Ibrahim Maheed

Sometimes I catch myself measuring silence. The silence here in Erfurt, Germany, is heavy, orderly, even peaceful — but it's never empty. In Damascus, Syria, silence was a warning. Here, it’s a sign that the tram is late or someone’s lost in thought. I’m still learning to trust it.

On the construction site, I’m known as “the guy who does windows fast.” That’s fine by me. I don’t talk much. My coworkers talk football, complain about taxes, laugh at jokes I only half understand. I nod, sometimes smile. They don’t ask about my past, and I don’t offer it. Not because I’m ashamed — but because I’ve learned that some people look at you differently once they know you’ve run from a war.

I’ve lived in Germany for six years now. I was thirty-two when I crossed the border on foot, soaked and hungry, carrying nothing but a backpack and a Syrian passport with half the ink blurred from rain. The journey here nearly killed me, and after I arrived, I faced a new kind of battle — bureaucracy, suspicion, indifference. I stood in government offices where clerks didn’t look me in the eye. I heard the word Asylbewerber said with a certain tone, as if it was a stain.

If it hadn’t been for Sabine — a volunteer who filled out forms with me, explained letters I couldn’t read — I’d probably be gone. Back to nothing. She once told me, “You have a right to be here.” At the time, I didn’t believe her. Now, maybe I do.

I’m 38. I install windows for a living, and I like the precision of it. The measuring, the sealing, the clarity. There’s a quiet satisfaction in making something fit. I’ve also met someone — Lena. She’s from here. She doesn’t ask for stories I don’t want to tell, and that alone feels like trust.

Still, I worry. I hear how people talk. On the radio, in queues at the supermarket — fear disguised as politics. There’s a tone growing louder, one that says people like me are “problems,” not neighbors.

I don’t want pity. I just want a fair chance. And maybe for someone to say: Tell me your story. I’ll listen.