TRAVELLING THROUGH TIMES

Searching for Happiness through 8,000 kilometres

 

Travelling? What urges us to go far from home? Is it the search for that overwhelmingly wonderful feeling that we feel when we encounter a beautiful landscape or a crystal beach of whitewashed sand? Or is it a search for happiness - for that simple and personal, but transient, feeling - a feeling which does not last, but sometimes emerges again in memory.   

Transient also was our stay at the Sultanate of Oman, from 2002 to 2006….  Four years went by far too fast. When our tour in Oman as an ambassadorial couple came to an end, we considered travelling home by road: “Travelling back in time, a journey from Muscat to Munich.” Our friends, our family too, did warn us: “Eight thousand kilometres with only the two of you!? You might face dangers which will prevent you from any further journeys for the rest of your lives!”  Dangers? Bad roads? Bad people? Highwaymen? Corrupt police? Bad shelters?  

We did not care about all these questions.

 

But we had to care about papers: A valid passport including visa, a carnet de passage for our small VW Golf (from the Oman Automobile Association); and we had to care about a Bank Warranty for the value of our car. 

 

Finally, after midnight, the Iranian ferryboat, Hormuz 12 set out from the port of Sharjah with us and our diesel car. When, hours later, a shining sun began to illuminate the Strait of Hormuz, I saw happily jumping dolphins and flying fishes.  What a cheerful contrast these creatures made with my thoughts of the serious history of this globally important waterway!

 

When the sun was already giving off an enormous heat, we arrived at the very modern harbour of Bandar Abbas. Here we spent five hours running after stamps and seals and photocopies. This boarder procedure was worse than our well-known and detested process of admission for a new car in Germany.

 

Travelling back through time  - It was dark when we came to Shiraz after a journey of 685 km through the heat-saturated ochre landscape, through thirst, desert sand and desert storm.  “We are in Shiraz.” I repeated this sentence with contentment; indeed, we had turned up in a town of education and poetry, of roses and nightingales, and of love.  Shiraz reached a cultural zenith in the Middle Ages when the Poet Aramgah-e Hafez wrote his famous Divan. Aramgah-e Hafez is an Iranian folk hero who is both loved and revered. Every Iranian can quote his work. His marble sarcophagus is a meeting place for young and old Iranian citizens.  And what astonished me a lot was that young people were not embarrassed to show their true sentiments to each other.

 

From Shiraz, we took a taxi 40 km to Parsa, the town in Persepolis, which until 1935 gave the country its name - Persia. Parsa is one of the marvels of the classical world.

 

Travelling through time… 2,500 years ago, the Achaemenid Empire endured under kings Xerxes and Darius. During their glorious reigns the world was trembling; but it was also received in a lavish and extravagant way as diplomats and delegations of ancient people came to the fabulous Achaemenid court. But then Alexander the Great arrived with a catastrophic result.  In 330 BC he burned the whole precious place down. All that remains of four centuries of history are ruins. Many archaeologists have been attracted by the remnants of sculpture and architecture in this beautiful place. My husband and I were only passing by, but still the genius of the lost classical city was apparent.

 

How did we manage to get to the centre of Esfahan?  I do not know. It took us a very long time to read sign posts in Farsi language while driving. Suddenly there was a huge highway crossing and too much traffic. Which direction should we take? Iran’s most important transportation links are the streets, always noticeable on our journey. We decided to flow along with the endless stream of cars and lorries. And oh wonder! We approached the city centre where the river Zayandeh-Rud runs through with its eleven stone bridges out of a fairytale. It was a glorious view illuminated by a golden afternoon sun. Not a single European city could compete with the architectural beauty of Esfahan.

 

Travelling back though time -  It is unbelievable to think that Esfahan was completely destroyed by the Mongolian Emperor Timur Leng in the 12^th  Century and remained empty and desolate for two hundred years. It was in 1598 that the illustrious and brilliant Shah Abbas I rescued the city; and, over many years, built Esfahan once again into a jewel. 

We continued to the  city of Taebriz, ignoring important cities like Qom, Teheran and Qazvin. We felt quite at home in Taebriz because we could hear the Turkish tongue again, just as we hear it so often in Berlin.

 

Thanks to the kind Turkish Consul-General, the boarder crossing into Turkey was easy.  We suddenly became aware of the colossal mountain, Ararat, an extinct volcano 5,137 metres high. This famous mountain has many names, an Assyrian name (Urartu); a Turkish name (Büyük Agri Dag); and an Armenian name (Uurhu Masis). Many different cultural groups jealously claim this mountain, but it is in fact on Turkish ground.

 

Next we stopped at the city of Kayseri, the main town of Central Anatolia in Turkey. From there we visited Cappadocia with its breathtaking landscape strewn with stones and its vivid history, including conquest by a chain of aggressors from 6,500 BC onwards.

 

We crossed the 4000 m high Taurus Mountains and stopped over at Cyprus on the Turkish side of the island.  From there we journeyed back to the Turkish mainland where we saw Pamukkale, a fantastic white formation of calcium hydrogen carbonate and took a bath in the natural hot pools.  

