This is pretty much the only way she gets to sleep, swinging and listening to the sounds of waves crashing…

For those still reading this blog, it will now change form radically from a chronicle of our travels and fun in Berlin to a chance to post periodic pictures and video of this young lady.

Mika Sonja Beckerman (that’s Mee-ka Son-ya) was born on October 9 at 3:16 in the morning. She weighed 7 pounds 11 ounces and was twenty inches long. She was pink and screaming and, as you can see from above–in a picture taken hours after she came into the world–had a beautiful head of hair (with, strangely, blond highlights).

For more photos of her first week, click on the flickr link to the side or go here.

So we turned out not to be the best of bloggers. Especially in the last few months when life here began to normalize, we just felt less and less compelled to record here. We’d like to think this speaks well of us–or maybe it just means that we’re old and don’t know how to live a virtual life. But that’s what happened. And now all our recent adventures (to Poland, Denmark, and Croatia, among other places) have gone unblogged. And, tomorrow morning, we finally depart Berlin.

So much of what made our life here wonderful never really made it onto this site or even into our conversations with friends and family. This year felt, more than anything else, like a long bicycle ride (and in fact, we spent much of it on bicycles), a time of gliding through, observing, not stopping to analyze and classify, but just moving in and out of new situations that we would have never encountered in our New York lives. The gliding part was disorienting at times. But it was a nice break from a life that can otherwise feel very concentrated, too focused—the life we return to tomorrow. We sat for hours in cafes, rode around the city, read a lot, spent a lot of our evening with an international group of people that we also might never have befriended back home.

We’ll keep on writing here for the three people who are actually reading. Tomorrow new adventures start, ones that will have less to do with adjusting to new places than with the search for stability at home. And, of course, our little struggle to make room in this world for one more luftmensch.

– Debbie and Gal

Christopher Caldwell claims Reflections on the Revolution in Europe is not a lecture to Europeans about how to handle their Islam problem. But his analysis leaves room for only one conclusion. White Europeans need to start fighting fire with fire, shed their exalted notions of multiculturalism and human rights, find religion and civilizational purpose, and, for good measure, dig back a few centuries to rediscover arranged marriage so they can start matching immigrants baby for baby. They might also consider sending all those Muslims—referred to occasionally as “invaders” and colonizers—back where they came from. Otherwise, in no time, Europe will cease to exist. Caldwell, an editor at the Weekly Standard, doesn’t admit any other possible outcome for the battle between the two caricatures he draws. When in one corner you have “an insecure, malleable, relativistic culture” and in the other a “culture that is anchored, confident, and strengthened by common doctrines,” which would you put your money on?

That he arrives at such a Manichaean understanding is unfortunate, since it effectively short-circuits a nuanced conversation about some good and challenging questions. Caldwell is right to wonder about the inevitability of the mass immigrations that began on the Continent in the 1950s and continued unabated through the 1990s, when Europe relaxed many restrictions on refugees and asylum seekers. The reflex answers are well known: The postwar economies needed the manpower. Guest workers were doing jobs no one wanted. Europe, with its history of murderous nationalism and exploitative colonialism, had an obligation.

But where was the long-term thinking as hundreds of thousands of immigrants streamed in? The industrial jobs that guest workers filled were fast becoming obsolete. And few stopped to consider that these immigrants would choose to stay and build their lives in Europe rather than returning home, that Europeans were importing, as Caldwell puts it, “not just factors of production but factors of social change”—people who, among other stresses, might weigh down Europe’s cherished welfare system.

Most Western European countries now have a foreign-born population that tops 10 percent, and for Caldwell it’s their overwhelmingly Muslim identity that is the threat. He regards Islam’s role in Europe today in the same way cold warriors understood Communism in the 1950s: as an all-consuming force that will take advantage of the West’s freedom in order to destroy its values and way of life. Regardless of where they came from, whether the Maghreb or Turkey, and where they have settled, whether Denmark or Spain, Caldwell sees Muslim immigrants as adherents of an adversarial worldview, which seeks to establish what ethnographer Rauf Ceylan calls “ethnic colonies” in the hope of eventually conquering Europe “street by street.” Even benign Muslim institutions are “worrisome, no matter how innocent their ends or how peaceful their ethos.” Caldwell ties together many events since 9/11, from the Danish-cartoon uproar to the riots in Paris banlieues to the killing of Theo van Gogh, as symptoms of the same disease: a hostile Muslim population that will never assimilate and—through high birthrate and fervent belief—will Islamize Europe in short order.

