Who Is Mandolina?

On a late afternoon, a chilly spring-day, I rushed down Gihon Street of Jerusalem’s Abu-Tur neighborhood. I had to get to the main street’s bus station, to catch number 74 downtown. A few months earlier we had married, and moved from Nahla’ot to Abu-Tur, into an apartment of a house, that people referred to as “the last house of Gihon Street.” It was not that this street ended with our house – our house gained its appellation simply because it was the last house of Gihon Street’s Jewish part. Right next to it, the remains of a wall from the 67’-war marked the “border,” the border between “Jewish Jerusalem,” and the other, unknown, “Arab Jerusalem”: that part, which is – from the perspective of the city’s Jewish inhabitants – some kind of a white spot or a black hole, where the names of neighborhoods and streets become indistinguishable gibberish, where I would not get along, be lost, a total stranger.

Yet, a stranger I was also in “Jewish Jerusalem”: Women who looked like me were sitting in the bus next to me, reading Psalms, or calling their families on their mobile phones to organize the Shabbat’s set up – yet I had no family in Israel, and instead of Psalms, I had just discovered Talal Asad’s “Formations of the Secular.” Jerusalem’s German expats didn’t offer any refuge, too: as a convert, who deliberately chose to belong to the not-yet-enlightened Psalm-readers, I was referred to as a more or less pitiful person, whose academic brain melts away like a snow-man in the sun. I was, in short, an assemblage of unrelated parts, with myself (and my apartment, coincidentally) being located at an unidentifiable in-between place, where no other people were dwelling, where there was no recognizable community, no solidarity, no natural buffer-zone.


On that chilly afternoon, on my way to the bus-stop, I met Mandolina. Mandolina – who did not have her name back then – was a cat, maybe one month old, not bigger than a fist. She was dwindled up in a bush next to the street, crying, because her belly was ripped open. There were branches, thorns, dust and dirt, and a bundle of blood, bowels entangled around legs, with a faint breathing body. Frantically, I searched for the phone-number of the city’s veterinary emergency. Someone picked up: Yes, they would come, but it may take a while.

I waited next to the bush. The hours passed by. The sun slowly vanished, the sky turned red, and the air became cold and serene. I am not sure, cat, what we are doing here, I told her. She kept on breathing; I kept on waiting.

It was dark already when the veterinary service arrived. With a pair of tongs, similar to those that are used to pick up rubbish from the street, they grabbed her, placed her in a metal cage, took my phone number, and drove away. She will not make it, they told me.

Mandolina, however, made it. Three days later, I got a phone call from the veterinary service: The cat had survived surgery, but it couldn’t remain any longer at the veterinary station. Outside, the chilly weather and the rain would turn the wound inflammatory, so if I could take the cat into my home? Yes, I said, sure, the cat can stay with me!

Again, she was locked up in a metal cage. When the veterinary service worker opened it, she ran out in total panic, crushed a few times against the walls, and eventually hid behind the fridge. Ok, he said, goodbye then.

For two weeks, she left her hideaway only during the nights, in order to eat some of the food, which I had placed next to the fridge. In the night, I heard her wandering around, yet as soon as she heard the rustling of my blanket, she ran back to the fridge, her refuge. We advanced in small steps: First, she stared at me when I was sitting at my computer, a few meters away from the fridge. Weeks later, she stared at me also when I was walking around in the apartment, hiding only when I came too close to her fridge. It took a few months, until she dared to touch my hand with her little nose. In the meantime, we had built her a little shack in the garden right next to our apartment’s window, from where she could jump in- and out. She never became fully domesticated.

When we left Jerusalem for Berlin, Mandolina stayed behind. I placed a full plate of food next to her shack – she immediately came to fetch it – and I closed the windows of our apartment, the garden’s backdoor, the apartment’s door, and left the “last house” of Gihon Street. I passed the place where I had found her, walked down the street to the bus stop, to the central bus station, to the airport. Our neighbors agreed to give her food, yet we lost contact with them. I have no idea what happened to Mandolina: for a few weeks, she probably waited for food to be placed next to her shack. I hope that she made it, and am tentatively optimistic: Even though she had always remained small, she had a strong survival instinct, and luck, too.


When setting up my blog, one of the stages of registration entailed the naming of the site’s domain. I didn’t know that, unlike the blog’s title, I could of course not change the domain-name later on. And that’s how a blog called “Mandolina” came into being: It was simply the first name that came to my mind. She remained in my heart, if you wish to phrase it like that.

