A Nightingale’s Despair in Kaltland
My best friend is sitting in front of me. It’s helpless, even after the fifth look on the menu the mascot of the Biergarten still smirks back: the silhouette of a pig. Loud and pink, but cute is not an attribute which comes into our minds. Halal or not halal can’t be the question, so where is the exit? Is there any available for now?
We are sitting amid our schoolmates: white, German, carefree – or careless. I guess, it depends on the perspective. I want to laugh but cannot ignore the nervousness on her face. She started to wear the hijab one year ago, after her grandmother died. I never saw her more devastated, kneeling in front of the bicycles at school. We only had each other in those moments.
Do you know those orange benches? In Germany we learn pretty early in life not to complain about their discomfort. The classmates around us ignored the thorns we were throwing on each and everyone, after all we kept silent. We kept silent during our whole period at high school.
I saw a better world in your eyes, the heritage of your nani. She smiled at me when I ate lunch at your place after school. Everytime I saw you I waited for the sun’s rays to bring out the hidden green ginkgo leaves in your eyes, flattering your brown skin.
At least the sunset whispers soft images I can rest on. Even the corners are too soft for me now. I want to leave the past behind and sing like a bulbul. To escape the reality of Kaltland I fled into ever lost illusions as far as I can remember. The silence behind the horizon feels different now. Holy words are stroking my skin without a voice whispering to me. And I try and I fail and I try again to find anything I’ve heard and read and spoke about without ever listening to melodies which were never meant to be for me. The truth is misguiding. Only the sky is rearranging colors, just like those gingko leaves.
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