Again Travelling back in time, we visited the ancient Roman town of Hierapolis. Via the lovely peninsula of Bodrum in Turkey (and the pleasant Hotel Princess) we took a three day ferry trip to Italy from Cesme City. From there, a highway took us straight to Munich and on to Berlin, where the Ambassador of the Sultanate of Oman to Germany, HE Al Harthy, received the former Ambassador of Germany to Oman with these solemn words, “This is the first car with an Omani number plate which I have the honour of welcoming to Berlin”.  

Our journey back through time, as I think about it now, was a happy one and much easier than expected. 

 

 Heidemarie Blankenstein/ Berlin, May 2007

 

Kleider ordnen - internationale Dresscodes

DU BIST, WAS DU TRÄGST:
WAS INTERNATIONALE DRESSCODES UNS ERZÄHLEN

Vor einer viertel Stunde bin ich gelandet. Exit – zum Ausgang. Milchige Glastüren öffnen sich. Auf vieles war ich vorbereitet - aber nicht auf das jetzt:  Aus tausend dunklen Augenpaaren werde ich angestarrt.  Bis zum Taxi muss ich mich durch ein dichtes Menschen-Spalier bewegen, vorbei an weißen wallenden Gewändern der Männer und den schwarzen Kutten vereinzelter Frauen. Sie alle gehören zum Sultanat Oman, dem südlichsten Zipfel der Arabischen Halbinsel. Da gehe ich nun und kann nicht anders: „Allah, bitte, schick mir einen dieser unförmigen Umhänge oder wenigstens ein Kopftuch!“ Denn plötzlich spüre ich Nacktheit, eine,  die ich als Ausgeliefertsein  bezeichnen möchte.   

Ausgeliefert in eine völlig andere Welt. Nichts Alltägliches für mich. Also her mit dem Knigge für Nichtmoslems! Ich staune.  Wichtigstes Kapitel: Die Kleiderordnung. Bis zu dieser Flughafen-Glastür fühlte ich mich in unauffälligem Hosenanzug durchaus korrekt gekleidet, Arme und Beine sittsam bedeckt.

Trotzdem ist jetzt zweifellos Befangenheit  mein Mitbringsel.  Ich bin beruflich viel unterwegs,  lande in Ländern,  in denen Modediktate italienischer Edelschneider oder spanischer Konfektionsketten Modernität, Sportlichkeit oder Seriosität signalisieren wollen, die sogar in  gewisser Weise völkerverbindend entworfen werden - aber für welche Völker? Für die Besserverdiener von Berlin, Singapur, von Tokyo, von Madrid, Moskau,  New York,  London, Paris oder von Rom?  Und ich da zuweilen mitten drin, zweifellos jedes Mal neu verunsichert: Ich bin Deutsche, mir hängt in Geschmacksfragen ein schlechter Ruf an,  besonders in Sachen Mode.  Stimmt, denn häufig treffe ich meine Kleiderauswahl nach praktischen Aspekten, ganz im Gegensatz und zum Entsetzen meiner romanischen Freundinnen.  Die Trendsetter-Rolle liegt mir nicht so, eher die Stimmungslage:  Ist mein Dekolleté tief, mein Rock kurz, nenne ich es Freizügigkeit, sogar Befreiung.  Es kommt auch  vor, dass ich mich modisch wegducken möchte. Dann beneide ich so manche die Araberin unter ihrem weiten Gewand, die schöne Inderin, die nie ihre Beine zeigen wird (wohl aber ihren Bauch) oder die traditionelle Koreanerin, die ihre Hände versteckt hält.  Aber ob das alles auf Männer anziehend wirkt, ob meine Bekleidung  irgendeiner Tradition oder Moralvorstellung entspricht, darüber habe ich bisher nie nachgedacht.

Hier im tropischen Reiseziel angekommen, ist es auf einmal so weit: Nachdem mich der klimatisierte Airport-Bereich freigegeben hat, haftet nicht nur mit jedem Schritt meine europäische Robe feuchter an mir, ich empfinde obendrein jeden Blick als stechend. Man scheint mir mit den Augen zu folgen bis ich im Taxi verschwunden bin. Was ich in diesem Land will, ist nicht zu erkennen, und mit meinem unbedeckten Haar bin ich wohl schon ein beachtlicher Reizfaktor. Unsicher gehe ich voran.   Sind diese fremden Blicke interesseloses Wohlgefallen oder gar Skepsis gegenüber dem Auftreten einer westlichen Frau?

Diese Frage ist eine an die andere Kultur. Eine tückische Frage, denn sie entzieht sich raffiniert der  genauen  Beantwortung. Befinden wir uns beim Thema Kultur-Annäherung noch immer bei unseren tausendjährigen Vorfahren?