This name fits, however, because much of my writing here is a continuation of something, that started many years earlier in “Gihon Street’s last house,” during the time Mandolina was living in our garden (which was not officially “our garden” at all). The feeling of insecurity and melancholy of this time have vanished, yet still, the blog’s vantage point is that moment when turning from a self-evident, naturally belonging agent into an object, or a “problem,” of contemporary notions of “the good,” the reasonable, the right, the important. Of course, this means that this blog is not about pleasing the majority of readers: it is about re-thinking that, which pleases the majority of readers. It is, at the end of the day, about finding words for a vantage point, that is situated at the margin of a place, where street-names sound familiar, and glides into another place, that is the dominion of another law, quite literally. A place, where me and Mandolina gradually lost our panic, reassembled our selves, and tried to make sense of this fragile, particular beginning of a new life.


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The Hebrew Manuscripts of the Bodleian Library in Oxford: An entirely Non-Academic Account

At some point in the course of my studies, I decided that I am not a manuscript-person. Maybe this was simply due to laziness, or haughtiness, or both: After working for a couple of months on the transcription of a Hebrew manuscript from Renaissance Italy (precisely: Yohanan Alemanno’s magnum opus, Hay ha-Olamim), I tossed all my work into the archive, and never opened the microfiche-pdf again.

On my way to the manuscript-collection of the Bodeleian library in Oxford I therefore did not expect anything overtly spectacular. Together with a group of some 15 academics, I had attended a (very cool) summer-school in a nearby castle-hotel, and after being transferred to downtown-Oxford for Shabbat, we were offered a guided tour through the Hebrew collection of the library. The chief-librarian, César Merchán, welcomed us at the entrance: An old building, high ceilings, a lots of marble, a security counter, lockers for bags and jackets, acclimatized air, silence. Like many times before, I sensed that old, academic buildings imbue their guests with an aura of authority, secrecy, importance, as if one enters a temple, in which matters of higher orders are being stored, made accessible only to the selected few – one immediately becomes a little too underdressed, a little too profane, a little too working-class.

Passing another few doors with locks secured by secret codes, we entered a room, into which César had previously moved some manuscripts. On a wheeled cupboard, one next to the other, they were waiting. César heaved a huge Mahzor upon a plastic-foam-construction on a table in the middle of the room, and let his hands wander through the pages. 13th century, Ashkenaz.

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For a quarter of a second, I thought that something’s utterly wrong here, that César is not really the Bodleian’s Hebrew chief-librarian, but a charlatan who had tricked his way illegally into the temple: How come, I asked him, that you touch the pages without gloves? Shouldn’t there be some kind of protective barrier between your hands and the 13th century? How can you touch something so fragile? “Oh no,” he said, turning to me, “there are two schools among librarians of manuscripts. One advocates the use of gloves, but the other holds that you have to feel the pages.” The use of any additional tool would not protect them, but reduce the sensibility of the hands, as nothing is more sensitive, more perceptive, than real skin. The preferred method of the Boldelain library is, therefore, literally “skin on skin”: the skin of human hands gliding over the skin of an animal, the parchment. A sensory meeting of the hands of the living, the active, the powerful, with letters, motionless on parchment, fragile, a thousand years old. Or maybe the other way around – for what would we be without those letters?

Ohhh, I murmured, and was reminded of the Brit of Joel: In an attempt to understand the medical dimension of the intervention, I had asked our Mohel if he would use any devises, or tools, besides the regular ones. But he assured me, that he would need solely his hands. Any “medical” addition would interrupt the procedure unnecessarily, and bear the risk of complication. Skin on skin, again.

The Mahzor measured some 50 x 30cm, with a width of approximately 15cm. Its script and layout were even, almost as if printed, without mistakes. One could see how the pages had been prepared: cut, smoothed, nearly invisible lines being embossed at each page, an incredible amount of work before the scribe had set his first letter on the parchment. Someone in our group rejoiced upon identifying at first glance a particular part of the Sukkot-liturgy: Did the scribe of this Mahzor ever imagine, that 1000 years apart from his own life, the eyes of a professor for Talmudic law would meet his letters, and mean precisely the same thing they meant to him? How many eyes, how many places, how many hands had this Mahzor seen? How many Jews have carried its weight, how did it survive? It must be heavy, I thought, its transportation not especially convenient, and difficult. Each page was illustrated with ornaments, fable-animals, human-beings without faces, colors and layers of gold. Meticulously, millimeter-by-millimeter, the illustrator had beautified each page, as if the immeasurable value of the words needed to be accompanied by material, aesthetic worth.

