How To Stay

That's the thing, we'll probably stay. We probably won't leave here, won't leave everything behind, won't turn away, won't do it in protest, won't sell our belongings and leave, won't throw them to the street, not right away, not now, not on time. 
What will happen? 
What always happens. You learn of a terminal illness and spend the remaining time with bureaucracy, with chemotherapy. You try harder. And we will. We will actually put in even more effort. To function better, to do our work better. We will sweat. Much more than we sweat now (and we do sweat now), some of us more, some of us less, but how to say, we will sweat. That's the thing. We'll probably, most likely, stay. Because it's not like anything is really waiting for us somewhere, it's not like there is somewhere better for us out there, better for us back there, and after all, people are people everywhere, right? It's not like there's somewhere that's much better, right? And even if there was, it's not like there's a way to get there, for us. 
So try. 
Just try. 
We will try. 
Like having only a few months to live and sorting the medical records by color. In alphabetical order. With correct spelling. People are always trying. The more difficult it gets, the more they try. The harder it hits them, the more persistent they become. 

For example: We decide to study again. We memorize verbs, names, dates. Grammar, pronunciation, words, numbers. And if this old brain will be too slow to catch it, will no longer get it, we’ll work harder, we’ll wake up earlier, we won't leave. You don't just run away one day, you don't just throw away everything you worked on for so long, it's not like all this had no meaning at all, it's not like we hadn't done anything in this place, with this place, for this place at all. We did things. It had. a meaning. So we’re staying. We're probably staying. And maybe just lower the volume. Some of us just a little. Others will really keep their mouths shut. 

And then? Well. On the train – we always buy a ticket. In the supermarket – we come without a backpack. In the park – we won’t walk too fast. In the night – we won’t cover our faces. At the bank – we won’t raise our voices. In the pharmacy – we will keep our hands out of the pockets. In the playground – we will silence our children’s laughter. And plan. 
Among us we will sit, hours long, and plan. How we’re getting out of here, how we're getting out of this place and never come back. Among us we'll cry. We will scream. Some loudly, some restrained, but we will curse, we will make endless speeches and tell each other how done we are, how done we are with it, how done we are with this place. Then we’ll get up, go to our bed, lie down on our side of this contract, lie down in our part of this agreement, cover ourselves with the piece of blanket we have been assigned, say goodnight, turn over, try not to think about it, fall asleep, we will stay. Because what exactly should this leaving look like? Even if we leave, we will still be stuck here, even if it will work, we will still remain trapped, let's not fool ourselves. You see, even if we leave, there is no way out.

So, for now, we try to stick out a little less on the street. We'll be less loud, less present, less intense. We will be less chatty, less shiny, less demanding. We will be less successful, less useless, less sensitive. We will be less brilliant, less unacademic, less knowledgeable than you. We will be less rich (of course), less poor (naturally), less in love, simply less. Because what's the choice? What now? Where now? Where are we supposed to get a proper visa from? Some of us will get a visa, some of us will never get a visa, and how to collect enough money, and how to organise, and where to get the strength to go through this again, all this again, a new century, and here we go again? Everything all over again? How now? And how to leave now, and how to start anew, no, really, things can be solved, things can be resolved, it's the pendulum, right? we have our democratic institutions, right? it will keep on swinging, people are not stupid, look at Poland, people are not idiots, look at France, people have learned, it will be all right, things will be sorted out, false alarm, false alarm everyone, no need to evacuate, and anyway I'm not going, I can't, not now, I can't go, I can't go through it again, can't leave again, not now, not another decade, just not another lifetime of looking backwards. 
No. 
No. 
No. 
We are staying. 
And not only we’re staying, we're also getting some furniture. A new bookshelf. A wardrobe. A special four-door wardrobe that was especially made and designed for this place. For this room. For this house. We carry chairs and sofas up the stairs and place them in every corner like on a napkin in the wind. And our furniture will fill the house like rage. And our furniture will fill the house like nightmares. Half dead, only a few days to live, yes? And sitting hours in the waiting room just to get a shitty prescription. 

By the way: our naturalisation process has already begun. We filled in the form. We signed into an integration course. Whatever you tell us to sign, we’ll sign. Whatever statement you want us to make, we'll make. Where is the clause? We’ll sign. What is the statement? We’ll repeat it, with a hand on the heart. And now, where is the integration class? We'll be the best students. What does the room look like? Is it clean? Where's the broom, give us a broom (Oh. You mean, voluntarily. Sure. Sure.) We do this voluntarily, of course, no question, it's not always about the money, you know! Not everything! Some things you just do for your own peace of mind, you just do for your community! (F... four hours every day?) Yes! Yes, of course! Let's build a better fucking world, we will volunteer, finally we can give something back! Ok! And now! Where's the broom? Nonsense, second attempt: the hand brush, the handfeger! Where's the handfeger? Volunteering is satistisfying! Now we all feel better. Once you volunteered, you feel better. Better with yourself, better with the world, everything is a lesson, you know what I mean? A present from the universe. And now bring me a shovel! A handfeger and a Schaufel! And please, no cash! The payment card is more than enough, I feel honoured! Thank you! Is there anything else I can do for you? 
For you? 
For you? 
Honestly. I would love to. It's a deep human need, you know? An authentic human feeling. From one person to another, one big family. I would like to thank you for that, look how happy everyone is, how positive. 

Speaking of which, we have to admit that it's sometimes hard for us to listen to stories about people who have been beaten up by the police, for example, God, how horrible. Or about people who have been forcibly deported, what! Or let me speak as a writer for a second? People who wrote stuff, and were canceled afterwards. Wow, wow, not good, what's happening here, where are we going etc. etc. However! To be honest, I must admit that I read what they have written. And I want to offer that maybe these people – and please keep this between us – were silenced because they didn't write wisely enough, because they weren't dialectical and sophisticated enough, you need to remember your position when you write, then no one will cancel you, you can believe me, you will be able to write your texts. Positively. in Germany. because people will think your texts are great. and positive. in Germany. What I'm trying to say is that if I'm deported, then maybe I should ask myself why. Why me. Why me and not them. Maybe there is something in me that is not entirely positive. Something that doesn't really want to be part of this society. Maybe I don't even believe that I'm entitled to a home. A hug. And when I get pushed back, I can also – maybe! – see it as a metaphor. I mean, exile, violence, deportation are somehow collective primary experiences, aren't they? They trigger fear in all of us. 
So. 
Let's take a deep breath for a few seconds and take some time to understand what's blocking me tonight, what's being ‘canceled’ in me, what's being ‘beaten’? Who is ‘cancelling’ me? 

Please repeat after me: 
Change is in your hands, Sivan. 
Everything is in your hands, Sivan. 
You are positive. 
You will stay, Sivan. 

And the rest will follow. 

By Sivan Ben Yishai. German translation by Gerhild Steinbuch.

Under the title “Poetic Positions” in the “DIE KUNST, VIELE ZU BLEIBEN” program, the writers and playwrights Manja Präkels, Anne Rabe and Deniz Utlu also took a stand on current events alongside Sivan Ben Yishai. The Fonds is now making their contributions available to read in its online magazine. Photographer Sebastian Bolesch accompanied the Fund's series of events and captured impressions from the surroundings of the individual stations in pictures.