Suicide is a taboo. As much forbidden to write about it as it is to act on it. An uninvited guest in any blog. Researching the Spielberg Holocaust Archives, home to some 52,000 survivors’ testimonies, doesn’t only put you face to face with their miraculous tales of survival of the Nazi beast, but also their survival of themselves – for this archive is perhaps the largest accumulation of suicide-survivors ever assembled. The percentage of suicide survivors within Holocaust survivors may have never been questioned, perhaps because the answer would be too alarming. It’s a sad topic, no doubt, but there’s something beautiful in listening to it told from the lips of those people – for they are still alive:

Decisions regarding suicide

This all happened a long time ago. Today you can analyze it and try and come up with an explanation, but I’m trying to be authentic, that is, I’m trying to put myself back in my old shoes – or non-shoes for that matter – and what I can clearly say, is that the humiliation and our way of existence – if you could call it that – was so unbearable, that I simply didn’t want to go on with it. It wasn’t a moment of fear or a moment of bravery, but simply a moment of I’ve had enough. No matter what – I’m going for the electrified fence. So I jumped out of all that formation and went for the wire, which was rather close to me, but I was noticed, captured, put back in line. I managed to get as close as one centimeter from the fence; if the photo-finish camera existed then, the referee would have definitely ruled to my favor – let her fry – but it didn’t, and inside this centimeter lay six more years of hell and sixty of life.

As soon as we reentered the block I got a hell of a beating. Twenty five whippings. Five and twenty. In German you count the ones before the tens. When speaking about whipping, that’s definitely the right way to count; first you feel the ones – one, two, three, four, five – and then the remaining twenty are like a single blow. However, that didn’t seem to be enough, so they had me standing on my knees opposite the oven, holding bricks in my raised arms and if I was to lower them, I would get beat up again, naturally. The only thing I realized then, is that not only did I lose my will to live, I was also not allowed to die. Life in the camp was put on hold, like the menstruation which suddenly stopped in all of us, after the first cup of coffee.

Suddenly a theatrical figure stormed into the block, like a Roman conqueror; wrapped in a white sheet, hair of fire and a torch, jumped on the oven and said:
Von hier ist kein Weg
Von hier ist nur ein Weg
Himmel-Kommando!
And then she disappeared like a bad dream. I’m sure I wasn’t dreaming, I have no fantasy-problems. Later on someone told me she was the Kappo; a young woman, horribly vicious, with a tragedy of her own. Needless to say, my hands remained aloft long after that episode.

The very next day a polish girl who had cancer asked me to get her some poison. All of the sudden I had an assignment. It was always difficult to determine who was superior to whom, who had the right to keep on living and who didn’t. But when it came to dying it was rather easy: you’re suffering more than I, you should commit suicide before me, so I will help you.
She had the poison already in her mouth, when her folks came out of nowhere, believe it or not, and said: Mira’le, by Jews you don’t do that… Parents remain parents, even if they are mere scraps of humans. So she spat it out. There’s always more time to commit suicide.

My parents, however, weren’t around anymore and in the far corner of the room I spotted the poison she spat out. I said to myself: why bother living? Suicide seemed like a nice way out; becoming a nun seemed appealing; becoming a selfish person seemed interesting – I mean, after all, so many of those survived and went on to lead a nice life. Maybe that’s the way to go, live for pleasure. I just didn’t know anymore. But if I didn’t take the poison, I wanted to live, probably.

I thought back of the time when I had parents, when suicide was a decision to be made within the family-unit: the task was given to my mother, a nurse. She had to inject it into our veins, otherwise it wouldn’t be effective. So she prepared a little metal tray with enough syringes to go around and beside every syringe she put a little cotton ball soaked with alcohol, to disinfect the skin before the injection. I pointed out that this was not necessary for the last injection and everybody laughed, but she was kind of offended and simply said: what do I know? I’ve been doing it like that all my life.

