JIMSHAW
Ambassador at Large
Twenty years ago, something changed that was more pivotal than most of us remember. Those of us who cling to the German motorcycles may have felt this just a little more strongly. About this date, the Berlin Wall began to come down. The foundations of a regime that was so corrupt that it had to wall in its citizens, finally crumbled so badly that the wall could not sustain itself. Pressures of human concern and spirit joined against the constraints of bad government to bring down the wall, both figuratively and actually. The world hasnÔÇÖt been the same.
By an accident of fate, I was in Berlin during this period. Over five hundred engineers and management of the worldÔÇÖs airlines gathered in West Berlin for our yearly meeting to solve problems of aircraft avionics. None of us suspected weÔÇÖd be watching, just outside our hotel and conference rooms, the death throes of a terminal regime. Yet, here we were.
To give just one experience of the fear and repression on the other side of that wall, I cite a little tale of a very real experience. For several years, one of my projects was advanced test gear for JAT, the Yugoslavian air carrier. I had made many visits to Belgrade, completed the contract, and the equipment exceeded JATÔÇÖs expectations. I had befriended several engineers at the airline. I had been vetted by YugoslaviaÔÇÖs equivalent of the KGB, as being sufficiently neutral in the project to be trusted. I often entertained the management and engineering staff in their city, and they, me. Certain of them seemed to have prophetic understanding of just how valuable it might be to have a friend in the West.
As a welcoming part of the conference in (then) West Berlin, the City invited all five hundred of us to a huge reception in a great stone palace. The Champagne and Riesling flowed and the hors dÔÇÖoeuvres were excellent. There was an air of expectancy, because of political rumblings from the East. I socialized with many friends there, but the two Yugoslavians seemed attached to me. The Mayor of West Berlin addressed us in English, the language of aviation. In the middle of his oration, I looked around for my Serbian and Croatian companions, but they had disappeared. I saw them standing in the shadow of an exit portal looking positively ashen. I walked over to them, and asked what was going on?
The fear in their eyes was intense. WhatÔÇÖs the deal? ItÔÇÖs just a speech. One of them spoke softly, so as not to be heard but by his companion and me: ÔÇ£You donÔÇÖt fully understand, Jim, what it means to live and work in Yugoslavia,ÔÇØ he said. ÔÇ£If someone were to see us here when such things are being said, if someone just saw our photograph here for this event, our lives and our careers would be ruined. Forever.ÔÇØ
It is too easy for westerners to not understand this, to not feel their terror. It has taken me years to try to embrace it. Sure, I knew my every move was watched when I was in Yugoslavia. I knew, because these guys confided it, that some of the attendees of the meetings we had were their intelligence police. I expected that every contact was reported, and my hotel room was surely bugged. But ÔÇô I could board a flight home, and once again be relaxed and comfortable in my homeland. These guys could not. Ever. And so, this is how I first felt the real oppression, the fear.
Quite spontaneously, the wall started to open up. The East German army and police unloaded their weapons, and shouted greetings from the top of the wall. They flirted with the West German girls. Every evening, we boycotted the conference hospitality suites and entertainment in favor of walking to the Brandenburg Gate, the epicenter of all the expectations. High towers had been hastily erected to give clear views to television cameras and photographers. The Gate remained closed until well after much of the wall came down, fearing citizens might be injured in the crush to rush into East Berlin, and vice versa.
The Sunday after, I was hiking along a section of the wall. British soldiers patrolled an open section. It became 4 oÔÇÖclock. They offered everyone a share of their tea, and we drank from aluminum and tin cups. I joined them, even though I donÔÇÖt much care for tea. It was a momentous time, and we all felt some need of camaraderie. I honestly believe I can still taste the metallic flavor of that brew, and it is a warm memory.
Toward dusk, I was again hiking along the wall, when I came up on a local man hammering away at one of the most picturesque sections of the wall. East of it was another wall, and in between was the ÔÇÿkilling zone,ÔÇÖ where real people had been shot to death trying to cross the boundary. Someone had long ago painted graffiti everywhere. In huge letters, it said, ÔÇ£Blood is thicker than concrete.ÔÇØ
On that day, many were hammering at the wall on the Western side. It was constructed of what military engineers call ÔÇÿbunker concrete.ÔÇÖ The aggregate is granite, and the concrete is vibrated to make it as hard and strong as concrete can get. Everywhere else, the hammerers were mostly destroying their hammers. The fellow I walked up to was a bit wiser. He had a geologistÔÇÖs hammer, which did a much better job. We couldnÔÇÖt speak to each other, other than by looks and gestures. He gestured, ÔÇ£Do you want a piece?ÔÇØ I nodded pretty vigorously. He hauled off and knocked a substantial hunk from the surface, complete with the graffiti paint. He presented it to me, rather as a priest might present the communion, respectfully and almost prayerfully. I thanked him in English, and we shook hands.