Nur einige Flugstunden von Berlin entfernt, gilt mein dunkler Hosenanzug als  „Männerkleidung“ – laut Islam-Knigge bin ich nun  eine der ernstesten Bedrohungen islamischer Rechtgläubiger. „Frauen dürfen keine Männerkleider tragen; denn der Prophet verfluchte Frauen, die sich wie Männer kleideten: Werft sie aus euren Häusern“!  Ich blättere im „Hidjaab, der Kleiderordnung der Muslimischen Frau nach Quran und Sunnah“ und bin baff. Dieses Druckwerk schreibt doch tatsächlich den Frauen  in allen Einzelheiten vor, wie sie sich außerhalb des Hauses zu bewegen haben. Begründung?  „Die islamische Frau muss vor den Blicken fremder Männer geschützt  werden, weil eine Frau ohne Hidjaab, die Männer-Blicke auf sich lenkt und dies zu niedrigen Motiven und Begehren der Männer führen kann.“

Folglich geht es bei der Verhüllung der Frau immer um den Mann? Seinetwegen, seines Triebes wegen, seiner frivolen Gelüste wegen müssen meine moslemischen Schwestern in Sack und Asche gehen, müssen bei tropischen Temperaturen unter ihren schwarzen Stoffen wie in einer finnischen Sauna schwitzen? Sind Osteoporose –und Rachitisgefährdet, weil kein Sonnenstrahl, kein Vitamin D, ihre Haut trifft.  Ich versuche mich  immer wieder in diese bizarre Denkweise hineinzuversetzen. Es will mir nicht gelingen. „Stellt Eure Reize nicht heraus wie in der früheren Zeit der Unwissenheit“  (Sure 33.33) befiehlt der Koran.  

Welche Zeiten sind gemeint? Jene im Paradies, als unsere Urahnen  splitterfasernackt und ungeniert zwischen den Apfelplantagen umher irrten, und zwar solange, bis Eva ihren Adam verführte, vom Baum der Erkenntnis zu naschen. Gemäß Altem Testament ist SIE  durch diese erste Sünde für das Unheil und die Mühsal der gesamten Menschheit verantwortlich. Von Stund an begann sich das erste Menschenpaar zu schämen: „Wo verstecken, wie bedecken“?  fragten sie bange. So startete der Mode-Stress. In ihrer jähen Not griffen die beiden zum nächst Besten: zum Feigenblatt,  später zum Fellmäntelchen.

„Frühere Zeiten der Unwissenheit?“ Oder sind die antiken Zeiten, die der griechischen Mythologie, gemeint, als viele starke Göttinnen den Männern Beine machten? Was wissen wir noch von der Macht der Göttinnen Hera, Hestia, Gaia, Hemera oder Eurybia, von Athene und Aphrodite? Das müssen echte Power-Weiber gewesen sein, so herkulisch,  dass sich  – der Verdacht liegt nahe - die Männerwelt mit der Erfindung neuer patriarchalischer Religionen an ihnen rächen wollte? Denn – eigenartig - allen drei Religionen des Buches, Judentum, Christentum sowie der Islam,  pflegen oder pflegten Frauen-Unterdrückung. Sie wurden versteckt und bedeckt, kurz: Es entstand eine finstere Geschlechterbeziehung. Apostel Paulus hatte befunden, dass der Mann Abbild Gottes sei, die Frau hingegen nur Abbild des Mannes, sie müsse deshalb ihren Kopf bedecken. Zu Mohammeds Zeiten diente der Schleier der sozialen Abgrenzung und war Frauen aus privilegierten Kreisen vorenthalten. Erst langsam avancierte er zu einem hochaufgeladenen Textil.

Andererseits wirkten die verhüllten Musliminnen auf damalige Kolonialherren  höchst reizvoll. Gleichzeitig wurden daheim  die exotischen und erotischen Schönheiten – vielleicht als verkappte Lobeshymne auf die keusche westliche Frau des 19. Jahrhunderts - verurteilt.  Alle in puritanischen Zeiten verbotenen Handlungen wurden – zuweilen auch als Phantasie -  in die ganz andere Welt, in die des Orients, verlagert.

Rada Ivekovic,  kroatische Philosophin, formuliert das so: „Im Westen gehören zu den Hauptmodellen des Anderen der Orient, der Islam und die Frauen. Und auf jenes Andere wird alles Negative projiziert.  

Es ist vorgekommen, dass durch westliche Schwerenöter  die Orientalinnen damals gezwungen wurden, den Schleier abzulegen, damit ihre voyeuristischen Maler und Fotografen Harem-Bilder mit halb nackten Damen produzieren konnten. Das gehört zu einer der vielen schlechten  Erfahrungen  mit der Präsenz des Abendlandes. Sie prägen das gesamte gesellschaftliche Leben in den postkolonialen Staaten der Arabischen Welt, wobei die radikale Rückbesinnung auf  die islamische Kultur eine wichtige Rolle spielt.  Geschlechterspezifische Konflikte bleiben tabuisiert.  Formen des Widerstandes, die es in den 1300 Jahren der Geschichte des Islams gab und an denen Frauen aktiv beteilig waren, werden bis heute ignoriert.

„Die Bedeckung mit Kopftuch und Mantel hebt die Gleichheit der Schwestern im Islam hervor und entlastet vom Leistungsdruck weiblicher Schönheitskonkurrenz“, schreibt die ägyptische Wissenschaftlerin Fadwa El Guind.  Konkurrenz unverwünscht? Die Ägypterin erklärt weiter: Das zentrale Motiv sei,  durch eine  bescheidene und anständige Kleidung der Muslima dem Willen Gottes zu entsprechen.  So stehe die Muslima ganz im Gegensatz zu verwestlichter Kleidung die mit schamloser Entblößung und damit einer Entwürdigung der Frau verbunden werde, meint die Ägypterin.