Now I see that this entire liberation was pointless. A delayed understanding which sneaked in only recently, three months after it was all over. Every person I meet on the street asks me: you’re still alive? as if the fact that I’m standing there right in front of him still needs to be reinforced by the pronunciation of the words: yes, I am still alive, I’m standing right here in front of you. At least you survived, is the common reply. So what – I came out alone.

Three months after it was all over was also when I got to see my first dinosaur-film; the dinosaurs were still quite clumsy – certainly not the accomplished creatures Steven Spielberg created – with men inside of them, working their limbs, and a mechanic head, smiling. Unlike Spielberg’s film, the villain of the story was not the most vicious lizard among them, but a man, who, for some reason, wanted to make sure that the extinction of the last remaining dinosaurs – male, female and their descendant, discovered in the Amazon jungle – was final. He shot the two adults without as much as a blink and then he turned to the little lizard, looked her peacefully in the eye – she was no longer smiling – and said: now you are truly one of your kind.

Time is really running fast, just yesterday we were wishing each other happy new year and today we are fast crusing past the month of February. For the chinese collegues and friends let me take this opportunity to wish you a happy new year, it is the year of the Tiger! So for all those born during the year of the rabbit and all years associated with small animals beware because the tiger is going to pounce on you. I honestly don’t know what am talking about so will any chinese friend come to my aid, the only thing I know is that I was born in the year of the dog and how that is to turn out with tigers I don’t know.

I will ignore Valentines day that passed by, lets just say that I have never marked my calendar for that day because I don’t understand why everyone should put pressure on the flower production just to be reminded that he/ she loves somebody. I mean we have 365 days to love, why pretend that on this one day our intensity to love has suddenly peaked. I am not being negative just because I did not receive a gift, but beacuse I am mad at the number of people who are crazy about the day yet they don’t understand the origin nor the main purpose of that day.

At the moment I have no control over my schedule, I am simply at the mercy of the lecturers, can you imagine that each single day I have to sign the attendance list? That’s how serious it is, you miss a single day and you have to explain why failure of which you risk facing serious consequences such as not sitting for exams. That is just to remind you that I have another batch of exams next week yet am still attending lectures. Who invented exams? What was the real intention? In life there are exams, they may not be written and they may not be graded, but they bear serious consequences in our lives. I still remember vividly like it was yesterday, my first ever exams to determine which kindergarten I would join. I was asked to draw a cow, I passed even though I drew something that looks like a car with horns and it was painted blue.

Talk of blue cows! I guess it is one of those days that you wake up on the wrong side of the bed. It must be the winter, it must have finally gotten to me, it feels as if i have lost track of time. I have been advised to take some multivitamins because I may be lacking vitamin D due to lack of sunshine. So many explanations yet so little help, I guess it has something to do with lack of rest, I don’t know but I am certainly feeling funny nothing is painful yet I wake up with this funny feeling that something is wrong, could it have something to do with the year of the Tiger?

Pictures are biased representations of reality, the substitutes of lost memories. A cheap attempt, a briefly cheap one, to reproduce what we try not to forget, or what we have already forgotten. An attempt to make things better, happier, sunnier, prettier. A faint unsuccessful attempt to make ourselves believe that those pictures are reality and that reality is ours and that we are someone else happier and funnier and smiling who has never seen the rain. Let the others raise an eyebrow with jealousy and envy us for our happiness. So perfect that we are.

How I wished I were you, with that bright smile on your face, you, so pretty and happy and perfect and shiny.

Pictures, then, pictures are the construction of a new reality, rather than the representation of an old one. The capturing of a single instant from a single perspective by a single eye at a particular location. And the grimace, not even real. One’s always smiling for pictures, no good sample of reality. I’ve always hated pictures myself, like you lose the present moment in an attempt to try and have a written memory, a fake one, for the future. Like you miss up on the present for the future, for a future constructed upon the past, a fake one. No good future can be constructed upon a fake past. So far away that it will be.

