I’ve just returned from a two-week whirlwind through Central Europe. It was a surreal coincidence to be in this region right after the U.S. election, but it was also illuminating, and ultimately redeeming.
The trip began on a discordant emotional note. Like many in the U.S. intercultural field, I sensed that everything I stood for had been run over by the electoral college. I despaired at reports of violence and felt a mounting anxiety that we could be headed toward a populist tyranny. Unpleasant thoughts for a 10+ hour flight, and when we landed in Vienna, the rain matched my dreary feeling.
If you want to shake off introspection, though, Vienna is not the city for it. One minute you are gawking at palaces and in the next you come face to face with the Monument Against War & Fascism , the Soviet War Memorial, and the Nameless Library. Nor was art an escape: while exploring impressionism to modernism I found the political and social parallels with today too close for comfort. History lurks everywhere, and if you pay attention it makes you realize that horrors can happen even in the most elegant of places. That leaders really do scapegoat minorities during times of upheaval, and artists really do suffer when their humanistic truths collide with the party line. And that even after the bricks and mortar are repaired, the soul of a place may never be fully restored.
So, Vienna wasn’t exactly a mental holiday. Or a physical one (I promptly came down with a cold). But I did make a point to enjoy it by going to the famed Christmas markets, where I sipped gluhwein and was asked kindly but directly by an employee to please not set my mug on the railing. And perhaps because I was feeling adrift, I looked for ways to connect on a human level.
I spoke in broken German to clerks, pantomimed about how to use museum lockers, and helped befuddled Brits figure out the process for ordering cake. (It’s Austria. Of course there is a process). My husband and I chatted with a waiter who exclaimed that he loved America and visited Los Angeles every year, and another who told us that we didn’t seem American because we enjoyed our conversation instead of rushing through our meal. (Thanks . . . I think?)
When we attended the Drucker Forum Gala, I expected criticism about American politics. However, I found the opposite: Commiseration. Austrian attendees fretted about their own elections while Britons licked their wounds over Brexit. A German working in the UK shared his fear that after years of relative peace, integration, and rising global prosperity, people have taken hard-won progress (and the institutions that made it possible) for granted. The consensus was of uncertainty: Everyone was aware that an anti-liberal upheaval was underway, but nobody felt sure about how it would shake out, how to respond, or what it would mean.
After a week of philosophical ponderings in between doses of strong Austrian medicine and mélange, we boarded a train for Prague. I left Vienna with two impressions. First, those of us invested in building bridges must stand together. Second, global business may prove to be an ally, if only because its profit depends on it. That said, at the moment they seem like the proverbial group gaping at a big hole in the ground.
Prague was a welcome respite between conferences. We dined at a 900-year-old vineyard overlooking the red-roofed city, climbed castle steps after the rain, and gazed upon golden relics from medieval Bohemia (including Good King Wenceslas’s arm). And yet, like the fog engulfing the Charles Bridge, the heavy contemplations from Vienna followed us.
For example: At the Spanish Synagogue, a guide explained that locals did not necessarily feel anti-Semitic before the Holocaust, but they did not speak out because these views didn’t affect them. It was impossible not to see the similarities with those who heard the Islamophobic, anti-Semitic, and racist comments by a U.S. presidential candidate but just didn’t care. Looking through the glass at registers of Jewish residents, I shuddered at contemporary calls for a mandatory registration of Muslim Americans. This is what is at stake, I thought. This is what can happen if good people stay silent.
Troubled by the question of at what point a country lurches into genocide, I tried to do fun things like visit a beer spa, eat trdlo, and listen to busking musicians (like an incongruous Dixieland Band). Yet on the final morning, we came across a plaque commemorating a 1948 student march. Suppressed by Communist police, it proved to be a turning point in the country’s slide into totalitarianism. That night, we stumbled upon the Monument to the Victims of Communism, which hauntingly depicts the regime’s human toll. Refracted through current events, these bookends to a painful past offered a grim warning: We tried to stop it here, but we couldn’t – and we paid a terrible price.
So the pensive fog had turned more ominous, and as we drove east across the Czech countryside the following day, I braced myself for more alienation. Uneasiness with current events mixed with jitters at returning to Poland for the first time in nine years, and my lack of preparation for the bus ride (no water for a four-and-a-half-hour journey) mirrored the lack of preparation I felt for how to approach the new political paradigm.
Yet when I disembarked from Polski Bus, my apprehension gave way to anticipation. As we elbowed through a crowd of frowny faces, pulled suitcases over potholed sidewalks, and detoured around a construction zone, it was reassuring to see that some things never change. We spent the afternoon ticking the homecoming list: eating a slice of szarlotka, browsing at Empik, drinking chocolate at Wedel, and wandering the Rynek. That night, as we stood beneath a windmill in the Christmas market, my heart welled with contentment. We had returned; for a moment, in my life writ-small, that was enough.
We were also in for a treat. A city of gnomes, bridges, students, and global companies, Wroclaw had a quirky vibe, an unpretentious spirit, and a palpable freshness. The SIETAR Polska Congress had a similar vitality and vigor, and its corridors buzzed with earnestness and collaboration. Having travelled thousands of miles, I found myself in the urgent conversations I had been craving. Over tea and sunflower seed cookies, we talked about the human side of a globalized society. What we mean by diversity, how much a community can absorb, and how best to facilitate that process. How we can engage with people who are hostile toward cultural difference without further alienating them or inadvertently empowering racism, Islamophobia, etc.. Whom and what our work is for, and how we in the intercultural field can avoid becoming a silo of good intentions.
Not everything was perfectly translatable; after all, the exact intercultural situation in each country is distinct. And alongside educational and social topics, we also gave business cultural challenges their due. Even so, I was repeatedly struck by the recognition that we are all part of the same struggle. I may be reeling from the nose dive I perceive my country to be taking, but Poland has been in it much longer with the election of its current government – not to mention the fractured legacies of partitions, World Wars, the Holocaust, and the Iron Curtain. Yet for all the suffering and setbacks, Polish interculturalists have not thrown in the towel.
As I listened to my colleagues’ stories, I was warmed by the recognition that we aren’t alone but are part of a global community. I felt freed by the perspective that there was room for both cynicism and creativity, that I don’t need to deny my fears nor acquiesce to them, and that I don’t have to have everything sorted out before I can speak the truth. The intercultural path might be all uphill, but that doesn’t mean we should stop climbing.
Above all, as I nestled in the embrace of Poland’s famous hospitality, I felt a deep satisfaction. We had returned – and had done so as part of our present-day cultural work. Some paths take a few years longer to make sense, but when they finally do, it is that much more gratifying. We had not only come full circle, but a new circle had begun.
Dziekjue (Thank you)
If I flew to Central Europe in a confused and gloomy state, I flew home in a resolved and empowered one. So thank you, Central Europe, for your lessons. To Vienna, for showing us that no place is special, and that high culture is no guarantee that geopolitics won’t crash through the gates. To Prague, for reminding us that the human spirit may be ensnared, but can also set itself free. And to Wroclaw, for rekindling the belief that our work matters, and for making me happy. Auf Wiedersehen, Děkuju, & Trzymaj sie.
Until next time.