He saves his true scorn, though, for Europeans. The Islamic ethos at least has traditional values and cohesiveness. Next to it, Europe is nothing but decadence and uncertainty. His analysis drips with disgust for societies that lack self-confidence, that are willing to fight, if at all, only for gay rights and sexual permissiveness. As he sees it, this is the legacy of a guilt-ridden postwar moral order that put the need for tolerance above all else, sacrificing “order, liberty, fairness and intelligibility” on its altar.

Caldwell presents his argument in such with-us-or-against-us terms that it hurts to acknowledge the places he is right. It is un-deniable that there is a disgruntled and dangerous sense of victimhood among Muslim immigrants, and a culture that secular Europeans can’t help but view as misogynistic. These developments both pose immense obstacles to integration. But do they mean that integration is impossible? For every “ethnic colony,” there is also a sign of slow but steady adaptation to Europe, whether in the realm of the cultural, the religious, or the sexual. Caldwell rarely mentions political power—in his reading, it’s irrelevant when a minority rules through intimidation. But it is not at all irrelevant on a continent where democracy remains sacred. For the most part, these large immigrant groups have almost no political representation and no ability to counter the anti-immigration laws currently sweeping Europe. But it’s also telling that those who have risen to power—like Cem Özdemir, the son of guest workers, who is now a chairman of Germany’s Green Party, and Rachida Dati, the daughter of a Moroccan bricklayer and now France’s justice minister—have done so as loyal citizens.

As for European society, it is much stronger than Caldwell gives it credit for. Multiculturalism has given back to Europeans what the twentieth century took away: an ability to feel good about one’s country. Letting in strangers, challenging though it’s been, has not only helped Europe overcome its history, it has forced an expansion, in vibrant and diverse ways, of what it means to be German or French or English. Moving in the opposite direction, a retreat into some pre-Enlightenment ethnically and religiously based idea of the nation-state is not an option—as Caldwell himself has to know. Too much has happened since.

– Debbie

French people spend more time eating and sleeping than the habitants of any other highly developed country, according to a report published Monday by the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. The French sleep an average of nine hours every night, the report said. That is about 30 minutes longer than the average American and over an hour longer than the Japanese and Koreans. The O.E.C.D. study, based on a survey of 18 member countries, also shows that the French spend more than two hours a day eating, twice the time spent by people in Mexico, Canada and the United States.

Yesterday we experienced, within a few hours, both the quiet ego and the messy id of the German character (the folks above would be the id part).

In the morning we drove with German some friends about a half hour south of Berlin to Beelitz a farming village that is well known for its white asparagus. Spargel, as it’s known here, is a seasonal phenomenon that is feted in much the same way that the yearly Beaujolais is in Paris. Stores will announce the fresh shipments, restaurants prepare special dishes, and everyone seems to be talking about how funny their pee smells. In any case, we decided to visit the source. It was a sleepy town. We walked for an hour under a fierce sun to take a look at an unimpressive lake. And then we sat down to the main event:

It was…okay. Not quite the delicacy we imagined. Later that day, though, another German friend informed us that we had not really had the real spargel experience. First, because we hadn’t eaten nearly enough. And second, because spargel should only be eaten with melted butter and not the hollandais sauce that was poured over ours. So, it seems, we’ll have to try again.

When we returned to Berlin, May Day was in full effect. We’d been reading for weeks about how the Berlin police had been preparing for riots–the papers actually called them the “traditional” May 1st riots. For weeks, gangs of black-clad extreme leftists have been setting expensive cars on fire all over the city. Almost 6,000 riot police were expected.