How you wished you were me, with all those sunny places and people, hat on the head, hand in hand, so happy that I was.

Pictures, after all, pictures are a substitute for relevance. The image of all those things for which we need an image, a written one. For otherwise one would not remember them. Pictures, then, pictures are a substitute for relevance. Either something is relevant or you’d better take a picture, not that it faints with time and you lose yourself on the way. The concretion of abstract thoughts in a faint fake attempt to tell yourself that the things you have seen and the people you have met and the places you have been to are relevant. If they were, mind you, if they were your memory would keep them. No need for paper.Words and thoughts and times and spaces written on paper.

How she wished she were I, with a real past and no troubled future and no need to lie to herself. Handkerchief in the hand, green cheek, pictures in the bin.

Door shut, paper red. It will be sunny out there.

52,000 video testimonies – where do I start researching? They say that it would take one man approximately 12 years to view them all, and I’ve already “wasted” about 30 of mine… The following story is an example for a research-method I use; I enter “cigarettes” in the Stichwort-katalog and a title comes up “The importance of cigarettes”, followed by a couple hundred nice grandpas and grandmas, Holocaust survivors, recalling the role that cigarettes played in their day to day life, in their survival – the two things being one of the same. Instead of listening to the testimonies from start to end, I allow myself to listen only to the “cigarette-memory” – like a person reading an online article and clicking on a link before reaching the end of the article – I research it horizontally and not vertically – and little by little a story unfolds:

The importance of cigarettes

You’d think that after everything I’d gone through I wouldn’t even be able to spell the word, cigarette, but you’re wrong: I tore off the filter and started sucking on it; it tasted of a thousand cigarettes and with one breath my teeth turn yellow and the lips wrinkle like a tight fist. That day I became addicted. No, it wasn’t addiction – I simply got bored of plain air. I would breath constantly through a yellowing filter, If I could.

You’ll see: the Mark will give way to the Euro, the Yen will be cast to the bottom of darkened wells and a day will come when even the Israeli Shekel will lose its religion – but the cigarettes will never convert. The unfortunate man will be inclined to cast any given coin to the famous fountain in Rome, but not even one cigarette – he will smoke it for consolation.

He used to take one out to smoke and leave the rest of the pack on the table, but more often than not, he’d forget it when he got up to leave. If it contained four, six – sometimes only two – cigarettes, that was my possession for the day, cause in those days people were willing to exchange their daily bread ration for a cigarette.

If you had thrown them away, he told me, I would have killed you on the spot. But you had the nerve to keep them, so I’m giving you your life back. But remember: next time I catch you with a cigarette – it’s your life. I wouldn’t give it back to you.
I didn’t tear off the filter, I didn’t suck on it, I controlled myself. You reckon it’s hard to fight the hunger and thirst? try fighting off the need for a smoke. I became a businessman; unlike a physician or a judge, a businessman doesn’t need a hammer or a statoscope; a good businessman only needs the right opportunity and then anyone sitting to his left or to his right, even those sitting right in front of him – could become his victim. Even if the devil himself would sit in front of him, he’d be able to cut him a deal.

And so, one day I found myself in the following situation: your soup for a cigarette, said the man sitting in front of me, as if it was a done deal, no bargaining required. Two cigarettes, I said and kept on eating the soup. No, one, he said and put it to my nose, but I kept on eating. Give me two or I keep on eating – and suddenly every spoonful became a Schluck of the cigarette. He grabbed me by the hand – no, stop eating – and gave me two cigarettes. If anyone ever bothered to pile up all the cigarette butts we smoked back then, it would amount to a monstrous heap which would stink up the heavens. But there were no butts, of course, and if there ever were – we’d smoke them too. Later on they caught him with a cigarette and he was sent to one year of forced labor. One year for six and a half minutes with the cigarette. Was worth every second.