Aber gerade im chaotischen Kairo werden, so wie ich’s sah, die Kleidervorschriften nicht extrem streng gehandhabt, ebenso in Tunesien, in Algerien, Marokko oder dem Libanon.

Unterhalb der Corniche von Beirut habe ich im Hochsommer badende Mädels beobachtet, über denen sich ein stattlicher Stoff-Ballon blähte, als sie in voller schwarzer Moslem-Montur inklusive Kopftuch zu schwimmen versuchten. Danach  entstiegen wie  ein nasser Kartoffel-Sack dem Mittelmeer.  Indessen räkelten sich unbekümmert gleich nebenan am Pool des Hilton-Hotels von der Sonne gegerbte Bikini-Beauties libanesischen Urprungs. Welch ein Kontrastprogramm der Mode! Und die verrät einiges über die Gesellschaft, ihre Konventionen, ihre sozialen Verhaltensweisen

Vom Flugplatz fahre ich per Taxi  zur Sultan Qaboos Universität ausserhalb der Hauptstadt Maskat im Oman. Es ist das  Musterland der streng Arabischen Welt in Sachen Reform und Frauenrechten, denn die meisten Omanis gehören einer Art „Dissidenten-Islam“ an, den Ibaditen.  Jedes Kind geht zur Schule, und die Hälfte der Studenten sind Frauen. „Jede Studentin darf sich nach ihrem Geschmack kleiden“, empfängt mich die freundliche Presse-Sprecherin Fawzia, „Alles ist erlaubt – mit einer Ausnahme:  Die Verschleierung ist verboten, denn zu viele wurde bei Prüfungen unter dem schwarzen Tuch gemogelt.“ Weibliche und männliche Studenten sitzen bei uns im selben Hörsaal, das ist ein Fortschritt bei der sonst strengen Geschlechter-Trennung.  Männer vorne,  Mädels hinten“.

Diese Begegnung  stärkt mein eigenes Selbstbewusstsein. Bei der nächsten Einladung zum privaten coffee-morning zu Fatma, der Koran-Lehrerin,, trage ich ein  Kostüm nach westlichem Schnitt -  meine Beine sind sichtbar.  Aber Sehen scheint auch hier Sünde zu sein, selbst da, wo sich ein Frauen-Zirkel trifft.  Fast  alle tragen ihre schwarze, langen Abayas plus Kopftuch. „Eine gut sitzende Abaya  muss so lang  geschnitten sein, damit sie beim Laufen die Schritt-Spuren der Trägerin verwischt, so dass ihr kein Mann folgen kann.

Alle in bedrohlichem Schwarz. Hat ein Kloster Ausgang? Und doch findet hier Mode statt. Fast unsichtbar für mich.  Die Damen beginnen, die winzigen Unterschiede ihrer Abayas gegenseitig zu bewundern,  die kunstvollen Hohlsäume, die gestickten Blüten oder die goldenen Borten. Das alles hat mein Kostüm  nicht zu bieten. Unsicher realisiere ich, dass die Anwesenden mich taxieren, mein schlichtes Äußeres einzuordnen versuchen,  meine Beine bemerken. Irgendwann fasse ich mir ein Herz: „Warum seid Ihr hier unter uns und bei dieser Hitze so schwarz  eingepackt?“  – „Schwester, wir fühlen uns wohl. Außerdem sind wir nicht sicher,   ob vielleicht der Gärtner das Haus betritt.“

„Jede Kultur hat andere Tabus: Im islamischen Orient wird alles Leibliche schamhaft  im Haus beziehungsweise unter Hüllen versteckt, während  das Schlachten und Opfern öffentlich geschieht; im Okzident  wird das Schlachten von Tier-Leibern ins Schlachthaus verbannt, während alles Leibliche freizügig zur Schau getragen  wird...“ so hat die Wiener Künstlerin Sini Coreth die kolossalen Kultur-Unterschiede in einer ihrer verblüffenden Video-Installationen auf den Punkt gebracht.

Wenn zur Kultur eines Volkes seine Selbstdarstellung, seine bildliche Omnipräsenz, gehört, dann steckt der feminine Teil der islamischen Länder – freiwillig oder unfreiwillig - seine Intimsphäre, seine Scham sehr weiträumig ab. Viel weiter als in der Gegenwelt, der Welt des Westens:

Als Samia, die Studentin der Tourismus-Akademie des Sultanats Oman, in einem Berg-Dorf herangewachsen, vor einem Jahr bei mir in Berlin ankam, in meine vertraute, ihr jedoch unbekannte Welt eintrat, in eine Welt,  die ihre Zivilisation, ihre Art der gesitteten Bekleidung nicht anerkennt,  als minderwertig,  als Mode-Muff oder sogar als Freiheitsberaubung abtut, war sie schockiert.