We made our way through Kreuzberg. It looked like a massive street fair with more broken glass, drunks, screaming anarchists, and thumping rave music than I’ve ever experienced. It was a struggle just to make it down a block. We also saw loads of riot police with their helmets and sticks. The political aspect of the day seemed lost on me. The kids causing trouble–and they did, later in the day, looting, breaking windows, hurling stones at the cops–were just looking for an excuse to fuck shit up. It was funny today to read newspaper articles talking about the demonstrations as reflections of the economic crisis. Here in Berlin, it’s been hardly felt. What summed up the day best were the kids throwing beer bottles at the sidewalk near the Skalitzer U-Bahn stop and loudly screaming along to the Beastie Boys: “You’ve got to fight for your right to party!”

Here’s a little video of the street scene, which only begins to capture a bit of the buzzy energy. We have some photos on the flickr as well.

– Gal

Germans don’t make babies. It’s a national epidemic. In order to help encourage young couples to do the deed, the German government now offers paternal leave giving parents a whopping 14-months off from work after squeezing out a wee one. In Berlin, and especially in our neighborhood, fathers are happily taking on the role of full-time mommy and daddy.

Although some of them feel a little alienated from the mommy culture, so they’ve created a Father’s Center where dads can drink coffee, talk sports, and bounce little baby Borris on the their knee.
Here’s a radio piece I did for Deutsche Welle

For some visuals check out this video (in German).

-Debbie

My latest review in the Forward.

A strange three-act drama is played out here in Germany with unsettling regularity.

Some public figure — usually a politician — will make a comparison between the present-day and Nazi Germany. I’ll grab the first example that comes to mind. Last year, a week before the 70th anniversary of Kristallnacht, a well-known German economist from Munich, Hans-Werner Sinn, made the mistake of comparing the scapegoating of bank managers for the unfolding financial crisis to the treatment of Jews in 1930s Germany. “Back then, it hit the Jews in Germany; today, it’s the managers,” he said. “In every crisis, people look for culprits, for someone to blame.” Act Two quickly commenced: contrition. This act usually stars the leadership of the German-Jewish community, whose job description, as far as I can tell, mostly involves being an address for apologies for idiotic Nazi comparisons made by otherwise unassuming Germans. “I apologize to the Jewish community and take back the comparison,” Sinn announced. The final act is the national conversation, which lasts roughly a week. Talk shows and magazines feature round-table discussions about the state of antisemitism and the politics of memory. And then it’s over, to be repeated next time someone inadvertently sticks a swastika in his mouth.

It can be an absurd spectacle. But maybe that’s why I laughed so much — an uncomfortable giggle at first, which ripened into something louder — when an oafish, red-bearded German apologized to me from the stage the other night in the first moments of a new play, “Third Generation,” now in performance at Berlin’s famed Schaubühne (in German, English, Hebrew and Arabic, with English supertitles). Niels, as he introduced himself, just wanted to have a word with us before the show started. “Are there any Jews out there?” he asked in German. A few sheepishly raised their hands. “In the name of the German people,” he said, hand over heart, “I apologize.” He was only getting started. “Any gypsies in the audience?” No one responded. “Well, they must be on the way.” More nervous giggles. Homosexuals? Sorry. How about Turkish emigrants? He felt terrible for how the government had treated them in the 1990s. As he apologized, the rest of the cast — which, we already know from the program, consisted of an equal number of Israelis, Germans and Palestinians — made its way onto the bare stage behind him. “Oh, here’s Ishay,” Niels said suddenly, turning to one of the Israeli actors. “To you, Ishay, I would like to personally apologize. Your grandfather was electrocuted on the gate of the Sachsenhausen concentration camp. My apologies. I’m very sorry.” Ishay emitted an awkward, “Forget about it!” and a relieved smile spread across Niels’s face. “If only it was always so easy,” he told the now hysterical audience.

All that awkward laughter must have warmed the heart of Yael Ronen, the young Israeli director behind the production. Considered an enfant terrible of the Israeli stage, Ronen clearly intends for us — the third-generation descendents of interlocking tragedy — to laugh at the rote ways in which we talk about that history and how it still affects our lives. The result, still technically a work in progress, achieves this goal very well, using humor to mock the well-worn narratives and dynamics. It fails, however, in its second, more critical purpose, of pushing us beyond these clichés.