Köscher, du bist ein Jude? he asked, as if he didn’t know. He emphasized the ‘ö’ as if to differentiate it from the jewish Koscher.
Leider, I replied.
Warum hast du es mich nicht gesagt dann, dass du ein Jude bist?
Wenn ich es dir sagte, machtest du mich schon lang kaputt. Also, mach mich kaputt jetzt.
I was being so rude to him, that he simply said: Nein, ich will dich nicht kaputt machen. Komm her.
Here comes the cap-victim, murmured the others, cause they were sniping into our caps: hit – they would remove your body and tomorrow morning another guy would fill up your cap; miss – they would keep on sniping into our caps, cause we were all made to wear them. Just an example of how a cap can be deadlier than a cigarette.

I could care less if I would live another moment or two. Sit down, he said and turned the bank over to its dry side and I was thinking: if he’s ordering me to sit he’s not gonna kill me just yet. Maybe later. He lit up a cigarette and I remember wondering: what’s the matter, a murderer like him lighting up a cigarette? He gave it to me but I didn’t smoke it, instead I asked – had quite the nerve – whether I could share it with some of the others – one Schluck. The cigarette is being passed through twenty bony hands and with every Schluck they take it’s disappearing on me. I walk back to him with my arms spread, I don’t have as much as a butt left to spare, and then he takes out the rest and gives them all to me. I knew then: I’m not gonna die today.

Cigarettes, you see, were the fourth Reich; it was their way of making sure we would keep on dying even after they’d already be gone. Every cigarette I smoked reminded me of him, but I couldn’t give them up, they had become a major food group – my blood demanded it. Sixty years later, as I was visiting Dachau with my father, he suddenly had to have a cigarette. I gathered some dried leaves, rolled them into a piece of newspaper and gave it to him. What a difference it made.

If instead of suitcases filled with clothes you’d be carrying suitcases filled with newspapers, you could have been a millionaire, because we had no paper for smoking. So the few books which were available were gradually torn, page by page, for smoking. When they burned the books in that square they didn’t merely kill the finest jewish minds, they also extinguished endless loafs of bread which could have saved endless starving jews. If you think there’s a different between smoking a cigarette which was rolled on a poem by Goethe to one which was rolled on a poem by Heine, you’re dead wrong. It didn’t matter if it was a genuine cigarette, as long as it looked like one; a newspaper with some dried leaves and here’s to your health..

Hallo,
ich habe die Zustimmung vom DAAD bekommen. Im März werde ich für 2 Woche nach Madagaskar fliegen. Jetzt muss ich meine Reise gut vorbereiten u.a. das Flugticket richtig kaufen. Mein Flug von Paris nach Antananarivo fliegt um 10.45 ab. Ich muss deshalb einen günstigen früheren Flug von Frankfurt nach Paris herausfinden. Leider gibt es keinen dafür geeigneten Flug von Lufthansa. Ich muss mit Air France reisen. Die Preise wechseln schnell. Wenn ich heute die Preise gucke und 80€ lese, wird es nach 3 Tagen schon 50€ teurer. Ich wollte dann sofort das Ticket im Internet kaufen, um nicht noch mehr zu bezahlen. Leider im Internet kann ich nur ein Flugticket bei Air France mit einer Kreditkarte kaufen. Ich habe dann entschieden, nach Air France Frankfurt zu fahren und vor Ort das Flugticket kaufen. Nochmal leider kann man diesmal ein Flugticket lediglich im Terminal 2 von Frankfurt Flughafen. Als ich am Flughafen angekommen bin, hat die Angestellte von Air France mir Bescheid gegeben, dass wenn ich ein Flugticket im Flughafen kaufe, kostet das Flugticket 25€ mehr. Ehrlich gesagt wollte ich Geld sparen. Ach so obwohl mein Geld schon auf dem Zahltisch war, habe ich es zurückgenommen und wollte mein Flugticket noch anders kaufen. Zum Glück ist mein Professor nett. Ich konnte schließlich mein Flugticket mit seiner Kreditkarte im Internet kaufen und das Geld habe ich ihm bar gegeben.
Viele Grüße,
Hery

Dear all,

I want to tell you something about maths and myths and fire. Maths, because they are something you can calculate. Myths, because there is no way to trace them, never trust destiny. Fire? What one feels like when you try to calculate the untraceable. Like you are on fire when you try to see maths on coincidence. Coincidence, the untraceable, life, myth, ever.

