Ausländer – sozialer Brennpunkt – Hauptschule
(Foreigners – socially disadvantaged neighborhood – secondary school)
Deutsche – Gentrifizierter Kiez – Master’s Degree
(Germans – Gentrified neighborhood – Master’s Degree)
Both lines ring true when I think of my history here in Germany.
It took me almost all of my life to claim myself as German and to feel some sort of acceptance with the word “German” because most of my life, I was marked by others.
My family and I were called “Ausländer.” From abroad, different, non-white—ultimately a slur to mark immigrant non-Germans. While the slur wasn’t shouted at me full frontal, it happened in subtle ways. Whether I was asked if I was adopted by classmates in elementary school, whether my name was deemed difficult to pronounce by my teachers, whether people would react surprised about my accent-free German: everyday, I have been reminded that I don’t belong, that I am different. Although born and raised here, I had to actively give up my Vietnamese citizenship and simultaneously apply for a German one to become German. Years earlier, I was in 12th grade and in preparation for a school trip with my English class, I realised my Vietnamese documents were a bureaucratic hurdle in receiving a visa to visit London. Everywhere I looked, me being other seemed frustrating and inconvenient. You start to think that you are inconvenient.
Recently, when I was researching the blue and green skyscrapers in my hometown where we used to live, I came across an article that spoke about the street and skyscrapers as “Sozialer Brennpunkt,” which is the German equivalent for “ghetto.” These neighborhoods were deemed socially disadvantaged and poor and dangerous. It feels a bit peculiar to me that it is seen that way, as I never felt like it was dangerous or disadvantaged to live there. While we lived in the only skyscrapers far and wide, the neighboring squares and youth centers were a big playground filled with joy and hope for me. Despite the fear of deportation, I also have positive memories of the whole quarter. So, up until a few weeks ago, I didn’t realize that I was growing up in a “Sozialer Brennpunkt”. Yes, maybe there were more migrants and refugees, but I didn’t feel unsafe. Interestingly, that’s how others see the housing block that I called home.
Once the skyscrapers were demolished, we had to move and were assigned a new apartment in the city center. Moving was somewhat traumatic for me as I had to switch elementary schools and acquaint myself with new teachers and classmates. I had just finished the first half of my third grade and while I had an incredible and supportive environment in the first years of my school experience, the new surroundings felt like the opposite. From the beginning, I felt like my new classroom teacher Mrs. S., who also happened to be our math teacher, disliked me. Whenever I had questions about our homework, she gave me the impression that I was a nuisance. My perfect grades and my positive self-confidence dropped immediately. I was discouraged, frustrated, and started being embarrassed. In front of my parents, I tried to hide my lower grades. One year later, when the recommendation letters for the secondary school came in, it was recommended that I go towards the Hauptschule. In Germany, after four years in school, children are categorised and put into different education tracks–Hauptschule, Realschule, and Gymnasium. Out of all three class systems, I was suggested to go to the Hauptschule—the lower secondary level school which ends after year 9.
Hauptschule is the low potential teachers have for you because they assume you can’t even reach tenth grade. Thus, as a nine-year-old, I was told that I wouldn’t be able to pass a high school diploma, that I shouldn’t even think of university. That it would be “really, really difficult if I don’t start an apprenticeship immediately after grade 9.” After fourth grade, I told my parents that I wanted to try the Realschule instead, to at least reach grade 10 and to continue higher education.
Despite being a Vietnamese “Ausländer,” growing up in a so-called Sozialer Brennpunkt and getting a recommendation letter for the Hauptschule, I went on to the Realschule, finished 10th grade, advanced to the Gymnasium to receive my Abitur (my high school diploma), finished 13th grade, and then, later, earned not only one, but three university degrees. Half of my teachers signaled to me that I wouldn’t be able to make it at the Gymnasium, that I wouldn’t make it to university. They had no vision and saw no potential in me. I resisted them and believed in myself.
All of these terms—Ausländer – sozialer Brennpunkt – Hauptschule—can be alienating, because individualism was never granted to us. We immigrants all belonged together. Not to the white majority, but all of us immigrants lumped into one pile, one kind of term, one kind of housing, one kind of school, far away from them, excluding us from opportunities, resources and privileges.
Reflecting on these instances in a time when fascist rhetoric returns and the German chancellor and his party feed into a divisive sentiment—it was late last fall when Friedrich Merz said that there is a problem in the image of the city, an incredibly hurtful and appalling, but not surprising opinion—it is tough to not despair and fall prey to polarising statements. Instead of trying to find commonalities and bring people together, his remarks continue dividing people further. With far-right rhetoric given free press, it becomes clear that the far-right doesn’t even have to govern over our country for it to become more conservative and right-leaning.
However, it’s small everyday interactions that make me feel hopeful:
When I step into the Vollkornbäckerei (German for whole grain bakery) at seven in the morning, buy myself a cashew seed roll for breakfast, and an elderly female employee and I wish each other a great day ahead; through a quick search, I find out that the owner came from Iran as a student and his son has been taking over the bakery, yet, the Iranian bake master still bakes the organic, mostly vegan bread in Lichtenberg, East Berlin today.
This, too, is my Germany.
When, an hour later, I focus on my breathing and lift weights as I listen to the hymn of Qendresa, a U.K. artist, born and raised to Kosovar Albanian parents; it’s an upbeat playlist that my queer Black friend from the U.S. curated for our sports community; he has been living here for more than ten years and calls Berlin home.
When I laugh with my two teammates after the gym workout; one of them was born in Korea, but raised in Spain, the other one is Kurdish and born in Berlin.
When I pass by the drugstore and pay for my tea and the Muslim woman acknowledges me.
When I hear Caribbean music playing from a car stereo through the open doors of the balcony of our co-working space.
When I look around and sit next to my women of color and Black colleagues and friends when I am working from our office in Kreuzberg.
When I head to the Turkish joint for my lunch break and order a Köfte sandwich, a 1993 recipe that was passed down by the owner’s immigrant mother.
When I take a stroll through the neighborhood and step into the feminist book shop and greet a queer migrant sales clerk.
When I head home for dinner and on my walk home stop by the Vietnamese grocery store and exchange a “Chào chú. Chú khỏe không ạ?” with the uncle there, asking how he’s doing, if his singing skills improved—naturally, he has a microphone in his hand to sing karaoke and pass his downtime between customers.
When I call my own Bố to check in on him and share that I am currently applying for full-time jobs. Both elders reminding me: “Cố gắng lên” which can mean “Give it your best” and “Keep going.”
This, too, is my Germany.
I think in only one day, here in Berlin, I get to interact with seven to eight Germans with migration backgrounds, and I wouldn’t want to miss that. It makes me feel safer, feel seen and it makes life so much more rich and diverse. All of our perspectives make up what Germany and especially what Berlin is today.
All of these small instances make me feel like I belong. And for the fact that all of us, all of our parents and their parents helped rebuild this country, indeed we do.
After obtaining these markers I once believed would grant me more belonging, becoming German, living in a gentrified neighbourhood deemed safer, earning a master’s degree which seems to open up more opportunities, maybe after all, being German wasn’t what I was looking for, but truly belonging to a vibrant community that celebrates our differences.
Thị Minh Huyền Nguyễn is a Berlin-based writer and designer working across fashion and the visual arts. Her work appears in: Vogue Germany, Konfekt Magazine, Daddy Magazine, Friends of Friends and diaCRITICS (DVAN). (Photo by My Nguyen).