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Each page had a “micrography” at its bottom, which César explained us to be a particularly Jewish type of illumination. Mircographies are tiny, tiny Hebrew letters combined to form an ornament, that is, it is not the illumination of a letter, but the very use of the letter itself as a “limb” of the illustration. It is unknown what motivated this kind of artwork: possibly, it circumvents a prohibition of images, yet possibly, too, the use of a letter as a physical component of a larger image, or ornament, is also a visualization of the Jewish interpretative tradition: Viewed from above, it is an image, a coherent whole, an entire world, yet the closer you draw, the more you become aware of a multitude of components, details, interwoven one into the other, a “massekhet,” a web, made up of tiny little bodies of letters, each one in and of itself an indispensable, corporeal component of the universe.

César turned the pages, something he had done probably at least a dozen times before our visit. Despite British correctness and professionalism, his face seemed to be filled with admiration, affection, love for what he was doing.

On our way out of the library, we passed a few high-ceiled reading-halls named after people. Serious scholars dressed in neutral colors were sitting in rows above their books and manuscripts. No food, no drinks. If I had decided to become a manuscript-person, would I sit here, too? Would I be smart and patient enough to prepare a critical edition, or would I schedule as many coffee-dates as possible and sneak into facebook for digression? Would I be fond of my manuscripts like César? Glancing over the ethereal-looking scholars, I saw myself sitting on the ground with Joel, handling toys, strollers, bottles, bananas, ice-cream, invitations to the kindergarten’s summer-party, team-days, and the laundry, tired. I envied their tranquility, the quietness and cleanliness of their temple, their effortless appropriateness. The Mahzor was an expat here: It was written by the light of the sun and candles, it wandered through the hands of those, who prepared the parchment, the ink, the script, who illustrated it, who carried it from place to place on their backs, or in wagons, who recited its words on the Festival of Sukkot. A few of its pages had been damaged by the teeth of a mouse. It must have seen the fullness of life.

(César had advised us to look at the manuscripts in their digitalized form, accessible on the library’s website. A collection of micrography-highlights, for example, is here).

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Short Note: Post About Jewish Studies in Berlin

I just wanted to say that I took that last blogpost off the blog, because I cannot publish anything here, in my blog, before its “official” publication in a normal, traditional journal and/or presentation at a conference! I should have thought about this before, of course, but well…so my apologies.

If you have more questions, suggestions, critique etc. please feel free to contact me in private (via facebook or mail). It is important to have that conversation.

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About Mountains Being Held (Or: Another Take on the Issue of Commandments)

A famous, often-quoted midrash depicts the Giving of the Torah to the Children of Israel at Mount Sinai. The midrash has God holding a mountain in his fist, and the Israelites are assembled beneath it. God asks them if they would like to get this Torah: If yes, He would keep on holding the mountain, if not, He would just let it tumble down.

According to this midrash, God obviously didn’t bother whether or not His children wanted to receive His commandments. Whether or not they “like” them, whether or not they can make sense of them – God really could not have been interested less. For the Israelites at Mount Sinai, there was no process of intellectual understanding, let alone choosing, but a flash of force, and no way back.

To be forced to do something (or not to do something) is, according to our modern intuition, a negative thing. We value deeds, when they are the result of a conscious, well-informed, reasoned choice, when they are a result of our freedom, and hence, an authentic expression of our innermost selves. A deed, which was “forced” upon you, has no such value; it is, at best, a superficial performance, but does not express any intrinsic “truth.” If you do something without understanding it, possibly without even wanting it, you will sooner or later “free” yourself from it: Such deed being no more than an empty vessel, a letter without spirit, is doomed to fade into oblivion.



I remember the morning after my wedding: I had to leave the house, and figured that I was expected to wrap my hair with some kind of scarf. Not that I’ve not thought about this before – yet, as long as matters remained abstract, as long as one is not really there, in that particular situation, the feeling is difficult to imagine: I was expected, from now on, no matter what, to wander around in public with my hair covered. It didn’t make sense to me at all: Why should all out of a sudden my hair be “nakedness”? Why should belief be related to my head looking like a potato wrapped in an unidentifiable pile of textiles? And why should women suffer yet another intrusion into their bodily autonomy? I do not let any fashion-magazine tell me that I should diet, so why should I let (male) religious authorities tell me what to put on my head? The only, really the only reason I covered my hair nonetheless was some dull sense of an obligation: I was a new religious Jew, and this is what was expected of me to do. Could I have rebelled against this? Yes I could. But I didn’t.