It seems to me that this is a land of wanna-be-maths. Like one refuses to be human and distorted and ambiguous and contradictory and always needs to calculate the answer. Not that this is a particular land no no never dare say so. Like I am talking about a land as in a globe, like altogether and the same. If one could only admit that what we reach and what we have is a matter of coincidence, the result of a finely woven spider web with no master to direct the sense of the threads, then we would stop calculating and being mad at ourselves for doing so when we do or for not doing so when we don’t and we’d just let go.

Three and four are just an equation.

It was a long long time ago, when kings and queens and princesses built up castles in the air and it was snowing. When the people of this land started to believe in numbers and facts and objectivity and reality. The more they believed in reality, the more theirs would be blurred. Sawing till dawn, myths disappeared. Things were all clear by then, all clear and calculated and exact and science was born.

If you don’t believe in fairies and stories and dreams and thoughts and desires but all you do is believe in neat facts, crystal clear, in the things which you can have an influence upon and you can calculate, then you might as well burn your fears and hopes and snow. What you want to be is much more worth it than what you are. But remember, no master for the spider web. You are your own master.

It defines you better. Forgotten stories of childhood crying out loud to be remembered, in case you were afraid to read them. In the end, what we are, is a mixture of facts and dreams, of maths and myth, of asleep fire. Maths, myth, fire.

What defines us. I guess.

I have got news, one is good the other not so good the third one is bad. I will start with the good news which is the completion of the exams. The exams period is not one of my favourite moments as it limits my movement and time. There isn’t much you can do apart from revising and hoping that you don’t miss on anything and while you may comfort yourself that you will only revise on key areas you cannot brush aside the thought that probably 80% of the areas you don’t revise on will come in the exams. Well that torture is behind me at least for the moment and I can let my brain relax as I choke on the thought of the next exam session in two weeks hoping that the results will be good.

That makes my not so good news having to attend lectures and sit for exams while the rest of the student community is on vacation. While it is comforting to know that the library and the halls will be less crowded it feels like going to school on saturday or sunday. That reminds me, as a kid I remember the day I woke up early and dressed up ready to go to school only to be informed that it was saturday. Yeah, it is a contradiction but I loathe silence and empty space I would like to be in crowded lifts and halls having to fight for space in the libarary and having to line up in the mensa and board the crowded bahns, it makes me feel that I am not alone. Why can’t we just all go for the vacation at the same time and reopen at the same time?

The bad news ist that the mensa staff have gone on strike, and that means no lunch, just imagine on a monday! Imagine coming from a lecture room so tired and hungry headed for the mensa only to find that there is no real food, and you have to settle for soup and bread. Others may have no problem with that, but I definetely do, I have never really considered soup as part of food, don’t tell me about the nutritive value blah..blah …blah, I need real food which in many cases comes in a solid form. I am not sure of why the mensa staff have gone on a strike, but if it has to do with anything like salary increasement or better working conditions then I totally support them, all I am asking them is to come to an agreement soon so that I don’t end up starving, not with this winter.

Das sind keine Geschichten, das sind reale LEBEN, von realen Menschen.

• Der ägyptische Blogger Karim Amer wurde zu vier Jahren Haft verurteilt.
• Bewaffnete Männer haben einem Bewohner von Lomas del Poleo im mexikanischen Bundesstaat Chihuahua gedroht, ihn zu töten.
• Der iranische Studentenführer Majid Tavakkoli ist in einem unfairen Gerichtsverfahren zu acht Jahren und sechs Monaten Haft verurteilt worden.