I still have that chunk of the wall, somewhere around here. I havenÔÇÖt seen it for a while. But, in my bedroom hang two large photos of that fellow, his hammer, and that section of the wall that he and other free men tore down. And I am proud, and mindful.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=snsdDb7KDkg&NR=1
Jim
By an accident of fate, I was in Berlin during this period. Over five hundred engineers and management of the worldÔÇÖs airlines gathered in West Berlin for our yearly meeting to solve problems of aircraft avionics. None of us suspected weÔÇÖd be watching, just outside our hotel and conference rooms, the death throes of a terminal regime. Yet, here we were.
To give just one experience of the fear and repression on the other side of that wall, I cite a little tale of a very real experience. For several years, one of my projects was advanced test gear for JAT, the Yugoslavian air carrier. I had made many visits to Belgrade, completed the contract, and the equipment exceeded JATÔÇÖs expectations. I had befriended several engineers at the airline. I had been vetted by YugoslaviaÔÇÖs equivalent of the KGB, as being sufficiently neutral in the project to be trusted. I often entertained the management and engineering staff in their city, and they, me. Certain of them seemed to have prophetic understanding of just how valuable it might be to have a friend in the West.
As a welcoming part of the conference in (then) West Berlin, the City invited all five hundred of us to a huge reception in a great stone palace. The Champagne and Riesling flowed and the hors dÔÇÖoeuvres were excellent. There was an air of expectancy, because of political rumblings from the East. I socialized with many friends there, but the two Yugoslavians seemed attached to me. The Mayor of West Berlin addressed us in English, the language of aviation. In the middle of his oration, I looked around for my Serbian and Croatian companions, but they had disappeared. I saw them standing in the shadow of an exit portal looking positively ashen. I walked over to them, and asked what was going on?
The fear in their eyes was intense. WhatÔÇÖs the deal? ItÔÇÖs just a speech. One of them spoke softly, so as not to be heard but by his companion and me: ÔÇ£You donÔÇÖt fully understand, Jim, what it means to live and work in Yugoslavia,ÔÇØ he said. ÔÇ£If someone were to see us here when such things are being said, if someone just saw our photograph here for this event, our lives and our careers would be ruined. Forever.ÔÇØ
It is too easy for westerners to not understand this, to not feel their terror. It has taken me years to try to embrace it. Sure, I knew my every move was watched when I was in Yugoslavia. I knew, because these guys confided it, that some of the attendees of the meetings we had were their intelligence police. I expected that every contact was reported, and my hotel room was surely bugged. But ÔÇô I could board a flight home, and once again be relaxed and comfortable in my homeland. These guys could not. Ever. And so, this is how I first felt the real oppression, the fear.
Quite spontaneously, the wall started to open up. The East German army and police unloaded their weapons, and shouted greetings from the top of the wall. They flirted with the West German girls. Every evening, we boycotted the conference hospitality suites and entertainment in favor of walking to the Brandenburg Gate, the epicenter of all the expectations. High towers had been hastily erected to give clear views to television cameras and photographers. The Gate remained closed until well after much of the wall came down, fearing citizens might be injured in the crush to rush into East Berlin, and vice versa.
The Sunday after, I was hiking along a section of the wall. British soldiers patrolled an open section. It became 4 oÔÇÖclock. They offered everyone a share of their tea, and we drank from aluminum and tin cups. I joined them, even though I donÔÇÖt much care for tea. It was a momentous time, and we all felt some need of camaraderie. I honestly believe I can still taste the metallic flavor of that brew, and it is a warm memory.
Toward dusk, I was again hiking along the wall, when I came up on a local man hammering away at one of the most picturesque sections of the wall. East of it was another wall, and in between was the ÔÇÿkilling zone,ÔÇÖ where real people had been shot to death trying to cross the boundary. Someone had long ago painted graffiti everywhere. In huge letters, it said, ÔÇ£Blood is thicker than concrete.ÔÇØ
On that day, many were hammering at the wall on the Western side. It was constructed of what military engineers call ÔÇÿbunker concrete.ÔÇÖ The aggregate is granite, and the concrete is vibrated to make it as hard and strong as concrete can get. Everywhere else, the hammerers were mostly destroying their hammers. The fellow I walked up to was a bit wiser. He had a geologistÔÇÖs hammer, which did a much better job. We couldnÔÇÖt speak to each other, other than by looks and gestures. He gestured, ÔÇ£Do you want a piece?ÔÇØ I nodded pretty vigorously. He hauled off and knocked a substantial hunk from the surface, complete with the graffiti paint. He presented it to me, rather as a priest might present the communion, respectfully and almost prayerfully. I thanked him in English, and we shook hands.
I still have that chunk of the wall, somewhere around here. I havenÔÇÖt seen it for a while. But, in my bedroom hang two large photos of that fellow, his hammer, and that section of the wall that he and other free men tore down. And I am proud, and mindful.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=snsdDb7KDkg&NR=1
Jim
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