of German he faithfully returned every year to offer his students fresh reports from über dem großen Teich—across the big pond.
(Source: Ellis Island Foundation)
Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 94. He was born at the eve of the Third Reich, served in the Hitler Youth as required by law, and even lived through the Battle of Berlin. Growing up he watched his fatherland go to war against its own people, Europe, and the world, only to collapse into ruin.
Already as a child my father dreamed of going to America, insisting to one of his teachers he had already been there. It was only after studying at the University in his native Kiel, then in Switzerland, and across the English Channel at Oxford and Cambridge, that he crossed the ocean to America as a post-doctoral student of English to see for himself what the land of opportunity had to offer.
He left behind a divided Germany, though as a professor of German he faithfully returned every year to offer his students fresh reports from über dem großen Teich—across the big pond. My father would ultimately become a specialist of East German post-war Lyrik which encompassed the poetry, prose, and theater of Volker Braun, Heiner Müller, Wolf Biermann, Christa Wolf, and Bertolt Brecht among others, and send his students behind the Iron Curtain to see it for themselves, much to the dismay of their parents.
“Because things are the way they are,
things will not stay the way they are.”
― Bertold Brecht
My father’s love for art led him many years ago to purchase a white porcelain Seagull suspended over a wave—Möwe auf Welle—from the esteemed Meissen factory that still operated behind the Iron Curtain and remains active to this day as the oldest porcelain factory in Europe.
After my father died, that bird flew into my house and served as a welcome reminder of the man who not only led me behind the Iron Curtain but also encouraged me as a college student to visit the divided space of Israel and Palestine.
This week the wings of that lovely bird carried it to its death, thrust to the floor in my library by pounding on the wall during siding installation. Following the crash, I stood there heartbroken to see its wings shattered, this once lovely reminder of my father in pieces. It was then that I realized the wholeness it represented, the hope, the possibility of taking flight. Those now forever shattered wings inspired the poem below.
My father’s love for art led him many years ago to purchase a white porcelain Seagull suspended over a wave—Möwe auf Welle—from the esteemed Meissen factory that still operated behind the Iron Curtain and remains active to this day as the oldest porcelain factory in Europe.
After my father died, that bird flew into my house and served as a welcome reminder of the man who not only led me behind the Iron Curtain but also encouraged me as a college student to visit the divided space of Israel and Palestine.
This week the wings of that lovely bird carried it to its death, thrust to the floor in my library by pounding on the wall during siding installation. Following the crash, I stood there heartbroken to see its wings shattered, this once lovely reminder of my father in pieces.
It was then that I realized the wholeness it represented, the hope, the possibility of taking flight. Those now forever shattered wings inspired the poem below.
His love for art led him many years ago to purchase a white porcelain Seagull suspended over a wave—Möwe auf Welle—from the esteemed Meissen factory that still operated behind the Iron Curtain and remains active to this day as the oldest porcelain factory in Europe. After he died, that bird flew into my house and served as a welcome reminder of the man who not only led me behind the Iron Curtain but also encouraged me as a college student to visit the divided space of Israel and Palestine.
This week the wings of that lovely bird carried it to its death, thrust to the floor in my library by pounding on the wall during siding installation. Following the crash, I stood there heartbroken to see its wings shattered, this once lovely reminder of my father in pieces. It was then that I realized the wholeness it represented, the hope, the possibility of taking flight. Those now forever shattered wings inspired the poem below.
Through my numerous travels to Palestine and Israel over my lifetime, I have seen division only deepen and separation only solidify in this contested space. I have even seen Israel’s Apartheid Wall—now in its 20th year—go up in the middle of the road in Abu Dies, cutting off Palestinian communities from each other, and from Israelis and the world.
(Photo: Christa Bruhn)
Also today another Palestinian boy died, this time not from an Israeli bullet, but rather from a wall (not The Wall) of a home that collapsed on him as he helped dismantle it at the orders of the Israeli authorities due to lack of a building permit Palestinians almost never secure.
(Photo: Christa Bruhn)
Also today another Palestinian boy died, this time not from an Israeli bullet, but rather from a wall (not The Wall) of a home that collapsed on him as he helped dismantle it at the orders of the Israeli authorities due to lack of a building permit Palestinians almost never secure.
Imagine having to destroy your own home lest you be charged thousands of Shekels for the authorities to demolish it for you. This house, one of thousands demolished, this boy one of thousands killed. When will the misery end?
Also today another Palestinian boy died, this time not from an Israeli bullet, but rather from a wall (not The Wall) of a home that collapsed on him as he helped dismantle it at the orders of the Israeli authorities due to lack of a building permit Palestinians almost never secure.
Now all I can think is when the Israeli Wall will fall and how. Will it come down as discretely and silently as the Berlin Wall went up 60 years ago or in full celebration like when it fell 28 years later? Will it give cause for celebration on both sides? I can only hope…
on November 9, 1989 (Source: TZ.de)
Imagine having to destroy your own home lest you be charged thousands of Shekels for the authorities to demolish it for you. This house, one of thousands demolished, this boy one of thousands killed. When will the misery end?
Now all I can think is when the Israeli Wall will fall and how. Will it come down as discretely and silently as the Berlin Wall went up 60 years ago or in full celebration like when it fell 28 years later? Will it give cause for celebration on both sides? I can only hope…
on November 9, 1989 (Source: TZ.de)
Shattered Wings
Maybe we were flying
too fast,
Forgot to pause
to land
to rest.
We were confident
our wings would carry us
Ever forward
Ever higher
Even when the air
became too thin.
Driven, we carried on
Hopeful
Confident
What could go wrong?
They never failed me,
Why would they?
Aren’t wings meant to fly?
And yet,
War has a way
of taking over the landscape,
fueling fury,
an energy that brings us down
face-to-face
but not in Love.
Our madness meanders
through us,
defaces
those before us,
Us
Them
is all we see,
sharp divisions
that cut into the soul,
hard healing
when the wound remains open.
Now we fly
into each other’s faces
full of self-righteousness.
I am the Chose One,
how could I be wrong?
You wandered into my land,
you Wandering Jew.
Maybe I could have welcomed you
if you came to rest among us.
Now my body toils the land
and the loss, a heavy burden.
How much can I carry
and how long?
Can’t you carry your fear
like a child, with tenderness,
a sense of hope?
Must you cross me
with every step?
You and I could fly
if we stop
cutting each other’s wings.
They are not lizard tails
that grow back easily.
Each feather,
a lonesome quill,
when united
on the dove of peace
takes flight,
shifts our gaze overhead.
How magnificent!
We stand in awe
of what is possible
when we,
birds of different feathers,
flock together.
Can we be brave,
defy division,
rearrange our meager molecules
into one?
Or can we only scramble
our senses
into senselessness?
Such a sorry sight.
Instead, let us soar
high above ourselves
come to our senses,
savor
what has always been
possible
between us,
Peace
rising out of the pieces
of our broken hearts.