Who cares: Wem eigentlich ist es wichtig?

Kann man überhaupt den Menschen helfen, die in einem  ganz anderen Teil der Welt sind?

Sagt man, dass man nicht helfen kann – irrt man sich, das wird von Amnesty international auch mehrmals bewiesen und zwar bei der Arbeit, Mitwirkung, Mithilfe. An dieser Stelle sollte man aber die aktiven von den passiven Menschen unterscheiden.

Im Bereich Menschensolidarität unterscheidet man noch die Gruppe von Menschen, die die Gefühle der Anderen verstehen, die die Fähigkeit, sich in die Einstellung anderer Menschen einzufühlen besitzen, also emphatisch sind. (vgl. Duden – Das Fremdwörterbuch). Machen aber nicht immer etwas um die Situation zu ändern. Allein mitfühlen und mitleiden hilft leider nicht weiter. Etwas zu machen, heißt aber aktiv zu sein.

Aktive Menschen sehen die Möglichkeit das Leben zu beeinflussen, das Leben selbst ist anders, wenn man daran aktiv teilnimmt. Schließt man aber die Augen vor Ungerechtigkeit, vor Rechteverletzung – wird davon die Welt nicht besser, eher dunkler sein.

“Schmerz-blinde”, nenne man die Menschen, die sich von Mitwirkung zurückhalten, mit dem Motto: “Das betrifft mich nicht, also überlasse ich dem Feld jemandem”.

Amnesty international aus der Nähe: aktive empathische Menschen

Erstmals fragte ich mich was genau Amnesty International tut erst am 23. und 24. Januar an der Uni Göttingen, wo die Veranstaltung von sozial engagierten Organisationen stattgefunden hat. Am Stand von Amnesty International konnte man eine Petition unterschreiben, die das Leben der Menschen positiv beeinflussen könnte. Ich finde aber gut, das ich nach dem Unterschreiben kontaktiert wurde und zum regionalen Treffen eingeladen wurde, wo ich viel mehr von der Organisation erfahren konnte.

Sehe Video Kampf gegen Ungerechtigkeit

Yes we can: Zusammen kann man viel!

Man hat hier eine ganze Palette von verschiedenen Aktionen, von Kinoabenden, Vorlesungen, öffentlichen Veranstaltungen bis zu Newsletters, Artikeln, Rechtlichen Briefen. Hier funktioniert es aber alles etwas anders: Echter Kampf passiert bürokratisch auf dem Papier, langsam aber vorwärts. Mit Petitionsunterschrift, einem Brief oder einer E-Mail trägt man dazu bei, die Situation von akut bedrohten Menschen zu bessern.

Sehe Video The power of Signature

Heutzutage wird also die Rüstung mehr und mehr wissensorientiert, also je mehr man seine Rechte kennt, desto mehr Kraft hat man* (gilt aber nicht in jedem Land). Um in einen Kampf für Menschen einzutreten braucht man enorme Motivation und mehrere Kompetenzen, ist echte Heldentat. Unter Held wird jmd. verstanden, der sich mit Unerschrockenheit und Mut einer schweren Aufgabe stellt, eine ungewöhnliche Tat vollbringt, die ihm Bewunderung einträgt (vgl. 2000 Dudenverlag, Sat Wolf, Bayern). Also ist nicht jeder für ähnliche Leistungen geeignet, in den Kampf gegen die Ungerechtigkeit zu treten. Für nervenschwache Leute ist solche Tätigkeit natürlich ausgeschlossen.

Die Hauptfunktionen von Amnesty international sind die Rechte des Menschen selbst Menschen zu erklären, und denen, die sich an diese Rechte nicht halten verschiedenartig zu erklären wie man sich benehmen muss. Es schien mir auch interessant die Kooperation von Organisation mit Hochschulgruppen, Polizei, Bibliothek, Frauenschutzorganisationen und ähnliche Einrichtungen.

