The Past is a Foreign Country

“I feel my grandfather with me every day” (Credit: Florence Thomas)

I think of my grandfather every time I jaywalk in Berlin. “They stand like little Hitlers at the traffic lights,” he had cautioned me, in one of our many conversations about my year abroad. My dad and I spent years, with admittedly limited success, trying to advise him on which comments were suitably PC to vocalise but, despite his sometimes comically antiquated and inappropriate phrasing, he was still the wisest person I have ever known. I often wonder what he would make of my year abroad… The reflex to call or text him has softened but not entirely dissipated in the years since his passing.

In Berlin, the past division of the city seeps into every concrete curve. As I walk with my dad beside the remains of the wall, I think of the past. I think of my own, of the city’s. I think of barriers and division between past and present, life and death. And I wonder if, like the Berlin Wall, hastily erected to solidify separation, the barriers we enforce between life and death might not also be too firmly cemented. In German, the verb “to die” (“sterben”) is a verb of motion, denoted by the auxiliary “sein”. This implies a shift in states, a movement from one place to another, and – one of the many occasions when I fail to comprehend German grammar – I simply do not understand this. I feel my grandfather with me every day. His state, his fundamental being, is shifted. So, in that way, the verb is right to denote change. Change but not separation. My family and I like to say that, every time we see deer in our garden – or grazing in the undergrowth of Epping Forest – that it is the spirit of my grandparents coming to greet us, breaking through the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of time with one gentle twitch of their short, bushy tails. 

“I stare at the wind turbines, turning and turning like the outstretched hands of a clock” (Credit: Florence Thomas)

Our flat in Germany is in East Berlin and, as I commute home from work, under the bleached yellow lights of a tram carriage, I reflect on this. I think of the trams in the East and the U-Bahn in the West. I think of how one can cross barriers but never fully erode them. Yet I believe, though barriers exist, they are neither permanent nor impenetrable. One evening in the apartment, one of my flatmates introduces me to his favourite song: ‘Ghost’ by Motorama. While I think the song is addressed to a lover, I don’t view it romantically. Rather, I note how it somehow captures the intricacies and contradictions of Berlin, of my own life – my own grief, happiness, sadness and, above all, hope. The melody is gently uplifting like the subtle creeping of colour into a barren winter landscape, like the sprinkling of snowdrops in my grandad’s well-tended garden. The lyrics are almost sad but somehow comforting and familiar like the unexpected, elusive embrace of nostalgia. 

My hopes, my will, were never a part of you. When I first heard the opening lyrics to ‘Ghost’, I thought they read “My hopes, my will, in every part of you”. I thought of my grandfather’s gentle, guiding presence. I thought of myself, in some ways continuing his legacy, his journey, his life. However, the song’s actual lyrics seem somehow more appropriate. Before he died, he told me that he was not afraid of death, that he had lived a good life and was ready for it to be over. However, as the song’s lyrics evoke when they observe “in this moment we are close to each other again,” though I live my own life, independent of his, he is with me in little moments throughout the day. 

My grandad gave the best advice and, as my parents can attest, he was one of the few people to whom I invariably listened. We always spoke to each other frankly. I know he wanted me to carry on and lead my own life, to walk towards the sun rather than peer backwards into the darkness. But, on a run one evening in East Berlin, I stare at the wind turbines, turning and turning like the outstretched hands of a clock; I see deer grazing in the soft, orange light and recall the lyrics of ‘Ghost’. I think of the ghosts of the city, of my own ghosts, floating across my dreamscape and dusting the corners of my eyelids with tears. Then, I think of my grandad. In this moment, we are close to each other again.