G and I recently spent three days in Berlin, Germany. I knew it was going to be cold, but I did NOT think there would be snow. We trudged around the city anyway, soaking in the history.
This was on the way to see a part of the wall. The cold weather and dreary day somehow made the whole experience more somber.
Walking along and reading about the not-so-long-ago days when Germany was the site of untold terror and violence, I felt deeply saddened by the thought of how cruel people can be. But then, at every turn I was confronted by the resilience of the people, their sheer determination to move on but yet still remember what happened to them. East Germans are a rare breed indeed. Friendly and hospitable, with a wicked sense of humor. The bleak landscape, with building after building after building, is a stark contrast to the colorful people who inhabit the city.
I wasn’t even born in 1961. But I remember the Wall. And I remember the Wall coming down. The strange thing is, I don’t think my kids know about it. And to stand there, where that unimaginable history was made, was surreal.
It made me realize how fragile our freedom really is.