After a year of obligatory wrapping, we moved from Jerusalem to Berlin. I initially anticipated this move as a step into freedom: In contrast to Jerusalem, in Berlin no one would care for my head-covering and bestow religious significance to its presence or absence. At best, it would pass as some weird fashion-statement or hippie-thing. Whatever I would choose to do in Berlin, I thought, it would be my own free choice.

I simply continued: The wrap still looked awful, but it somehow, clandestinely, had sneaked into my self-image. Sometimes, as if to prove to myself that I was free, I took it off. But then, something was strangely missing, and it didn’t feel the right thing to do. Somehow, the way I saw myself in public now included some textile tossed on top of my head. I still argued that covering one’s hair does not have the same religious importance as the observance of the Shabbat – yet nonetheless, covering, at this point, gained more and more subjective importance: With a very active baby in the house, wrapping became one of the few daily “Jewish” things I would do. Other positive commandments got a little pale, but wrapping remained, possibly because it is such an exterior, visible marker – though now, it was no more a marker I carried so as to be recognized by others.

Going along with this, I also tried to make it look better (no, this is not a footnote): Our local department store’s “tichel-section” won me as its new faithful customer, and I acquired more colors and patterns, poufs, anti-slip headbands, experimented with a “half-wrap,” and had all kinds of hair-cuts. When trying to find a wrap-style that would look “ok” on me, and actively engaging this commandment, I also started to own it: I became its “managing director,” it became a tool I could use, maybe a little similar to the process of slowly internalizing a foreign language, and eventually mastering it, so that the sentences flow out without effort.


Today I’d not take off my wrap voluntarily – yet, I would have never ever come to this place had I rejected the idea of an “obligation” in the first place.

Did the mountain vanish? In a way, the mountain is still there: The obligatory nature of the commandments remains. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter, if I “like” them, let alone understand them. But the mountain is no threat any longer: The subjugation to a commandment is the basis, upon which I can form an identity, and act in the world. It is because I do partake in this mitzvah, that I own it, and because I own it, I can also criticize certain aspects of it, and possibly, even make sense of it. It is mine. It is the place from which I can watch and interpret the world: A place that is not universal, but particular; a place that is not the end, but the very means (or: the tool?) through which I can be.


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Unruly Religion

A couple of weeks ago, I participated in a panel discussion about “discrimination on religious grounds.”[1] At the end of the discussion, someone in the audience asked me whether I had experienced a rise of anti-Semitism during the past months. I was not sure what to answer: No one has ever offended me, neither verbally nor physically, as a Jew. Yet, this answer would convey a message I did not want to convey, namely, that everything is fine. Nothing is fine. Just that the problem does not look like you think it does.


At some point in my life, I became a religious Jew. I didn’t expect this to cause any relevant upheaval in my socio-cultural milieu: Academics from the humanities, people, who are engaged in Jewish Studies, travel regularly to Israel, and have Israeli friends. Among my peers, it surely was ok, even superb, to be a Jew. And yet, the appearance of another “kind” of Jew – the religious Jew – triggered their profound discomfort. Nothing I had done affected them in any straightforward, practical way, but glossing over it was nonetheless not an option: I learned that you could not be a member of their club if your identity, however discretely, pointed at a non-secular frame of reference. You could not represent the not-yet-reformed versions of Judaism.

When you belong to the not-yet-reformed, you are a traitor to cultural evolution. As the rest of humanity had progressed from paganism to Judaism to Catholicism to Protestantism to secularism, you were making a u-turn and despite knowing better return to some earlier, less elaborated, less free, less noble state of being. I was told that I could have chosen between “champagne and water,” and took the water. I was told that my husband will cheat on me once I would have produced him children, because this is what they do in “these kinds of societies.” I was asked if I am not afraid to marry into that “African tribe,” my husband’s Yemeni family. I was told that it is very, very sad that “someone like me” needs to put up with something like this (“something like this” being the observance of the Shabbat). Everybody oppresses and brainwashes me, I was told: the Jewish law, the rabbis, my husband, everybody from that other side, where God rules, instead of reason. I was being asked if I could keep on writing my dissertation despite my religion. I was told that secularism is the only guarantor of peace, that my religion will force me into cruel tribalism as evidenced by the rite of circumcision…

