June Chua
*names and certain details have been changed to protect privacy*
I arrived jittery and a little embarrassed. This was my first Sprachcafé and after 10 years in Berlin, I had yet to experience one.
Es mir peinlich, I would continually say over the years. Yes, it’s embarrassing that after a decade here, my ability to speak fluently is limited regardless of the countless language courses I had taken, including private lessons.
My main excuse was that I was earning money by utilizing my extensive English skills, so I had little motivation to fully immerse. The icing on this Cake of Excuses is that I consoled myself with the idea that I landed alone and had ‘made it’ on my own.
Now, I just feel ridiculous and needed to upgrade my speaking level, at least I could discuss daily topics with my Nachbarn?
When I arrived, the four long tables were quite full. Each table would consist of one or two fluent speakers, some were “real Germans” (!), surrounded by eight “Auslanders,” of varying abilities, backgrounds, and attitudes.
Ibrahim was already seated when I arrived. He was probably over 60 and had kind eyes. I felt he was a regular here.
He turns to ask, Woher kommst du?
Upon learning I’m Canadian and that I also speak French, we continue auf Franzoische.
I find out he’s from Syria and has been here as long as I have, arriving with the thousands who came to escape his country’s war. I inform him that I had visited his country many moons ago. I list places: Damascus, Crac de Chevaliers, Palmyra, Hama, and Aleppo and mention that I took local buses. One of the other participants called me brave.
We speak of the magnificent souks and the open, friendly people.
Die Leute, he murmurs with his hand on his heart.
Yes, I concur. Beautiful, giving, and wonderful people.
I recall especially the short, moustachioed tablecloth seller who could recite all the Canadian provinces, their capitals, and could tell me about our prominent politicians. We spent an hour having tea in his cosy shop in Aleppo’s ancient souk. He told me how much he wanted to emigrate to Canada.
I ask where exactly he’s from.
Ibrahim looks down and gasps, breathing heavily, mumbling. He can’t quite breathe.
The others fall silent as well. We wait.
In a raspy whisper, tears in his eyes, each precious syllable released:
Da – mas – cus.
***********
Before the first language café, I had taken a short course in Everyday German with five other women: two Koreans, a Russian, a Mexican, and one American, who looked delighted when I said I was Canadian.
Stella is in her 70s and moved from the US to Berlin with her husband only a year ago. We got to know one another after class, and I met her husband as well. They had made plans to leave before the 2024 elections as the situation was already deteriorating. Stella and Ben are Democrats and fully cognizant of everything happening in their country and the world. They read widely and followed certain political writers.
At one of our meetups, Ben sported a T-shirt emblazoned with the Palestinian flag. They were both activists, Ben having been the shop steward of his union at work. I discovered they had left three children and five grandchildren in the US and asked if they planned to visit regularly.
No way, she injected quickly. We are not crossing back. Who knows what the government will do to us? They will have to come visit us in Germany.
So, you are spending the rest of your years here?
Definitely. It’s scary over there and we’re afraid for the rest of the world, too, said Ben.
My mother escaped the Nazis in Germany as a child, divulged Stella. And here I am, escaping American ones!
She looked at me with beaming eyes. So, we’re on your side!
I smiled. Relieved.
This couple who seem like the kind of leisure retirees I spot everywhere in Europe are, elder punks.
***********
By my fifth Sprachcafé, I was starting to feel a bit more comfortable trying out different locales.
Amir had hurried in a bit late and grabbed the chair next to me. He was a ball of energy, already engaging the other men in quick introductions all auf Deutsch. I could hear his fluency. I stiffened, doubtful I could meet his level.
In German, I learn he’s Afghani, in his mid-20s, and has only been here two years. He would be doing his C1 test this Friday. Gulp. He is a true striver, and I had no doubt he’d do well.
When learning that I came from Canada, he mentioned an uncle who had migrated more than 20 years ago and was a policeman in my hometown, Calgary.
That was surprising, I rarely meet anyone in Germany who mentions Calgary, located near the Rockies. Apparently, his uncle is doing well.
Then, he mentions he finds Germany racist.
Nevertheless, the terrible fates of life and geopolitics have landed him here and he’s determined to make it. It is a matter of survival.
I asked about his life in Afghanistan. He replied it was good and feels frustrated by the constant news depictions of strife and dangers in his homeland.
I told him I decided to move here 10 years ago. I came alone and make work doing English content. I’m also creating my first collection of poetry. My family still live in Canada, and I have a partner here.
And, what of your family?
I am alone here, he reveals.
Where are your family. In Afghanistan? I inquire.
His eyes are slightly downcast as he discloses, he doesn’t have parents nor siblings in Afghanistan.
Es tut mir so leid.
Words in any language seem so cheap.
June Chua used to read stories out loud to her little sister when her family lived in Borneo, Malaysia. Eventually, they moved to the Canadian prairies, first living in a trailer. This passion for the written word has translated into a 25-year career in journalism, filmmaking, and communications. Her works have appeared in Tough Poets Review, Yin Literary, Burningword, Palisades Review, pocolit.com, Back Where I Came From and The Best of Rabble in addition to Chatelaine magazine, the Toronto Star, and The Globe & Mail. Living in Berlin since 2015, she’s currently working on her first prose and poem collection supported by a literary grant. @re.juneration
Inter-Asian Berlin Anthology 