Post 4: Berlin, A City of Contradictions

I will be spending much time in the city of Berlin this December, so I was excited to view Matt Frei’s documentary about this fascinating city with a turbulent past. It was difficult to pick out only three topics of interest, but in the end three ideas stood out among the rest: political contradiction, burying the past, and Berliner identity. All three are intertwined, but each individual idea had a hand in making Berlin the unique metropolis it is today.

Berlin as a city has always been filled with contradictions: its history, and indeed much of the world’s history, was affected greatly by the influence of Frederick the Great, one of the city’s first great contradictions. Frederick was equal parts warrior and philosopher; it was said that he led his troops by day and played music for them at night. Frederick’s two greatest influences, his military-crazed father and the philosopher Voltaire, were polar opposites, and the result was a ruler who left future Berliners at a loss; was this patriarch an absolutist monarch or a believer in education and justice for all classes? This dichotomy followed Berliners through to the second World War, when the Nazi Party, who idolized Frederick as a ruler who fought many battles in the name of Germany’s expansion and military gains, a true, racially pure German; at the same time, however, the Nazi party was suppressing in Berlin some of the very characteristics of Frederick’s more philosophical side: freedom, education, and homosexuality. In the years following the war, the contradictions became more pronounced, when the West vs. East divide also meant a division of ideals. East Berlin, within a short matter of time, went from attempting to mar the name of Frederick to embracing his harsher attributes—once again, ironically idolizing a man whose personal life and beliefs contradicted the message they were trying to portray.

Frederick the Great is, today, a major figure in German history, and while for some time he was demoted to merely "Frederick the Second" it still holds true that, for most of German history, Frederick has been accepted for who he was, a man full of contradictions.

When Goebbels publicly burned the contents of the library of the Institute for Sexual Research, he was sending a very clear message: this sort of knowledge was not acceptable in Nazi Germany. What's interesting, however, is that this sort of history would most likely have fascinated their idol Frederick, who it is often asserted was homosexual himself. In any case, a man who supported the education of all would hardly have enjoyed the burning of a research library.

The split of Berlin into East and West called for another interesting trend, that of burying the past. The end of WWII left Berliners with a city full of memories that most were all too willing to forget. On both sides of Berlin were relics of past moments, ideas that neither reflected nor supported the current ideals of Berlin’s leaders, on either side. Because of this, both the destruction of historical buildings and the creation of new structures had a drastic effect on the city and its people. Whether it be the destruction of Hitler’s Chancellery and repurposing of materials into a monument to fallen Russians, building (and later tearing down) a virtual landmark for East Germans on the site of the Prussian monarchs’ palace, or the construction of the Berlin Wall through towns, families, and even graveyards, buildings and monuments in Berlin are much more than places of residence and business; they are often a way for the government (or occasionally the people) to present a new ideal in the place of an old one.

The Schloss, the palace of many Prussian Royals, was considered before WWII to be one of the greatest German landmarks in Berlin. After the war it was in major disrepair, the perfect excuse for East German communist political forces to demolish it. Many Berliners on both sides of the wall were stricken by the destruction of such a landmark; today, there is talk of replicating the monument on its original site.

East Germany's response to the Schloss was the Palace of the Republic, the site of many social activities for East Berlin's inhabitants. The building, an insult to some, gave others a sense of community that had previously been absent in this side of the city. When it was torn down in 2006, it was not replaced by anything at all; the decision of whether to erase one history in order to rectify another is difficult even today.

Through all of this, Berliners have lived in their city, whether united or divided. But the identity of a Berliner is hard to define. During the war, many of the “rubble women” were left behind to clean and care for the city, often seen as prizes for invading soldiers while still maintaining a stronghold on their homes and families. After the construction of the Wall, hundreds of East Berliners jumped out of windows in an effort to join their Western brethren, even at risk of death—once again a people divided, yet still aiming to join together. One could say that, after the destruction of the Berlin Wall, East and West found themselves in an interesting position: with a unified Berlin, what was left of East Berliners’ identities? This question is still being answered today, more than 20 years after the fall of the Wall, and will likely still be asked many years from now.

When 77-year-old Frida Schulze climbed out the window and into Western Berlin, she symbolized the sentiment of many Berliners--suspension between two ideals, two worlds, East and West. Frida was one of many who attempted to cross the gap; some were successful, but others were pulled back (and no doubt severely punished) by the East Berlin police. To this day Frida's image serves as a reminder of what some will do for the ski of freedom.

Despite war, destruction, and political turmoil, Berliners have always persevered. Their history runs deep, and their culture draws in visitors from across the globe, as it has for centuries. Berlin is a city full of contradictions, trying to bury the past while maintaining identity; and yet, that may be what is so interesting about Berliners all along—the contradiction is what makes them so unique, and yet so easily able to pique the interest of so many for so long.

WC: 722

Post 3: Using Martin Luther's Morals for Secular Gains

Martin Luther, as discussed in the documentary "Reluctant Revolutionary," was a man who has been remembered throughout history as one who stuck by his morals. Upon seeing the wrongdoings of the Catholic Church, he responded by calling for changes, and did not stop even when the Church threatened excommunication. He started a faith revolution in Europe and eventually in other parts of the world, despite the fact that he looked down upon many of those who were inspired by him. Ultimately, however, what is most interesting is the fact that he was often propelled by the secular needs of others, driven forward by life rather than faith. From his early days of dissent to the aftermath of his revolution, Luther May have continued on his path for moral reasons, but many of those most affected by his call for change were involved for other, more personal results.

Luther's call for church reform was heard throughout the German-speaking lands of the day, second in 

popularity only to its mother, Catholicism. 