It felt like being trapped in an everlasting job-interview. When you are tagged as a “fundamentalist,” you are constantly checked as to your compatibility. Before being admitted as a relevant partner of debate, you have to prove that you’ve learned the rules, that you are a liberal, free and critical mind even though you stick to a set of archaic rules. Your word is never relevant as is, a priori, but always in danger of de-legitimization because of its situatedness, subjectivity, its being tainted by religious bias. At best, my position was that of a tragic transitional character, the one that knows of the sweetness of freedom and bravely manages to finish a Ph.D. despite religious constraints, but is not strong enough to get rid of those constraints entirely. Tradition, you know, is a very heavy chain.

I recount this not so much as a personal testimony, but as a piece of a puzzle of a larger point: In contemporary Germany, Jews and Muslims are not categorically discriminated as Jews and Muslims, but as unruly Jews and Muslims. We have a ban on head-coverings in state offices and almost criminalized ritual circumcision, because head-coverings and circumcisions do not comply with hegemonial assumptions about how a “religion” should function and look like. Thus, when the opponents of circumcision claimed, that they are not motivated by Jew-hatred, at least some of them could be believed: The criminalization of ritual circumcision was, indeed, not meant to be an anti-Semitic assault, but rather, an educational endeavor meant to transform the archaic into the enlightened: it was well meant, it was left wing, it was even feminist.

Of course, there exists racial xenophobia, that type of anti-Semitism and anti-Muslim racism that is categorically directed against Jews and Muslims. Yet, this kind of xenophobia is a social outcast and a political no-go: The New Right is keen to dissociate itself from a racial stigmatization of Muslims (and to that end, the AfD’s Muslim members are its greatest asset). The discourse, which is nowadays activated in order to legitimize xenophobic politics, is not one of racial purity, but of cultural progress from the “backward” to the “enlightened,” from tradition to reason, from tribalism to individualism. It is an evolutionary narrative, in which our predecessors peeled, layer by layer, “religion” from their skins, and thereby turned from child-like victims of religious paternalism, incapable of “independent reasoning,” into self-determined, individual agents. Secularism is this evolution’s glorious end-product, where religious differences and particularity are neutralized, where the limits of bodily existence are overcome by pure, bird-eyed reason: an ultimate truth.

The structuring element of this evolutionary narrative is religious: At the bottom, there is fundamental, non-reformed, non-liberal religion. In contemporary Europe, this kind of religion is currently associated with Islam. At the top is Protestantism, hardly distinguishable from secularism, and accordingly perceived as wholly congruent with “universal norms,” rather than with any particular “religion.” Judaism is an ambivalent in-between: On the one hand, it is entirely appropriated and incooperated into Protestantism, yet on the other hand, it is always kept as “the other,” whose existence testifies to Germany’s multiculturalism. It is the quintessential “other that is like us” – which explains my German friends’ unease with a Jew, who is “not like us”: The existence of this kind of Jew, who is a little closer to the bottom, was a surprise to many during the “circumcision-debate” in 2012, and erupted the new Germany’s self-image: The nation was torn between a wish to maintain a tolerant self-image, and a refusal to tolerate religious difference of the non-liberal kind.

Ultra-orthodox Jewish boy wears a costume ahead of  Purim in Jerusalem's Mea Shearim neighbourhood

Purim in Jerusalem’s Mea Shearim neighbourhood February 22, 2013. Reuters/Amir Cohen

So yes, something is going wrong here. The problem, however, rests neither with a particular political party, nor with any particular religiously defined group. The problem rests with an evolutionary model of cultural progress, which positions Judaism at an intermediary stage: a necessary, yet imperfect stage, that ultimately needs to be overcome, that is: to be transformed and expressed along particular, socially acceptable lines. This is a secularized version of Christian supersessionism, and it surrounds us in a million of ways: It is ever present in discussions about “Islam,” it comes up when the “level of female emancipation” in Jewish orthodoxy is scrutinized, it is a self-evident, automatic framework of any public assessment of “religion” – and it hurts.



