A Berlin Vigil for a Russian Dissident

Today the news broke that Alexei Navalny had died in prison, after being secretly transferred to Siberia around the Christmas season.

I was upset about it to a degree that surprised me, because I admire his strength of character but didn't agree with all of his views.

I suppose that part of the shock is also because it is cruel and cowardly to kill someone who's already trapped, like pulling wings off a fly — although in every other sense I wouldn't compare a human being to a fly.

In the evening, having read that two protests took place today and that one was officially ending at 7 p.m., I cycled off to Unter den Linden to take photos if the protest was still ongoing.

I arrived past 7:30 p.m., but just as expected, people were still there.

It was a strong juxtaposition to have the Ukrainian patriotism of yellow-and-blue and a flag with the figure of a soldier printed on it, encircled by the crowd of what (based on the languages spoken) I suspected were largely Russians. They were laying bouquets and red-shelled candles at the homemade memorial that's been decorating the gravel since the February 2022 invasion of Ukraine.

An odd juxtaposition in my view simply because I think it's hard to celebrate the deaths or injuries of Russian soldiers in Ukraine wherever they have been cannon fodder ("What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?" as Wilfried Owen once put it). They were not all callous invaders and torturers of civilians.

The police guard was heavy, clustered largely on the side of the street beside the ornate fence of the Russian embassy's yard. A few officers were standing on foot, on the median. They seemed reasonably relaxed; the officer who stood on guard beside me as I walked over in the nick of time and unlocked my bicycle from the security barriers was polite when I asked if it was fine to use a nearby lamp-post instead.

As the crowd thinned, a few women came back from the direction of Brandenburg Gate, carrying heavy armfuls of red roses, bright tulips, pale chrysanthemums and other flowers.

While I was almost in tears at times, I found the mood amongst the crowd, many of whom were conversing amongst each other, not too funereal. Maybe Navalny's early death was more foreseeable to them?

Either way, it seemed to me that a few of the protesters who crouched down, lighted candles, and placed them on the ground, also found comfort in the gesture.

Glimpses of Sunlight, and the Film Festival

It was a sunny day, for once, and massive fluffy clouds were floating across the sky as I cycled off to Charlottenburg to meet my godfather and a friend/former-colleague at a noodle house.

As it was the lunch hour, a few people came in as Japanese pop played in the background. Below boxy wooden lamps, near a courtyard window that showed a storeys-high carpet of ivy draped over early 20th-century or late 19th-century brick back wall, at a wooden table with a little potted plant that almost looked like samphire on it, I read a page or two of Walter Benjamin's Berliner Chronik while waiting for the other two to arrive.

We ordered a bento box, ramen with mushrooms and spinach and snap peas, and rice with tofu, respectively; ginger tea, the ginger shredded into delicate slivers, served in pottery cups with a piece of lime in it and honey on the side; and coffee for the first course.

Then, mochi ice cream (berry and coconut flavours, with a berry sauce on the side, also served on grey pottery) and matcha tiramisu for dessert, as well as more coffees.

Needless to say, we didn't all eat every dish.

It was warm, comforting food, except for the dessert (which was also delicious, however, and comforting in another way), and I enjoyed it very much.

Back at home, uncle Pu came to visit, then T.: we chatted and ate plenty of cookies.

Since then I've been researching the Berlin film festival again. Besides, speaking of films and competitions, I've been watching part of the biopic Rustin, because it was nominated for Screen Actors' Guild awards.

I've also been watching (to brag) a food documentary, where it was pleasing to find out that I can understand Brazilian Portuguese subtitles reasonably well.

Last night I reflected that maybe I have to take the leap and do my amateur reporting always in both English and German... such as it is. By now my impression is that becoming a Canadian foreign correspondent is a pipe dream because it would require ironclad bona fides on my part, networking, and an employer who could afford to pay me; I can't retreat into the comfort zone of English by itself forever.