Page 53 - AIT0123_E-Paper

Jeden Monat nähern sich unsere Kolumnisten, die Berliner Filmemacher Dominik und Benjamin Reding, dem jeweiligen Heftthema
auf ihre ganz eigene Art und Weise. Geboren wurden die Zwillinge am 3. Januar 1969 in Dortmund. Während Dominik Architektur
in Aachen und Film in Hamburg studierte, absolvierte Benjamin ein Schauspielstudium in Stuttgart. 1997 begann die Arbeit an ihrem
ersten gemeinsamen Kinofilm „Oi! Warning“. Seitdem arbeiten sie für Fernseh- und Kinofilmprojekte zusammen.

Each month our columnists, Berlin-based filmmakers Dominik and Benjamin Reding, approach the respective issue-specific theme
in their very personal way. The twins were born on January 3, 1969 in Dortmund. Whilst Dominik studied architecture in Aachen
and film in Hamburg, Benjamin graduated in acting studies in Stuttgart. They started working on their first joint motion picture “Oi!
Warning“ in 1997. Since then they have tightly collaborated for TV and cinema film projects.

B ANG! BANG! BANG! had not expected it. I had been working at my desk, obli- a forced smile:” Olé, olé, olé, Borussia Dortmund, olé!” “Well, you have definitely been
vious, absorbed. BANG! BANG! BANG! The desk shakes. I walk towards the
lucky!” The fan grinned and gave me a hard knock against my shoulder. Crash! A beer
window, look out onto the nocturnal city. The street is full of people. They are throwing bottle shattered into pieces in front of the ticket machine. The railway police moved
bangers, are firing New Year rockets. Young people, their arms raised, waving flags, quickly, so did he, and so did I, towards the exit. A young Turkish guy got in the way,
shouting, jeering, wild, enthusiastic: “Dima Maghreb!” What is happening here? I go stopped the fans. Someone shouted: “Frigging wog!” I had reached the exit doors. A
back to my desk, look for “news” on the Internet. And I find it: “Dima Maghreb” Long look back for just a second: Again, a beer bottle was flying, shattered next to me on
live Morocco! Morocco won! Against Portugal! At the 2022 World Cup! The first African the floor. Finally, I was outside … BANG! A New Year banger hits the window pane.
nation in the semi-final of a football world cup! I look at the televised images of the Brings me back from my mental journey to the present. I open the balcony door: a
just finished match: I see a weeping Ronaldo and Moroccan national players who are fresh, icy wind, the hotel opposite is brightly lit, the guests are leaning out the wind-
running back and forth across the playing field like children surprised by too big a pre- ows, marvel at the hustle and bustle in the street, as do I. Cars are already backed up
sent, stunned at their instant importance. And I read names of those who now, as the all the way to the hotel entrance, car horns are honking, some of it enthusiastic, some
underdogs, have dethroned Portugal the football titan, names that may even become of it angry. A few blocks further down, the blue lights of police cars. Should I go out-
popular: Hakim Ziyech, Youssef En-Nesyri, Sofanie Boufal, Achraf Hakimi. I also read side? Should I watch how the “Scharie–Al-Arab” is celebrating? But what if the mood
the reviews on the sports pages that, of course, had foreseen everything, with the usual suddenly shifts, if I am recognized as an alman, as a stupid German who has no busi-
terms from “fresh enthusiasm” to “new talents” to “born fighters”; and I see the so- ness at the Moroccan-Arabian celebrations? Who is seen as a part of the system that,
cial-media profiles of the new stars with the usual images of a “football player’s life- again and again, makes them feel inferior in the job centres, the social-welfare offices,
style”: national player X on a yacht on the Mediterra- the police stations. The system that, if at all, assigns
nean; national player Y in the pool of a five-star resort them a place in society at the very back, in the cheap
hotel; national player Z with his model girlfriend in standing space with a bad view, no matter how justi-
front of his Porsche, Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini. fied all the reservations due to smoking grass, dealing,
Images of the perhaps most perfect symbiosis of a stealing cell phones may be. I put on my winter jacket