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Das Experiment

Zwei Tiere werden in einen Glaskasten gesetzt. Sie gehören vermeintlich unterschiedlichen Spezies an. Ein Forscherteam hält das Zusammentreffen mit einer Kamera fest: Werden sich die beiden nun zerfleischen? Oder doch überglücklich in die Arme fallen? Wie geht das „Experiment“ aus?

Die Spezieszugehörigkeit beider Tiere ist ganz leicht zu erkennen: Das eine Tier hat eine Kippah auf dem Kopf, es heisst „der Jude.” Das Forscherteam nimmt die Perspektive des Juden ein: Er ist das Individuum, das auf seinem Weg durch den Dschungel begleitet wird. Es ist eine Expedition des Menschen hin zu den Wilden, mitten rein in eine nicht näher differenzierte Masse von Barbaren: die Geflüchteten, die da hausen in der Mehrzweckhalle.

Mit erregter Spannung erwartet das Forscherteam den Ausgang des Experiments: Was wird passieren, wenn die Wilden das erste Mal in ihrem Leben einen Juden sehen? Ganz tief im Inneren weiß das Team natürlich: Nicht nur die Wilden, sondern auch die Forscher selber hatten in der Vergangenheit eher wenig mit Juden zu tun. Die unmittelbaren Vorfahren der Forscher nämlich löschten jüdisches Leben in ganz Europa aus. Als sie dann zum ersten Mal in ihrem Leben auf einen lebendigen Juden treffen, zittern daher vor allem sie selbst – nur gut, dass sie ihre Vergangenheit bewältigt haben, und „dem Juden“ so ganz ungezwungen gegenüber treten. So ungezwungen, dass sie ihn mitsamt seines Markenzeichens, der Kippah, in feindlicher Umgebung aussetzen, um dann mit Erregung festzustellen, dass der anti-Semitismus nun bei den Geflüchteten zu Hause ist. Welch Erleichterung!

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Die Geflüchteten selber drehen sich weg. Sie wollen am „Experiment“ nicht so richtig teilhaben, was schade ist, denn nur durch dieses Experiment können die Forscher erkennen, ob die Geflüchteten integriert werden können, in die zivilisierte Welt da draußen, jenseits der Mauern der Unterkunft: da, wo Antisemitismus allenthalben geächtet wird – wo es zwar auch kaum mehr Juden gibt, wo man ab und zu Mal die Beschneidung verbieten möchte, wo man die Sichtbarkeit nicht-protestantischer Religiosität mit dem Verweis auf die eigene Neutralität kriminalisiert. Wo man Juden vor allem dann wirklich sehr, sehr gerne hat, wenn sie sich zur Bestätigung des eigenen Selbstbildes benutzen lassen.

Nein, das ist keine Relativierung von Antisemitismus. Es ist auch nicht der Versuch ein real existierendes Problem kleinzureden, unter den Tisch zu kehren, oder zu verharmlosen. Es ist ganz einfach ein Hinweis darauf, dass wirklich niemandem damit geholfen ist, wenn Juden und Muslime wie Versuchskaninchen in eine Glasbox gesetzt werden, um ihre Feindschaft und/oder Freundschaft vor deutschen Kameras zu demonstrieren. Denn Antisemitismus ist kein mystisches Spaghettimonster, das sich wahlweise auf verschiedene Bevölkerungsgruppen setzt, dort sein Unheil anrichtet, und dann weiterfliegt, um sich ein neues Zuhause zu suchen. Antisemitismus ist, in diversen Ausformungen und Facetten, ein integraler Bestandteil des christlichen Abendlandes, und wenn jetzt zur „Antisemitismus-Prävention“ Flüchtlingsunterkünfte und Moscheen brennen, dann schützt der weiße Europäer nicht die hier lebenden Juden, sondern benutzt sie zur Legitimation seines eigenen Rassismus.

Das Video ist hier.

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Die Reisereportage der „Zeit“. Umrisse eines Genres

Die Zeit-Reisereportage ist ein journalistisches Genre, das, ähnlich wie die Literaturkritik, bestimmten, unveränderlichen Gesetzen folgt. Im Folgenden ein Umriss.