Erst mit ihr zusammen  gerät der Gang durch eine mir sonst vertraute deutsche Fußgängerzone zur seelischen Tortur.  Durch ihre orientalische Optik  bemerke ich plötzlich die vielen  prallen Popos in hautengen Hosen, die knappen shirts sowie die zu kurzen skirts“. Samia kommentiert höflich: „Bei Euch läuft der menschliche Umgang über ganz andere Signale als in meiner Heimat ab.“  Erstaunlich!  Unsere „freiheitliche“ Alltagswelt ist für Samia wie ein pulsierender Porno-Poster, auf dem sich die Geschlechter inszenieren. Sie formuliert es noch deutlicher:  „Mein Gott, so viel Prostitution in Eurer Stadt – alle Frauen so leicht zu haben...“  

Das hat sie anfangs enorm verwirrt, sie fühlte sich schutzlos, ausgeliefert. Langsam begann ich zu ahnen, dass Samias schwarze Verhüllung für sie selbst eine doppelte Funktion hat: Nach außen geschlechtsneutralisierend, nach innen geschlechtsbetonend. „Meine korrekte Kleidung ist für mich ein Befehl Gottes. Ich will nicht durch meine Weiblichkeit wirken, sondern durch meine inneren Werte. Damit fühle ich mich geborgen und damit werde ich in meinem Dorf -  auch in der Universität - von den Männern respektiert.  Ich glaube, deshalb hat Gott diese spezielle Kleidung uns Muslimas befohlen“.  Nach und nach begriff  Samia, dass sie in Berlin nicht bei jedem unverhüllten Hals oder Kopf einer Vergewaltigung ausgesetzt ist.

Zurück in Samias Heimat: Als ich dort nach Tagen meine Reise beende und  wieder am Ausgangspunkt, also am Flugplatz, eintreffe,  befindet sich neben mir der weibliche Part  einer jemenitischen Familie. Die Herren sitzen weit abgesondert in ihren weißen Dishdashas,  darüber die typische zerbeulte Anzugjacke samt kunstvoll ziseliertem Krummdolch im Gürtel – malerische Gestalten. Sie tun so,  als hätten sie mit dem Rest der  weiblichen Verwandtschaft  in ihren beklemmenden Stoffmassen  nichts zu tun.

 „Meine Tochter Bilqis wird Zahnärztin, sie ist sehr schön“, sagt die Mutter durch ihren Gesichtsschleier hindurch und deutet neben mir auf etwas, das ein Lebewesen sein könnte.  Es befindet sich unter einem blickdichten Zelt.  -  „Wirklich?“ – „Ja, weil sie so schön ist, darf sie kein Mann sehen“. -„Aha?“   Wieder wendet sich die Mutter an mich und fragt: „Schwester, warum bist Du eigentlich nicht verhüllt? Du siehst doch gar nicht so schlecht aus?

Heidemarie Blankenstein,

 zurück aus Maskat/ Oman 2007

 Erschienen im Magazin  KULTURAUSTAUSCH  Oktober 2007

Joy – the Strongest Pen: Schiller

„Brush up your Shakespeare....!“ This musical advice was recently given by H.E. the British Ambassador in Muscat, at a school graduation ceremony. No explanation was necessary.  Everybody in this school knew about the British dramatist William Shakespeare.  He passed away 389 years ago, but was never forgotten, and had an abundant influence on British behaviour.  

Although everyone under the sun appears equal, it seems that nations develop certain features according to their particular cultural authorities. 

While the British focussed on “his” Shakespeare by music, the German Ambassador uses to ring  an iron bell, when a speech is announced at his residence. That is the moment when most of the visitors  – at least the German visitors -  might remember their literary heritage “The Song of The Bell”,  the old and long ballad of their poet Friedrich Schiller.

Schiller? That’s the genius, which is familiar to us from school-times. His 516 lined poem “The Song of the Bell” (Die Glocke) tells us about human’s destiny from birth to the end – and every line in his accurate and  outdated language had to be memorized by heart. But not only Die Glocke is part of every German school curriculum, Schiller’s wide range of poetry and his literature production, which includes dramas like Wilhelm Tell, Jungfrau von Orleans, Braut von Messina, Maria Stuart, Wallensteins Lager, Don Carlos and several tragedies, are essential cornerstones of education in Germany. Schiller’s work formed the so called classical period of German history, a time, when art was higher estimated than business or science, when art was the air to breathe.

Schiller’s principles and thoughts seem to be common – not so his extremely precise and sentimental language. It is easy to qualify him as

dusty. All his highflying words like aesthetic, liberty, rationalism – all his trust in grace, dignity and culture of mankind seems to us now as a rustling roar of words, as empty general phrases.  But, how strange!

When we consider our modern mistrust about genetic -technology, about education, the quarrel about human rights, the discussion of the whole cerebral complexity, of biosphere programmes and environment standards – we realize, that all our problems have already been entirely mentioned in Friedrich Schiller’s written work.

Amazing for us, because he could not be determined as a poet of universal interest like his famous compatriot and neighbour Johann Wolfgang Goethe, who articulated every human phenomena. Schiller’s world was more limited. But surprising, how up to date Schiller was in his agitating questions.  Does our surprise have something to do with our lack of memory, respectively with our innocent authentication by which we try to follow his ideas of integrity, of ethic honesty?  

Schiller symbolizes the watch of virtues.  For his drama Don Carlos, he invented the passionate republican in the person of the Marquis de Posa, a defender of freedom of thought, speech and human rights.  

