 ‘There are no permanent friends or enemies in international relations, only permanent interests.’ (Henry Kissinger) The third anniversary of Russia’s attack on Ukraine came and went this week with some hints of progress towards an end to the war. A possible deal or sorts, amidst shifting blame, and against the backdrop of disturbing rumours of hidden geopolitical manoeuvrings behind the scenes. It felt hard not to see Ukraine as trapped in the middle – a David now caught between two Goliaths as one friend put it – seemingly powerless at the hands of bigger, crushing and grabbing forces. In the middle of the mess, we saw the UK straddling two horses – with its Prime Minister in thin disguise asserting himself as the new leader of Europe (another land grab, of sorts, while his German and French counterparts were floundering in political chaos); whilst also sacrificing the poor in the world to the insatiable god of war in a bid to win approval of the world’s new President. I felt sick as I watched the news, seeing a leader sell his nation's soul for political expediency. I wondered what I might do if I were in his position of power and responsibility. I hope better, and I fear worse. I was brought back down to earth on Wednesday evening at a weekly ‘Prayers for Peace’ event in a cold church building in Germany. A group of ten German people – with I as a visiting Engländer – stood in prayerful solidarity with a group of twenty shy-looking Ukrainian women and children. Each held a candle and some cried with tears of pain and hope. I felt like crying too.
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 'We are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheels of injustice, we are to drive a spoke into the wheel itself.' (Dietrich Bonhoeffer) At a time when much of the democratic West is shifting politically to the right, I had a very harrowing experience today – visiting Konzentrationslager Flossenbürg, a former Nazi concentration camp in southern Germany. Despite dedicating much of my adult life to trying to prevent the conditions that allow such destructive ideologies to take hold, nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming weight of such a place. Standing before the memorial stones, each marked with a different flag, I read the staggering numbers – lists of people from various countries who were shot, hanged and burned within its barbed wire walls. I felt again an indescribable horror at the sheer brutality of the Nazi regime. A hard question haunted me: ‘How on earth did things get this bad?’ And equally disturbingly, ‘How is it that we, as humans, are capable of such evil?’ Because this isn’t just history and it isn’t just about them. It’s about us and now. This evening, back in my room, I turned on the TV news. More headlines about the growing success of the AfD in Germany – then Starmer appeasing MAGA Trump by increasing UK weapons spending, whilst deftly slashing the foreign aid budget. (He clearly misunderstood Robin Hood as a child). Rising nationalism. 'Us first' ethnocentrism. Crackdowns on free speech. Preparations for war. Does any of this sound familiar? 
‘When we know people whose lives are being destroyed and there seems to be no way of reaching them; when people are in impossible situations and there are no words to help them…hold them at the centre of prayer, where the divine Christ dwells, and expose them to the rays of his love.’ (Iain Matthew) Friedensgebet (‘prayers for peace’) felt even more earnest this evening than last time I was here. As we entered the church, each person lit a candle and placed it on a silver cross before a figure of the crucified Christ. It felt like holding the suffering of the world before one who knows what it is to endure pain. The candle I lit barely flickered at first, as if struggling to spark itself into even the tiniest glimmer of a flame. Hope, too, can sometimes feel like that. Those present reflected on certain parallels in German society today with those that preceded the rise of the Nazis so many years ago now. That was an unspeakably dark period in German history which, at times like this, still surfaces, smoulders and burns in the people’s collective psyche. I could feel their sense of concern and anguish about the forthcoming general election. Would Germany learn from its history, or would it find itself condemned to repeat it? As we prayed, I recalled Iain Matthew’s soulful spiritual wisdom: ‘Feel the way to the wound that is in us, to the place of our need. Go there, take it, name it; hold it before Christ. Feel our way to the wounds of this world, to those people or situations in dire need of healing. Go there, take them, name them; and hold them before him. Go there, not to dictate to Christ what the answer should be or what he should do about it; but to hold the wound before him.’ Yes.  ‘Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity.' (Pema Chödrön) Sunday evening this week, a trip to Germany. I was taken aback by the curt responses I received from some airport staff when transferring between flights, and witnessed from some cabin crew members towards passengers on the plane. It was and felt unusual, very different to what I’d experienced and seen on my many visits to Germany before. It made me wonder what demands and stresses these staff are facing, especially perhaps with tightening pressures in Germany on immigration and border control as it approaches its general election this month. It reminded me of an appraisal workshop I ran with Sue Powell, a gifted coach and trainer who’d worked internationally too. We were exploring a human tendency to judge others by their actions and, by contrast, ourselves by our intentions. Sue invited participants, in 2s, simply to stand in the room facing each other. Then, in silence, she invited them to imagine vividly, ‘This person is a problem’, and to notice how they felt as they did so. Then, ‘This person has a problem.’ And finally, ‘This person is like me, trying to do their best, yet has their ups and downs.’ Participants fed back in plenary how their feelings towards the other person had changed as they made these shifts in what they were telling themselves about that person; with an increase in empathy as the activity progressed. They also reflected on how, if it had been an appraisal conversation, what they were saying to themselves about the other could well have influenced reactions and outcomes, without necessarily being aware of it. So, there’s something here about grace and truth, addressing issues honestly whilst taking a compassionate stance.  ‘Don't be too quick to offer unsolicited advice. It certainly will not endear you to people.’ (Harvey Mackay) In Germany today a friend, Margitta, and I shared experiences of giving well-meaning advice to others when it hasn’t landed well with those we’d hoped to help. The push-back has sometimes taken us by surprise, leaving the relationship bruised by what happened and what lay behind it. Margitta went on to explain that a German word for advice, Ratschlag, means quite literally to ‘hit with counsel’. Being ‘struck’ unexpectedly could understandably provoke a defensive response. Sometimes it’s about giving advice that someone didn’t invite; or at the wrong time when, say, empathy would have been more appropriate; or that it simply didn’t fit with them or the complex and felt realities of a situation they were dealing with. On occasion, it could have been a result of mansplaining – a man telling a woman something she already knows – which can be and feel patronising. (I may have just done that inadvertently by explaining what mansplaining means). Remember: ‘I’m not in X’s situation’ and, even more importantly, ‘I’m not X in X’s situation’. This is a useful word of caution to speak to ourselves. It’s also a main reason why developmental practices such as coaching and action learning focus on offering open questions rather than posing suggestions or solutions. Advice has its place, but: Is a person asking for it? Is this the best time for it? Is it appropriate? Am I the right person to give it? Can the relationship bear it?  ‘Refugees didn’t just escape a place. They had to escape a thousand memories until they’d put enough time and distance between them and their misery to wake to a better day.’ (Nadia Hashimi) I learnt a new expression in Germany this week: ‘Ich bin ein Anhänger Jesu’: that is, ‘I’m a follower of Jesus.’ Anhänger. An interesting use of metaphorical language. It’s the same word that we’d use, in English, for a trailer. A trailer has no power of its own and relies entirely on the vehicle that pulls it. To be a follower of Jesus is, in the words of 18th century preacher Chales Finney, completely dependent on ‘power from on high’. It’s as if God can draw us in all kinds of directions and make the most amazing journeys possible. Without him, we are like a trailer standing unhitched at the roadside. That’s certainly been true in my experience, and for others too. Margitta was 7 years old when her father, a Christian who resisted Communist ideology openly at increasing risk, made the bold decision to leave East Germany (the former DDR) to escape to the West. They couldn’t have known that, just one year later, the Berlin Wall would be built and that journey would be impossible. Margitta remembers vividly wearing extra clothing – the only possessions they could take with them – as they climbed onto a train. To carry bags would have looked suspicious to the border authorities and tempted arrest. It was Easter Sunday which, for Christians, represents life-after-death, when they stepped off the train in West Berlin. It was the beginning of a new life, but certainly not the end. The next few years were marked by being moved from place-to-place, firstly in West Berlin and then, after having been flown out of the isolated island city that Berlin had now become, in West Germany. Margitta remembers living in large rooms full of refugees with tables upturned to create makeshift beds, then in apartment blocks with brightly-painted coloured doors, then again in halls where families were separated only by sheets hanging from rails or the ceiling. It was a painful experience, especially for Margitta’s Mum, to be separated so far from her extended family and all that had been home. Last night, as I watched the German movie, ‘Bornholmer Straße’ with Margitta and her Christian husband Uli, it brought these memories back to life. I visited Berlin last week and, seeing the film play out the drama that had happened that night – some 28 years after the Wall had been built – when the heavily-guarded border between East and West finally opened again, was an emotional experience. For many trapped in the East who had felt like prisoners in their own country, this Kairos moment really was like a death-to-life experience. Margitta looks back with thanks for how God grasped hold of her family – and took them on that journey of hope, to freedom. Ein Anhänger Jesu.  ‘In years and generations down the line, there's going to be a right and wrong side of history, and I certainly want to be on the right side’. (Duncan Robinson) Shortly after the end of World War 2 at the Nürnberg War Trials, Hermann Göring, a leading Nazi figure, attempted to absolve himself by claiming, ‘The victor will always be the judge, and the vanquished the accused.’ It’s as if the accusations levelled against him for the horrific atrocities of the Nazi regime and, therefore, the necessity for him to defend himself now on trial, were a consequence of the Allies winning the war and the Nazis losing it. It was an attempt to deflect personal responsibility, to re-present historical facts as politically-construed by the victors. No-one can know for sure if Göring actually believed his own cynical rationalisations. We do, however, know that Adolf Hitler was driven by a similar sentiment at the end of World War 1. He felt a seething resentment that, after all he and his comrades had endured during that war, Germany was now presented to the world as the undisputed guilty party and aggressor. The Allies were able to console themselves that their suffering during the war had been worth it, to defeat the evil enemy. The Germans had no such consolation. They were on the wrong side – and lost. This week, I was in Germany and visited the preserved remnants of the infamous Berlin Wall. I spoke with a friend, Alex, who shared some of his own experiences of visiting this place just after the Wall came down. For some people with whom he spoke in the (now former) Deutsche Demokratische Republik (DDR), they had the feeling of being on the wrong side in World War 2 under the Nazis, and then again under the Eastern (Communist) Bloc. It’s hard existentially to carry a cultural history, an international portrayal, a feeling of guilt: to have been on the wrong side.  ‘Wealth and individualism are positively correlated at both the individual and the national level.’ (Yuji Ogihara) I met with a group of young students in Germany this week to compare and contrast social trends with the UK. We focused initially on the ways in which our respective households have changed, for example, in terms of size and structure. In the 1950s, for instance, households in Germany and the UK were typically larger and multigenerational. Today, in these and other European countries, households are smaller with a significant rise in the proportion of people who live alone. I invited the students to reflect on what might lay behind these changes and I was astonished by the sophistication of the conversation that flowed between them – a testimony to the Montessori school’s teachers and distinctive pedagogical approach. I suggested that, based on what I have learned in Asia and Africa, household size is often influenced by relative poverty and wealth. It’s as if the more money we have, the less we need to depend on each other: at least financially. Rudo Kwaramba explains: ‘In wealthy countries, if you can’t earn an income or if you lose your job, your government provides you with financial support; if you become injured or unwell, your health system or insurance covers you. In poorer countries, people can only look to each other for this support.’ This interdependency phenomenon is a deep cultural driver behind building and sustaining close relationships within extended families, and between families and wider communities. Broader cultural considerations apart, as the wealthy get richer, not only do we tend to become more individual-orientated but our quality-of life-expectations grow too. Many people in affluent societies now believe they can’t afford to have children because they have to work so hard to earn enough money to gain or sustain the lifestyle they aspire to. As a consequence, we face a ticking time bomb of rapidly-ageing populations with fewer young people to support and replace them. It's time for a rethink.  ‘True compassion means not only feeling another's pain but also being moved to help relieve it.’ (Daniel Goleman) The elderly woman felt scared as she entered the care home. She has dementia and the change in surroundings left her feeling anxious and confused. That first evening in her new room, she wanted to lay down to sleep but she stood in silence, frozen in fear. Seeing her reaction, her care worker took her by the hand, led her gently to the bed and laid down beside her. In doing so, she modelled extraordinary empathy and compassion, stretched the boundaries of professional practice and, in doing so, enabled this woman to rest and relax. She felt safer now, not alone. I felt astonished as I heard this story from a good friend in Germany last night. I tried to imagine the scene and, in doing so, I felt quite tearful. It made me reflect on the deep, healing power of touch and of being-with, especially perhaps when working with people with dementia and other cognitive, emotional or relational challenges. Yes, we do need to take safeguarding concerns seriously. Yes, we do need to consider the needs and preferences of different individuals, cultures and circumstances too. Yet how to retain the human in the midst of formal roles and rules..?  ‘We build too many walls and not enough bridges.’ (Isaac Newton) Travelling 33 kilometres from Münchberg in former West Germany to Mödlareuth at the edge of the former East, yesterday, felt like travelling 33 years back in time. The first occasion on which I had visited the Deutsche Demokratische Republik (DDR) was shortly after the infamous Berlin wall came down, and before the subsequent German reunification that confined the now-defunkt DDR to the history books. I was struck, then, by how colourful it was in the East, in contrast to the documentaries we saw on TV where it was almost invariably depicted in shades of drab grey, black and white. The next thing that struck me was how naïve I had been to imagine the East was really like that. Unlike most state boundaries around the world, the DDR’s border with its ominous walls, fences, watch towers, searchlights, minefields and patrols with dogs and guns at that time were designed primarily to keep the DDR’s own citizens in, rather than – like a former US President’s vision of his own big wall – to keep other people out. According to the Netflix documentary ‘Merkel’ (2022), former German Bundeskanzlerin Angela Merkel’s upbringing in and experience of living behind the DDR’s stretch of the iron curtain had a significant psychological influence on her resistance to hard borders in and around the European Union. The past has a way of playing itself out in the present. The parts of the East that I visited this week looked remarkably similar to how they did all those years ago. The physical border is gone, except in those places where remnants have been preserved to retain a sense of history-as-real and to educate intrigued visitors and tourists. The ongoing cultural differences and economic disparities between West and East, however, continue to have a marked influence on German politics. The pale-painted houses still look now as they did as before, some like symbols of a distant, decaying past that lost and never quite managed to recover and regain their former glory. The new cold war, gaining in foreboding heat, carries a disturbing resonance. |
Nick WrightI'm a psychological coach, trainer and OD consultant. Curious to discover how can I help you? Get in touch! 
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