It is difficult to put these thoughts into words. Perhaps because they are too big. Perhaps because they are too close. But maybe also because I myself still don't know exactly how to categorise all of this. I am sad. Deeply sad. And at the same time, endlessly grateful.
There are days when I wake up and everything feels quiet. Not just on the outside, but inside me as well. It's as if my soul is moving a step slower, as if my heart is heavier than usual. And that's despite having so much. So many people who are important to me. So many memories that fill my life. So many traces that I have left behind.
I am sad, even though my life was full. I loved. I laughed. I fought – for my daughters, for education, for justice, for freedom. I tore down walls and built bridges, moved people and reinvented myself again and again. I stood on stages, spoke into microphones, was in the news, in big conversations, in small encounters.
And yet: I am sad.
Maybe because all of this is coming to an end. Not suddenly – but inevitably. The glioblastoma is slowly taking away my future. It steals my energy, my thoughts, sometimes even my hope. And yet: it cannot take away what has been. It cannot take away what I have experienced. It cannot take away who I love.
Herd – my family
I often think of my daughters. They are my greatest pride. They have taught me what it means to truly love – without conditions, without expectations, without limits. They carried me when I could hardly stand. They showed me that there can be light even in the shadows. When I think of them, I feel life. Their strength, their warmth, their courage – all of this remains in me, even when I leave.
My grandchild – this little person who still has so much to discover. I won't see him grow up, run, fall, get up again, learn and live. And yet I hope that a part of me will live on in his stories. Maybe he'll hear about me someday. Maybe someone will tell him: ‘Your grandfather was a special person.’ Maybe he'll see my daughters smile and recognise a piece of me in it.
I also think of my ex-stepdaughter – a person who was important in her own way. Maybe not as close as before, but still part of my life. I wish her a good life. A safe, smart, courageous life.
Friends and especially female friends
And then there are my friends. So many of them who have stayed, even though I've changed. Even though I'm no longer who I used to be. Even though sometimes I can't find the right words, am no longer the centre of attention, am no longer the one who holds everyone together. And they still stay. Write to me. Come over. Listen. Laugh with me. Hold me.
Sophia. She is there. Always. Like a quiet beat that runs through my life. Not exaggerated, not dramatic – but clear, honest, calm. She says what she means and means what she says. Her words touch me because they are true. Her closeness comforts me because it is genuine. Sometimes I look at her and think: maybe everything could have been different. Maybe we would have had a life together. Maybe we were never just friends, but always more. Just never at the right time. But that's okay. Because what we had – and have – is more than many ever experience.
Elke – with her openness, her smile, her willingness to just be there. Ilse – always on the go, always full of energy, but never too busy to listen to me. The friend who wanted to teach me English – and in fact does it in her own way: by showing me that it is never too late to start something new.
Time spent in higher education
I was part of so many stories. And yet it is this time at university that is deeply etched in my memory – like a wound, but also like a badge of honour. Back then, the university was not a place of pure learning. It was a battlefield. A place full of conflicts, opinions, ideals – a microcosm of society as a whole. And I was right in the middle of it.
I was surrounded by political currents pulling in every direction: right-wing groups calling for a conservative return to old structures, seeking to retain power and suppress change. Left-wing groups wanting to tear down everything they considered outdated – not infrequently with a radical zeal that allowed for no shades of grey. And in the middle of it all, the administration, sluggish, often helpless, sometimes stubborn. And then there was me – with a very simple goal: education. Fair. Accessible. Possible.
I just wanted people to be able to study. To be allowed to realise their dreams, to write their exams, to graduate. Especially those who had already come so far – who were almost there. I saw them, with their dark circles under their eyes, with their tattered notes and documents, with their quiet determination. People who had spent years studying, struggling, working on the side to make their studies possible. They were almost there – and then came the storm. Occupations. Blockades. Political power struggles that had no face.
I remember long nights in lecture theatres, discussions that knew no breaks. I remember flyers that marked me as an enemy because I said: ‘Leave the almost-graduates alone.’ Threats from both sides. Right-wingers who accused me of being part of a left-wing infiltration. Left-wingers who accused me of treason because I was seeking compromises. I was verbally abused, insulted – once even physically attacked.
And yet I stayed. Not because I was particularly brave, but because I knew it was the right thing to do.
I didn't want to be the victor of a movement. I wanted to make sure that no one who had invested so much was left behind – just because others were looking for an ideological stage. I organised rooms, talked to the university management, protected groups from disruption, made sure that seminars took place, libraries remained accessible and exams could be written. I wasn't a hero. But I was there. Every day. For those who needed it.