To defend the value of independence and to recognize at the same time its hidden violence, that is what makes this genius so specific. 

Schiller is regarded as the inventor of idealism.  In many aspects he could be considered as the most German of all the poets ever. His convictions demonstrated an independence, which – according to critics - is worth to be protected  - in particular nowadays.

Friedrich Schiller was born in 10^th of November 1759 in the small town of Marburg at the river Neckar, into a family, which did not belong to the wealthy ones.

Only 46 years had been enough for him to achieve several careers: one as a medical doctor, another as a dramatist, and a lyric poet, a further as a historian. By all them he merited lots of  poet’s laurel, and also a honourable estate rank - and of course - as a classical author he acquired immortality.

He started to study law, later he switched to medicine. He practiced as a “Regimentsmedicus” in the town of Stuttgart, interested in the boundary-spheres of physiology, philosophy and psychology. Rather early Schiller became aware of the essential conflicts between sexual drive and spirit, between nature and freedom.

He started his first poetry work by  “Die Räuber”, (The Robbers) a drama of youngsters’ rage and impetus, which was first performed successfully in 1782 at Mannheim Theatre. To finance this five-hour-show the young Schiller had to take a loan. But from The Robbers onwards he became famous.  But before being prominent  he was - immediately after the robber-presentation - arrested and banned of writing.  Only some years later he got in contact with all the other big shots of intellectual Germany, as Goethe, Koerner, Herder, Wieland, Humboldt, Kant… From 1799 onwards he gained honour and wealth, through the triumphal performances of “Wilhelm Tell”, his drama of resistance movement.

All Schiller’s dramatic figures suffer from the world’s bad, but they try at the same time to raise a vision of a superior one.

Schiller’s sense of morality became a certain common value in Germany – his optimism of  a changeable world targeted directly to the heart of  the 20^th  Century. Schiller died in Mai 1805 in the town of Weimar.

This year – 2005 – is the memory year of the German genius Friedrich Schiller. 200 years of his image, his work had left some remarkable traces. Many public occasions had been organized all over Germany in honour of this man, who first formulated the definition of a cultural nation.

And frankly admitted: Could it be that we do find an echo in our dreams of his youthful inspirations? “He use to grow from a far distance to close proximity, as soon as we get involved with him”, this experience had the contemporary author from Switzerland, Friedrich Dürrenmatt. And, it seems, that in 2005 Friedrich von Schiller will come rather close to us, this human being, “our” Schiller.

Not only Die Glocke, the bell, will ring on 3^rd of October at the German residence-garden, but guests will listen to the Ode to Joy, an die Freude.  Ludwig von Beethoven’s Symphony Number Nine culminates with Schiller’s verses of the ideal human brotherhood “beggars become the brothers of princes”.  The Ode to Joy was adopted as Europe’s anthem by the Council of Europe in 1972, with an official arrangement for orchestra written by the famous conductor Herbert von Karajan.  Never a music composition had attained such a universal attraction and so many emotional feelings…from Berlin via Muscat to Delhi and Tokyo ….

Because the message of joy and of global brotherhood is actually driven badly to absurdity, Beethoven’s Symphony - together with Schiller’s words – sounds to us of great urgency, of enormous priority. 

None of Schiller’s dramas and poems – next to the “Glocke”  - had such a wide spread and prominent effect.

“Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium,

wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum.

Deine Zauber binden wieder,

was die Mode streng geteilt,

alle Menschen werden Brüder,

wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Seid umschlungen Millionen!

Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt.

Brüder überm Sternenzelt

muss ein lieber Vater wohnen....

Freude heisst die starke Feder

in der ewigen Natur,

Freude, Freude treibt die Räder

in der grossen Weltenuhr...“

Oman through Foreign Eyes: An Austere Appearance

First encounters with unknown countries result always in the same mystical experience: Hardly the asphalt of strange streets under our soles, we know if there will be - or there will not  be  – an inner dialogue between the new country and ourselves. From that moment on, when this emphatic relationship succeeds, we will feel the bodily atmosphere of the foreign place: we foresee if we could cooperate with this place in good and bad times. 

Although I have changed countries like a homeless gipsy, my first encounter used to be always emotional. In advance of this first encounter I did inform myself from old German travel books. Those explorers described the Sultanate of Oman as the hottest spot of the world: “The heat of Muscat was so  intense that my bone-marrow seemed to burn, the sword  in the scabbard melted and its gemstones were converted into coal”.

My first meeting with Oman was under far more privileged and cooler circumstances at air-conditioned Seeb Airport, an airport  which luckily does not look like a shimmering, showy glass-palace, but like an authentic Omani Fortress. My first sympathy developed here:

While waiting for the long procedure of passport-boarder-formalities suddenly two men, kind of princes, appeared in long white traditional outfits. They graciously offered sweet dates on a silver tray and coffee in tiny cups poured from a slim silver container with an oversized spout. Illustrations from “Thousands and one nights” legends came to my mind. Where did I disembark? For sure, not at a normal spot of our globe, but in the middle of a fairy tale, which is clothed in its history and houses, in its streets and scents?

Scented with intense perfume and fog of frankincense are the entrances of all  modern malls, but at the germ cell of Oman, the old Souq of  Mutrah, fragrances are the most intense in town.