Es ist aber schwierig die Welt zur Veränderungen zu zwingen, allein schafft man das nie, da soll mehrere Leute mitmachen. Deshalb sind Einsteiger jederzeit willkommen, egal aus welchem Land, mit welcher Hintergrund, Hauptsache – aktiv, empatisch, mitwirkend.

Mehr unter: Amnesty.de

Die Situation ist schon an dem Punkt angeraten, dass ich die Stunden zähle bis ich meine letzte Prüfung hinter mir habe. Und die ist morgen!
Nach der letzten Prüfung heißt es erst mal feiern und lange schlafen.
Manchmal wundert es mich, dass ich noch weiß was ich an so einem lernlosen Tag machen würde. In den letzten Wochen habe ich nur Bücher gesehen. Nun werde ich bald die Zeit haben genau das zu machen worauf ich gerade Lust habe. Ich freue mich wenn ich in die Stadt gehe und alle Leute so eine Freude ausstrahlen, weil sich alle auf die Semesterferien freuen und weil wahrscheinlich alle diesen enormen Druck von den Prüfungen hinter sich haben. Kleine Dinge nimmt man wieder wahr und schätzt sie wieder von ganz neuem. Die strahlenden Gesichter und die Lebensfreude die man bei allen erkennen kann. Langsam kann man sich dann auch schon auf den Frühling freuen.
Draußen in der Sonne auf der Wiese mit einem Picknickkorb. Mein Ideal für die kommede Zeit…die Semesterferien!

Hallo ihr alle ich wollte schon seit einer langen Zeit euch etwas schreiben war aber in der letzten Zeit sehr krank und konnte kaum etwas unternehmen. Nun kann es endlich anfangen mit meinen Erzählungen ich habe sehr vieles zu erzählen daher möchte ich zuerst mal über mich etwas schreiben.

Ich heiße Nashwa Abou Seada, arbeite als Oberassistentin an  der Germanistik Abteilung in Ägypten und promoviere nun, dank DAAD, an der Universitaet Stuttgart an dem Institut fuer neuere Literaturwissenschaft II. Ich bin 29 Jahre alt. Für Deutschland und für die deutsche Sprache interessiere ich mich schon lange, bevor ich überhaupt an der Uni studierte, da ich mit meinen Eltern schon seit meinem ersten Lebensjahr in Stuttgart für acht Jahre lebte. Nach unserer Rückkehr nach Kairo habe ich die Deutsche Evangelische Oberschule in  Kairo besucht und das Ägyptische Abitur sowie das Deutsche Sprachdiplom erhalten. Aus diesen Gründen betrachte ich Deutschland auch als meine zweite Heimat, da ich schon seit meinem ersten Lebensjahr zwischen diesen beiden unterschiedlichen aber wunderschönen Kulturen lebte.

Durch dieses Stipendium möchte ich mich auch noch einmal, aber dieses Mal als Erwachsene sowohl mit der Deutschen Kultur als auch mit den Deutschen bekannt machen, wie sie leben, arbeiten, wie sie uns sehen und inwieweit diese Vorstellungen richtig sind. Mir ist auch wichtig, Deutschland selbst aus meiner eigenen Erfahrung als Erwachsene dieses Mal und nicht mehr als Kind kennen zu lernen. Ich habe auch zwei kleine Kinder. Es sind Zwillinge.  Ein Mädchen und ein Junge mit denen ich meine Freizeit verbringe. Ich bin nun seit Oktober hier in Stuttgart und habe natürlich viele neue Erfahrungen gesammelt. Einige waren gute Erfahrungen und einige waren auch richtig schlecht. Das wird mein Thema für die nächste Woche sein, da kann ich euch auch besser schreiben, denn ich werde dann komplett erholt seien. Bis dann! Viele Grüße!
Eure
Nashwa