When you thought of Germany, you imagined Benz and Volkswagen. You thought of the fridge in your parents’ kitchen, tall and older than you, a wedding gift from your grandfather. Every year, when he visited home for Christmas, he brought chocolates, especially the ones with peanuts, your favourite. You knew there were places different from where you came from, places where snow covered the streets and people had pale skin. But Germany was the first place you would discover, through the lens of your grandfather, who convinced you during his brief visits that the country he lived in was heavenly.
Your admiration for Deutschland was pure. For the longest time, you dreamed of seeing this heaven. While your friends were eager to study in English-speaking countries, your mind was set on Germany. You had heard that German was difficult to learn, but how hard could it really be? You defended your choice stubbornly.
On the day you got your visa, you walked from the embassy to the nearest bus station, your jeans too tight and too dark for the hot afternoon sun. Sweat trickled down your back, but the weight of that little booklet in your hand made it worth it. You cried tears of joy.
You arrived in Germany during one of the coldest winters in years. Even the locals complained. For you, it was unbearable. Numb toes, numb fingers, numb ears. A runny nose from the kind of cold you had never known before. Eyes tearing up just from the wind. Your grandfather had told you it would be cold, but he should have been more specific.
It was neat and beautiful, but it was not heaven. You saw people dressed mostly in black, folding themselves against the wind, hands buried deep in their pockets, waiting for the bus, rushing to catch the train. A quiet bunch of fast-walking people. Snow-covered streets so silent they gave the eerie aura of a placid carnival.
More than once, you whispered to yourself:
“The Germany I have been dreaming about my whole life… is this really it?”
“For real… this is it?”
But you never said it aloud to your grandfather, who was too busy teaching you how to navigate the buses and trains, how to pick the right kind of milk, the right kind of bottled water.
But what had you been expecting? People singing hymns on the streets? Gold-plated cars and trains? Money falling from trees? Diamonds buried beneath mountains of dirty snow?
“The drivers here respect pedestrians,” he said, noticing your hesitation at the zebra crossing. “Don’t run. Take your time and walk with confidence. The cars will wait.”
On the bus, he pointed to the stop request button. “Press this when you’re about to reach your stop.”
This was not home, where you had to shout at the top of your voice, even from the back seat, to let the driver know where to stop.
“Everything here is orderly. There are rules, and people respect them.”
Like many other international students, you would soon be left to figure things out on your own. You found a seat at the bus station and waited for the next ride to your apartment.
Then, it happened.
The young white boy sitting beside you abruptly stood up and walked away, choosing another bench, one occupied by an old white man. The boy glanced at you. You were not a mind reader, but his furrowed brows and tight lips said everything.
Displeasure.
At first, you found it absurd. Then, all at once, you felt a storm of emotions. Confusion, anger, pain, worthlessness. And shame.
But why shame?
You never quite understood those black footballers, did you? The ones who made a fuss about racism.
“If they’re getting paid millions, what’s the problem?” you once argued with your friends, rolling your eyes after a Black footballer walked off the pitch mid-game. Some spectators had thrown bananas at him after he missed a penalty.
“Someone bought a banana from a supermarket with their own money. The purpose of that banana? To punish a player who failed to score. A player who is Black.
“That banana could have come from Ecuador. Or the Philippines. Farmers there grew it, harvested it, and exported it, believing it would end up in someone’s stomach. If they knew it would be weaponized, hurled at a Black man in a stadium, would they feel the same satisfaction?”
“And that Black man… is he not human? Is he not the son of a mother? Is he not a father? A husband? Did he not have dreams? Did he not work hard to get there? Does he not bleed red? Doesn’t he?”
You didn’t even realize when the tears began to fall. You chuckled bitterly as you wiped them away with the back of your dry gloves.
That was how racism felt.
No amount of money could make up for the fleeting moment of humiliation. No salary was high enough to erase the sting of being made to feel like you did not belong.
Your bus arrived. You stepped inside, showed your student ID to the driver, and took a seat by the window.
“Press red. Press red,” you whispered under your breath as the bus began to move.
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