It is my favourite place. As soon as I have time, I rummage around the small shops, the dukans. At that time all my senses: eyes, ears, nose, are open: I see  shop-holders sitting  in between their piled up  merchandise, knees under their bottom. If they feel tired, they sleep, if they feel thirsty, they drink coffee, if the voice of the Imam echoes through the Souq lanes, they go to pray. I hear the melodic Arab language and I can smell all the sweet bouquet of aromas.  In this surrounding I always get the tranquil impression of privacy, of a mystery-mongering and of  Omans particular aura. This aura should have developed in times, when the country  was the commercial turn-table between Africa, India and the Middle-East and when Oman came in focus of colonial and imperial interests.

Looking around, it seems to me that more than 50 % of the Omani population is under 20. A nation as young as Oman should be qualified for an effortless and radiant happiness. But these youngsters are different. I gained the impression of reserved, silent and hard studying persons, aware of their moderate nation building. Are  they  permanently preparing exams?

In 1980 His Majesty Sultan Quaboos bin Said promised to this youth a national university. Six years later  first boys and girls matriculated. Currently 12.000 students attend SQU and the campus continues to expand. In concordance to the distinct and ascetic architecture most students are dressed traditionally in black and white, which presents - - an austere appearance, mixed up with a certain inner silence of dignity and peace.  

Black and white, the two extremes of the colour spectre evoke strong contrasts. But the beloved colour of  H.M. must be blue, there is no doubt. Blue is the facade of his palace and blue-golden the columns, which look like giant high heels. Blue is the new Mosque next to his palace. Finally blue the sky and the ocean, almost every single day the year round.

Blue is - ahead of  all  - also the favourite colour of the normal sun hungry tourists. But fascinating for me as a pale  foreigner are the different sunburnt and lined faces of Oman. More than by these faces I am impressed by  the different nations living here side by side. I consider Oman as cosmopolitan. Omanis from Arabia und others from East-Africa, Indians, Pakistanis, Beluchis, Europeans, Filipinos, they all seem to live in one country, but always in their own faith and culture: Men from Oman wear their dishdasha, their wives the black abaya, Pakistanis are wearing trousers covered by a very long shirt, those men from India wear wide trousers, a normal shirt, while their ladies are recognized  by their saris with naked arms, shoulder and belly,  and none of the deeply veiled Omanis  seems to be disturbed.

Still after two years in Oman, I find myself in the reality of my own illusion of an oriental country. Famous German author Johann W. Goethe was filled with enthusiasm about Arabian countries, which resulted in his work: “West-East Divan”.  The magic from the Orient stimulated the Occident in travelling and writing. I feel part of this miraculous exchange. My certain inner dialogue did succeed. I started by a warm anticipation and was until now not disillusioned.

And once in future-times, if I have to leave, I will always  remember the austerity of the dark rocks, the straightforward architecture, decorated by broad bougainvillea bushes, tamarisk- and acacia trees, I will remember Omans great variety of significant faces  and  its temperate and dedicated youth.

A Tourist from Oman to Germany

German beauty in contrast to its history

Every journey is done twice: Mentally and physically. The interaction between anticipation and reality might be the nicest, but also the most difficult.

A tourist from the Sultanate of Oman planning to travel to Germany has a certain idea of what he is going to meet:  He might expect an air filled with classical music of Johann Sebastian Bach, Ludwig van Beethoven or Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, with the peculiar smell of  lilac, cherry-blossoms or the famous perfume of “Eau de Cologne”.  He might be astonished of the different structure of towns, different ways of fashion and different colours. 

And what is the reality?  

Still sitting in the airplane – arriving in winter – he will see white and grey as  dominating colours under the wings of his airplane. The landscape might be covered by blankets of snow.  Arriving in autumn mostly orange and red is to be seen. Trees are changing the dress of their leaves. Arriving in spring or summer, green will hit his sight in all variations:  Dark green forests and lush lawns surrounding not only the Airport of  Frankfurt.

Although Germans suffer in winter of frozen hands and feet and of a certain melancholy, they estimate their seasonal climate-change as a kind of wealth, a rich variety of landscape-changes.

Landscape – what is it? A place to live in, a source of delight, something to exploit?

It became general opinion, that landscape includes everything that man has added to nature – including cities, motorways and industrial conurbations. German landscape is extraordinarily diverse, basically divided in six major types: The high mountains of the Alpes, the hilly Uplands with huge forests and meadows, the fertile plains of the North, the River-valleys with its vast vineyards, the lakes of northern plains  and the beaches and Islands in the North Sea and the Baltic Sea.

When my family had built a house South of Frankfurt, we were first refused planning and construction permit, because the site we had chosen, above the old Roman Rhine-valley-trail, dominated by a fortress on top of the “Melibocus”, the highest hill of the “Odenwald”, is under a  rigorous building legislation. In spite of those regulations, the landscape had changed enormously in a period of  two decades. Roads were built, some schools, and – important ! - enchanting guest-houses have been added. But the fortress is still untouched. There are 19.000 of them only in the German-language speaking regions.