Grundsätzlich sind zwei Subtypen der Zeit-Reisereportage zu unterscheiden: In Typ 1 geht es darum, ferne Länder und Kontinente zu entdecken, in Typ 2 geht es um bis dato noch unbekannte Perlen der näheren Umgebung. In Typ 1 fliegen wir 12 Stunden in eine außereuropäische Großstadt, die wir dem Namen nach noch irgendwie kennen, driften von da aus aber mit einem Propellerflugzeug/Kanu/Kamel weiter ab in ein Dorf, von dem wir garantiert noch nichts gehört haben. Ähnlich gestrickt, aber in kleinerem Radius, ist Typ 2: Wir fahren auf der Autobahn Richtung Schwerin, biegen dann aber über eine Landstraße ab in einen Schleichweg, der uns zu einem Hof mitten im Moor führt. Beide Ziele sind nicht ganzjährig zu erreichen: Das Bächlein Nucarumba verwandelt sich in den Sommermonaten in einen reißenden Strom, der Schleichweg durchs Moor ist nach Regenfall nur noch mit einem Trecker zu erreichen. Nun gut: Der Weg ist das Ziel.

In beiden Typen der Reisereportage geht es um die Begegnung des akademisch gebildeten, mittelständischen Kulturschaffenden mit dem Unbekannten, evolutionstechnisch etwas hinterherhinkendem, aber dennoch wertvollem Anderen: Wir besuchen das Land, das “zwischen Tradition und Moderne” liegt, oder sich “im Aufbruch” befindet (Typ 1), oder (Typ 2): “die traditionelle Käsemanufaktur von Bauer Elmer”, “das Schnitzhandwerk der Werkstatt Rutzwühl”.

Hier und dort treffen wir auf Einheimische, die eine ihrer Herkunft entsprechende authentische Unberührtheit ausstrahlen. Sie haben meistens einfach nur einen Vornamen, begegnen uns mit naiver Freundlichkeit, und sind grundsätzlich mit einer Art Bauernschläue ausgestattet: Sie haben zwar nicht an der Uni Literaturwissenschaften studiert, jedoch hat sie das raue Leben im Bergdorf, das Eins-Sein mit der Natur, die Geschichten der Dorfältesten, weise gemacht. In einfachen Worten sagen sie Sätze, die uns in ihrer Schlichtheit berühren: “Ein verschmitzes Lächeln huscht über das faltige Gesicht von Juan/Wang/Mbombo, als er…tiefe Furchen graben sich um die Lippen von…”

Wir genießen das Privileg der Begegnung mit den Einheimischen, da wir selbstverständlich Individualtouristen sind: Wir lassen uns nicht wie die Unterschicht in das Feriendorf auf Fuerteventura kutschieren, nein, wir sitzen in der privaten Küche des traditionellen Käsebauern oder im Eselstall der Finca von Familie Rodriguez, ganz intim, da wir qua kulturellem Einfühlungsvermögen in der Lage sind, über unseren Tellerrand zu schauen und Kontakt mit den Unberührten aufzunehmen. Sie vertrauen uns, und freuen sich, dass wir uns für ihre Käsemanufaktur/ Kaffeerösterei/Kokospalmenplantage interessieren.

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Sowohl in Typ 1 als auch in Typ 2 muss es einen „Überraschungsmoment“ geben, etwas, das wir so nicht erwartet hätten, das uns herausfordert. Unser oberstes Ziel ist nämlich Bildung, auch im Urlaub! So eine Reise in die Pampa wäre komplett sinnlos, wenn wir dabei nicht die Gelegenheit zu subtiler Selbst-Reflektion bekämen: Unser Alltag als Kulturschaffende in der Großstadt lässt uns manchmal vergessen, worauf es im Leben wirklich ankommt. Der Sternenhimmel über Mecklenburg-Vorpommern/der mongolischen Wüste überwältigt uns deshalb am Ende doch ein bisschen: „Vielleicht ist es das, was Juan/Wang/Mbombo uns auf den Weg geben wollte, als er…“

Nur am Rande sei angemerkt, dass der Leser, von dem die Zeit-Reisereportage ausgeht, ungefähr 10 Lichtjahre von uns selbst entfernt ist: Informationen zu Anfahrt und Unterkunft, in einer kleinen blauen Box am unteren Seitenrand angebracht, sind Bestandteile des Formats „Reisereportage“ und dienen dem Anschein der realistischen Umsetzung. De facto können wir aber gar nicht 10.000 Euro in die Anreise investieren, und de facto ist uns auch die Mecklenburger Käsemanufaktur pupsegal. Wir fühlen uns einfach kulturell dem Club sensibler Individualtouristen mit einem Haufen Geld und Bildung zugehörig.

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