Many years ago in religious education class, I gave a presentation on the Ten Commandments. Back then I held the Hoffnung für alle (“Hope for All”) translation in my hand — and even then, what mattered most to me was what these ancient sentences actually bring us in real life, for our own good and for living together. And of course, my 11th Commandment could not be left out at the very end — as a small joke with a serious background. ...
For a long time, Vorarlberg was a bitterly poor land. A land that had to send its own children on foot over the mountains into foreign parts as Schwabenkinder (Swabian children) because there was not enough at home to feed everyone. Today we look at clean municipalities, strong businesses in the Rhine Valley and Walgau, hydroelectric power plants in the mountains, and a prosperity that many envy us for. And we often act as if all of that had grown out of the ground all by itself — solely through our own diligence. ...
If you like, listen while reading: Once upon a time, there was a boy who grew up in a house where the light rarely reached the floor. His hands were still small, yet they already knew how to tremble. His back was still soft, yet he already knew how to hunch when the footsteps outside the door grew heavy. And worse than the blows that could be seen were the sentences that stayed behind. They did not draw a boundary around what he did — they described what he supposedly was: too loud, too little, wrong. ...
Recently, the question of what a perfect world would look like was asked in an online forum. If you follow the political debates of our days, the answer usually sounds like more speed, more growth, sharper edges, or the next grand system overhaul. My answer turned out differently. Quieter. In my perfect village – a region, a country, a continent, or even a world – people are above all one thing: content. ...
Once upon a time there was a man whom the people in the village gave a wide berth. They called him the curmudgeon. When children ran past his garden fence, they grew quiet, and when someone greeted him on the street, at most a terse grumble came back. His gaze always looked first for what was crooked, what was noisy, or what might break. What nobody in the village knew: the man did not want to be like that at all. ...
Behind him, the mountain gave way. A deep rumble, a blow, then dust that took his breath away. When it grew quiet again, a wall of rock and clay lay behind the wanderer. The valley he had come from – the familiar, the beautiful, the known – was buried. The way back no longer existed. He stood in the old tunnel. It was cold. Under his boots lay sharp rubble that the collapse had broken from the ceiling. Above him, in the unseen vault, there was rustling and squeaking. Bats, startled from their sleep, shot closely past his face through the darkness. ...
To many people, “bipolar” sounds like a mere swing between good and bad moods. On paper, however, my diagnosis reads Bipolar 1 with psychotic symptoms – and when I am in full-blown mania, it has nothing whatsoever to do with “being in a good mood.” It often starts constructively: I have countless ideas, mostly driven by an honest desire to improve things fundamentally. Yet my head shifts into a speed that hardly anyone on the outside can follow anymore. There is no longer any filter between thinking and speaking – almost every thought has to come out the exact second it arises. At the same time, my short-term memory collapses: what I said days ago, or even just a few moments ago, is erased almost in the same instant. Only this hyper-accelerated Now exists. ...
Once upon a time there was a boy in whom a restless fire burned. In the village, nobody knew what to do with him. He ran too fast, he asked too much, he did not fit on any chair. Wherever he went, he met gazes that kept him small. “Sit up straight,” said the teacher’s eyes. “Pull yourself together,” said the neighbours’ eyes. The more strictly they looked, the more wildly the boy’s heart thrashed about. ...
If you like, listen while reading: In a village at the edge of the forest, everyone wore invisible suits of armour made of iron. Whoever wanted to be strong showed no weakness. Only one man did not play along. If you asked him who he was, he grinned: “An idiot and a fool – it even says so on my report card.” Then he laughed, and people quickly walked on. ...
Why we fall silent when life hurts – and what freedom lies in taking off our own armour. In extreme cases, silence can be life-threatening. It quietly isolates us from the inside out, gnaws at our self-confidence, and in the worst case costs lives. Why, then, is it still so hard for us to speak up when life hurts? Viewed without blame, our silence is an old suit of armour. Across generations – through wars, poverty, and the hard reconstruction after 1945 – an iron rule of survival applied: pull yourself together and function. Our ancestors had to pack away their pain in order to build the prosperity we enjoy today. Their silence was not coldness, but necessity. ...