Frederick the Wise was known as such for not attempting the call to religious action felt by Luther and his followers. In many ways, including his dissent at the Diet of Worms, Frederick was an ally to Luther, allowing him to continue his work and preventing others from silencing him. Frederick's support, however, was not morally based as much as it was fiscally--his desire to stop the flow of funds to Rome was strong, and Luther gave him an effective (if not also impressive) excuse. In this way Frederick the Wise was one of many exploiters of Luther's morality--in this case, however, that exploitation saved his life. 

At the notorious Diet of Worms, Luther's vivacious responses to the Catholic Church's demands could have very  easily gotten him killed; Frederick, however, saw an opportunity to help himself, all while appearing to be emotionally and morally affected by this man. Clever play, Frederick the Wise, clever.

In another example of Luther's removal from moral context, peasants in German-speaking lands of the time used Luther's claims against the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church to defend their own personal, political uprising. Despite the fact that Luther himself saw these peasants as lowly and "instruments of the devil," the words he wrote could not be stopped. But religious fervor alone was not the driver of this great uprising: the desire for equality and rights as citizens made German lower classes take a stand against their rulers. Suddenly, Luther's moral compass became a code of righteousness for peasants, and once again his ideas were used for secular gains.

While it remains uncertain if the 99 Theses were ever actually tacked to a door, Luther's tenacity and belief in his own morals struck a chord with his contemporaries, so much so that they took his words far further than he ever intended, reforming not only their faith but their political lives. He may not have intended to create such an uproar, but the essence of his beliefs were, to peasants of the day, undeniably applicable to their current situations.

Martin Luther is seen by many Christians as a theological revolutionary, and for good reason: his call for changes in the Catholic Church started a chain of events that led to the creation of many new Christian churches, some of which still celebrate and worship today. The religious freedoms eventually won by many Christians could not have even been thought of without Martin Luther's unwavering morality and defense of his beliefs. Called the first propagandist for his distribution of his printed texts throughout the German-speaking lands, Luther helped to create a new age of religious thought, one in which there was more than one answer to the question of how God should be worshipped. His legacy lives today not only in the Lutheran Church, but in every sect of Christianity.

Word Count: 493 (excluding captions)

Post 2: Early German History and the Influence of Outsiders

What I found most interesting in the second chapter of the Schulze text was the development of “German” as a culture and historical nationality, and how those were developed in large part not by the Germans themselves but by European historians on their behalf. Coming from a relatively new nation, history classes for me always had a degree of certitude involved (whether founded or not is up for debate, but still); we know what we say we know about American history because there is, for most topics, a definitive history and record of many past events.

I found it surprising, then, that the history of “Germany” as a unified culture is actually rather spotty, and far sparser than I would have suspected. Schulze mentions on page 32 that many of the regions of the Empire were German in name only, and that even the languages spoken throughout the area were vastly different from town to town, and between city dwellers and their rural counterparts. It seems likely that much of this stemmed from the fact that “Germany” at the top of the 15^th century was actually still the Holy Roman Empire, a title with far grander historical origins than most any other European nation. This close bond with the Catholic church would more than likely explain the passion to which 16^th century Germans such as Luther and Calvin took to reforming their faith—after all, such a close tie is hard to ignore.

At the start of the 15th century The Holy Roman Empire consisted primarily of what we now consider Germany and other nearby nations, such as Austria and Luxembourg. After going through 12 years of history classes in the USA, I can say with conviction that I had no idea that Germany was ever a part of the Holy Roman Empire in any capacity, not to mention the entirety of it. Whether this is due to an oversight on the part of educators or perhaps is an effect of Tacitus' revived text remains to be seen. 

Holy Roman Empire 1211-1430. Digital image. Copies of Maps for German History. Boston College, n.d. Web. 31 Aug. 2014. <http://www.bc.edu/bc_org/avp/cas/his/CoreArt/maps/HRE_1211-1400.jpg>.

At the same time, however, it puzzles me that Germans of the time of Poggio Bracciolini’s humanist scholarship would be so easily impressed upon, seemingly forgetting much of their own history for the sake of mistaken nationalism. When Bracciolini and other western European scholars asserted that Germans as a people were of one ancient culture that had survived through antiquity (p. 47), the Germans of the time dropped their individual histories en masse in favor of this new narrative, one that would prioritize the group over the individual. I suppose the strengths of this history, more global power and respect from other peoples, would have seemed to outweigh the weaknesses; there is a lot to be said about a grand, sweeping history that glorifies the storyteller and increases one’s own rank in the current political climate (I’m talking to you, Americans).

Poggio Bracciolini, a Roman scholar of the humanist movement, revived and translated many historical documents that were otherwise doomed to be forgotten in history. It is no surprise, then, that when he published Tacitus's "Germania," the general public had never heard of it or its descriptions of ancient Germans. Being the only text of its kind, "Germania" became the de facto German history, despite the fact that it was more than likely exaggerated to fit the moral narrative of its author. One must wonder whether Bracciolini realized just how powerful his edition of the manuscript would be, or whether he saw Tacitus' publication as merely another ancient text worth saving for posterity.

Gianfrancesco Poggio Bracciolini. Digital image. Poggio Bracciolini. Wikipedia, n.d. Web. 1 Sept. 2014.

What I found most interesting about all of this was the fact that the Germans of the period allowed their story to be told, and heavily influenced, by outsiders. What caused these people to have such power over the minds of Germans? Perhaps it was the lack of German universities, or the small size of German cities, or even the desire to have a unified historical narrative. In any case, the introduction of Germania as a place inhabited by “uncorrupted, loyal, brave, and plain-living” (p. 49) people was an image of historical Germany that pervades to this day.

WC: 478 (not including captions)