Ronen’s intriguing idea was to take four Israelis, four Germans and four Palestinians (or Israeli Arabs) and force them into what she described as “group therapy.” They shared their own personal histories, met with historians and journalists, and then visited a few provocative sites, like Sachsenhausen concentration camp and a checkpoint crossing in the West Bank. Amit Epstein, the play’s Israeli dramaturge, told me that the objective was to grope together toward a “new terminology,” a new relationship to the history and its fraught legacy. So raw was the result of this month of emotional processing that the shape of the resulting “play” was actually just the strung-together improvised scenes and monologues that the workshop produced.

The actors each play themselves or variations of themselves. And all the humor has the same punch line: the stale, predictable ways we talk about the past. So a young Palestinian actor tells the story of his family’s displacement in 1948 using a puppet of his grandfather, robbing himself of any real voice. In one of the most uncomfortable and funny scenes, several Israeli actors play teenagers who are pleading for money to fund a program that tours them through Nazi concentration camps. The scene is clearly meant to make fun of the oversized place the Holocaust now fills in Israeli identity. The kids are flip and unthinking about the history, talking about how Auschwitz was “much cooler” than Majdanek. One of the girls, Ayelet, soulfully strums a guitar, as they all sing a jingle: “Don’t stop sending us to Auschwitz….” The self-indulgence of inherited victimhood is painfully obvious in their breaking voices. Meanwhile, every German monologue predictably wrestles with whether to feel apologetic or to fight against the fact that, as one character puts it, “the Jews have the world by the balls.”

These words are certainly irreverent coming from the German stage. Especially provocative is Ronen’s idea of completing a triangle of historical suffering by bringing together the three groups. This aspect even earned the show some good publicity before its premiere, when one of the oldest members of the German-Jewish community published an open letter to the Schaubühne, complaining that the play would morally equate the Palestinians’ suffering with that of the Jews’. Ronen smartly and politely responded that it was just that type of debilitating fear of comparison — of somehow undermining the Holocaust’s sacred uniqueness — that she was trying to move beyond. And in fact, one of the play’s funniest monologues is an ironic riff on this theme, with a refrain of “Don’t compare!”

The humor does feel fresh. But the new language I hoped for never quite arrives. If anything, the play reinforces the notion that as uninteresting as the terms of our current trilateral talks are, they have a lock on us. There are self-referential moments where Ronen and her actors seem very aware of this. Near the end of the play, Ayelet, now acting as herself, laments: “We shouldn’t have done that teenager scene. They are going to use it against us. They’ll say we’re self-hating traitors.”

I’ve been in Berlin for the past year, and no German has ever apologized to me. One of the happy surprises of living here is that though the history of the place is never far from my mind, the self-awareness of many young Germans of this third generation has released me from the aggrieved bitterness I assumed I might feel as the grandson of Holocaust survivors. Having a conversation about victims and oppressors is not interesting. I realize this is all anecdotal, but in my experience, sharing how burdened we are by the past has brought me closer to other Germans as opposed to alienating me from them. I’m thinking, for example, of an evening where I sat listening to a blond-haired colleague of my wife talk about her estrangement from her grandmother, a woman who helped start Hitler’s euthanasia program in Vienna. I felt sympathy for her. I didn’t feel compelled to tell her about my grandfather’s experience in Majdanek. The two stories, though obviously historically connected, did not depend on each other. They weighed us down in two different ways; one did not take away from the other. As difficult as it is to imagine right now, I’ve seen this same dynamic — one characterized by empathy, as opposed to insecurity — take place on the Israeli-Arab side of the triangle (though, admittedly, only very far away from the Middle East).

“Third Generation” breaks down in its final minutes. The cast members, who listen to each other so patiently throughout, begin brawling wildly. Having arrived at the limit of laughter, they don’t come up with anything else to say. Instead, Ayelet, frustrated that the exercise has all been for naught — that the Israelis still look like aggressors and the Palestinians like victims, and that the Germans are adequately repentant — screams at the audience, using words that are still sure to silence any conversation: “You are all Nazis!”

– Gal