human being, advertising, sales and presentation. Tou- and go outside. Of course, right at the front door, the
ching everything that is private and turning it into pu- first banger explodes between my feet. Two Arab girls
blicly efficient gold similar to Midas the king. BANG! are giggling, the firecracker was probably meant for
And once again: BANG, BANG. Mega bangers are explo- their friends who are waving the Moroccan flag on the
ding outside, chants are becoming loud: “Arabia! Ara- other side of the street. The two girls are unveiled, as
bia!” Berlin-Neukölln, and Sonnenallee in particular, are almost all the women who are around tonight in
the “Scharie-Al-Arab”, the “Arabian street” is getting the “Arabian street”. After two, three street blocks, past
into a frenzy. Should I venture outside? One of the the shisha cafés, the Medina supermarket, the Damas-
names of the “Morocco heroes” seems familiar to me: kus grill restaurant and the Lamsa gift shop full of
Achraf Hakimi, who once was a defender in the team Koran Surahs in ornate golden frames and of glittering
of my home town, Borussia Dortmund, BVB. “True chandeliers which could even make an impression in
love”, is the slogan the club uses as advertisement. Foto: Benjamin Reding Versailles and imitate the football player lifestyle, I
“True love”? Not always … A Saturday in the Dortmund reach the eye of the hurricane: On the roof of a van
central station, years ago, I came back from shopping parked at the roadside, three young Arabian men are
in the city. Well-behaved citizens were running towards me, their shopping bags were standing, raising above their heads the Palestinian, the Lebanese and also the Moroc-
swinging from their wrists. Their faces were tense, irritated, panicky as well, also dis- can flag improvised in the haste of the event out of a red tablecloth and black sticky
gusted. They were running towards the stairs, up to the platforms and the trains that tape. They shout it into the surging crowed and everyone here shouts it as well: “Dima
are leaving, away from the danger. And other individuals were running downwards for Maghreb!” And some hold up their smartphones, they film everything, capturing the
the same reason, into the concourse, right into the danger. With a wide grin, clenched proof that they were present when once they were the winners, the heroes, maybe also
fists and crimson faces. The fans. They were singing, No, they were screaming, retching, once better than the otherwise “almighty” Germans. TA! TA! TAM! Muzzle flashes from
bawling: “Olé, Olé, oléoléolé, Borussia Dortmund! BVB!” … Damn it, the football match pistols. Nearby somewhere on a balcony, in front of a shisha bar, in a house entrance,
had been today. Borussia against the archenemy: Schalke 04. The main thing was now salutes are being fired. The people are cheering, each one is applauded. Nobody here
not to draw attention … I walked down the stairs squeezing against the edge. Downs- seems to be afraid of ricochets, I am, however, I want to turn around and retreat, then
tairs, in the concourse: everything neon bright, railway police, fan headscarves, the someone positions himself next to me. One of these well-trained, always hard-looking
smell of cigarettes and beer. “You are Schalke fans, antisocial Schalke fans, you sleep young Arabs with an impeccably trimmed beard and a “football player hairdo”. He
under bridges or in the railway mission!” The BVB fans, the “ultras”, were looking for looks at me, critically, scrutinizing, while staring into my eyes. I feel it in his look that
Schalke fans to rough them up. One of them jostled me. A fan cap, a fan scarf, a fan T- he has become aware that I am an alman, a German. Then, very sincerely, very digni-
shirt, everything sweat-soaked and soiled. “Well now, how did we play?” “We …?” I fied he says: “Thank you, brother”. And walks on, waving the Moroccan flag, back into
was thinking hard. For too long. “Hey, don’t tell me you are a Schalke fan?” His fist the hustle of the celebrating people. The following morning, a major Berlin newspaper
clenched. Now I had to be quick and lie: “Of course, Borussia won!” And I bawled with has the headline: “Arabian fans riot in Sonnenallee.” No, they did not.

AIT 1/2.2023 • 053