Frankfurt– situated at the river Main and the last 50 years dominated by American  style  – and therefore sometimes called smilingly  Mainhattan  - could be the first impression of the Omani Tourist. And really Frankfurt in its new part is a kind of small Manhattan  - or even Dubai., highlighted by green parks and inn-gardens facing the river Main.   And here the tourist gets a first insight:   The beauty of the German landscape is in strange contrast to its history. All the important and good-looking cities he is going to visit have been heavily destroyed 60 years ago, in world war II, for example: Berlin, Cologne (Köln), Hamburg, Dresden, Leipzig and of course Frankfurt. Its old part had been reconstructed according to old plans some decades ago, specially the picturesque birthplace of  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Since 250 years the poets name is found everywhere. He is the genius of this business town, today a kind of transit-town, a busy coming-and-going-town.

But a tourist  will not stay in Frankfurt for long. He might take a train-ride to the nearby Wiesbaden. By 26 thermal-springs this town became a high class health resort….with a famous gamble-Casino. The visitor could go to “Aukamm-Bath”, where he will swim outside by a 34 C warm water-temperature  in the middle of the snow.

After having had his healthy bath, the tourist from Oman will have a challenging choice: How to continue? By a rented car, by a boat on the river Rhein (Rhine) or by a comfortable high-speed-train? Let’s presume, he takes a river-boat to Cologne. He might be astonished by all the romantic fortresses and castles along his track. Every castle, every rock has its own bizarre legend, specially the hundred or so meters high rock of Loreley, named after a beautiful girl. According to the legend, she used to sit on this rock, just at the most narrow path of the river Rhine. Instead watching carefully the River’s narrow track,  most of the captains had a look up to the rock,  where Loreley  was sitting and gently combing  her fair long hair. They got confused, their ship hit the rock and went down,  the sailors perished…

In spite of  the Loreley-rock, hopefully our tourist arrives at Cologne safely. He had to pass the small and pleasant town of Bonn, the former capital of  West-Germany. The area of Bonn is snuggled in seven hills – and that’s it. No more hills from now on to the North-Sea.

The most impressive building of Cologne is the dome, destroyed in 1944 and rebuilt. Cologne has 1 Million inhabitants and among the many churches at leas t 13 from the 13 medieval. Most of them have been built on Roman heritage ground. A great variety of guest-houses and hotels are available, as well as Museums of Modern Art and not to forget, the huge Roman-German-Museum. Arriving in February, there is no way to escape the foolish festival of carnival.

The next visiting point could be Aachen, near the Belgium boarder, a place of hot springs, discovered and used by the Romans at their arrival 2000 years ago.

The town had developed around the old “Pfalz”, a kind of castle of Emperor Karl der Grosse (Charles the Great) and was for 600 years the coronation place of all the German emperors. In 1656 the town was  - for the first time – destroyed, rebuilt and again destroyed  - only 60 years ago. (World War II)

Travelling through Germany means that any consideration is affected by the past.  The tourist will learn about old sores, about occupying forces, about expulsion and about the Sisyphus mechanic of destruction and reconstruction.

Aachen of nowadays is rather European. Every year the “Karlspreis” (Charles-Award)  is given to one  worthy citizen of the new Europe.

The strangest “inhabitant” of Aachen ever was a white elephant, named Abul Abbas. Its home town was Baghdad where it belonged - 1200 years ago - to powerful and famous Caliph Harun Al-Rashid. Harun sent the elephant as a symbol of sympathy  to emperor Charles the Great to Aachen as a present. The animal together with some merchants had a real 5-years-long trip and they arrived in Aachen in July 802. One year ago, in 2003,  the municipality of Aachen recalled this fascinating history by the 3-month exhibition “Ex-Oriente”.

The “Orientarum

“of Germany could be reached by train, by airplane or by car on infinite auto routes, not possible until year 1990, because of the wall and the cruel boarder-regime between East and West of Germany.  

My home-town Berlin was divided too. Today there is few left of the former famous wall. And there is few left of the world-war II destruction. The torso of the “Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtnis-Kirche (Emperor-Wilhelm-Reminding-Church) will remind  future generation: “No more wars!”

But remarkable flashy row of new high-risers for government and commercial use can be seen all around. Berlin’s cultural events attract again millions of tourists every year.

But my favourite town to visit in Central Germany is the small town of  Werningerode, carefully renovated after the German reunion. Its medieval fortifications and palaces are witnesses of a historically important past. Some cosy guest-houses are snuggled in the massif of  the “Harz”-mountains. From here it’s easy to visit the rebuilt Dresden, the so called Paris of  

Eastern Germany.

Let me mention Hamburg, the northern town with its annually in May celebrated port-birthday. This year even His Majesty’s Dhouw had left Muscat in middle of March and had been overwhelmingly  welcomed by Hamburg citizens and the media. The Omani sailing vessel is expected back for September in Muscat.

Back from Germany came Nadia, my Omani friend. She was in Munich and full of delightful impressions (except the fact, that her hand bag was stolen). She was impressed by the Alps, by the different lakes, the BBQ’s with friends, by the shopping possibilities. At least her anticipation became positive reality.

And according to an Arabic saying about the 5 benefits of travelling: She had at least 3 benefits of her journey to Germany:

1) She acquired knowledge

2) she was introduced  to a new culture, new landscapes

3) she made new friends