My studies almost took a back seat. But I learned – more than I would have in any lecture. I learned about responsibility. About communication. About backbone. And about the quiet heroism of those who simply carry on when everything around them is becoming noisy.
In the end, I was marked – but I had grown. And I knew that when I looked back, I would be able to say: I did not remain silent. I got involved. Not for one side, but for the cause. For education. For humanity. For justice.
My architects and engineers
My architecture firm – a place of creativity, of thinking, of family. It was never just a workplace. It was a living space. A home in the professional sense, a vibrant centre of ideas, plans, discussions and genuine togetherness. From the outset, it was clear that I wanted to create something different from the classic offices where everything is strictly organised and hierarchies determine the way people think. For me, it was about exchange, inspiration, an interplay of technical skill, architectural vision and human warmth.
My daughters were right in the thick of it. Not on the sidelines, not tucked away in the children's room, and certainly not just visiting. They were part of the everyday. They would come by after school, roaming the corridors, casting curious glances at models, sketches, and monitors full of figures and plans. They would shout ‘Hello!’ across the open-plan office as if it were part of the greeting culture of the house. And yes – that's exactly what it was. My employees loved this informal atmosphere. It wasn't unprofessional. It was human. Open. It reminded us of what we actually worked for: for people, for families, for spaces for the future.
My employees – full of ideas, full of energy. I was surrounded by people who not only knew how to calculate statics or design a concept, but who also came up with new ideas every day. It was a place where you weren't ridiculed for even the craziest idea. On the contrary: the more courageous an idea, the more exciting the discussion. We were not a place of vanity, but of togetherness. Students, interns, professionals – they all often sat around the same table, discussing, drawing, arguing, laughing.
Many of them grew beyond themselves with us. Insecure students became creative, self-confident personalities who later founded their own offices or made an international career. And they came back – not only for advice, but also because they wanted to remember how it all began.
It wasn't just work. It was life. We built houses, but also relationships. We designed rooms, but also ideas. We worked late, often with pizza and music, while my daughters sketched their own buildings on sandwich paper with pens in hand. The coffee machine was never quiet. The conversations were never mundane.
Sometimes the office was loud, sometimes chaotic, sometimes exhausting. But always lively. I was right in the thick of it – not as the boss looking down on everyone, but as part of the whole. I was a planner, teacher, moderator, listener, visionary, father. And it was the best thing I could ever have imagined. This office – it was my life's work. And it was the place where I realised that creativity comes not only from minds, but also from hearts.
Educational policy
Then there was education policy. A parents‘ evening turned into a movement. It started harmlessly – with one of those typical parents’ evenings, where half of those present remain silent while the other half discuss homework or school trips. I was there because I was a father. Not because I had planned something big. Not because I wanted to get into politics. But sometimes a small moment is enough to set something bigger in motion.
My daughter's school had structural problems. A shortage of teachers. Cancelled lessons. And a management team that had good intentions but little leeway. I asked myself: if this is how it is for my daughter, how many other children is it affecting?
I became a parent representative. Then a district representative. Then a state parent representative. And suddenly I was right in the thick of it. In meetings with headmistresses and headmasters, with school supervisors, with the education administration. I was invited because I was critical – but fair. Because I said what many thought but not everyone could say. I was elected, re-elected, and at some point I was the voice of thousands of parents in Berlin.
I was in the media. I spoke with ministers. I was on podiums. News shows, radio interviews, discussion groups, articles in the Tagesspiegel, Spiegel, FAZ – suddenly I was publicly visible. Not because I was loud, but because I was clear. Because I didn't play tactics, but showed attitude. I argued with senate representatives, I criticised reforms, I made suggestions. I was praised. I was fought against. And I stayed.
And I did it because I believed that children deserve more than compromises. I had no interest in party politics. No interest in raising my profile. I was interested in children – all children. I didn't want education to be a game of chance that depends on where you live or your parents' budget. I wanted fair opportunities. I wanted schools that not only administer but also develop.
I wanted education to have something to do with awakening again – with curiosity, with development, with a real future.
There was still a lot...
And finally – Afghanistan. But I don't talk about that.
Now I often sit quietly. I look up at the sky. I think of all that has been. And of all that will never be again. I feel sad. But this sadness is not empty. It is full of gratitude. Full of memories. Full of love.
I know that I am leaving. But I am not leaving without leaving a trace. Because where there was love, there remains something.
Always.
And yet: I am sad.