I never really fit in. Not into the pigeonholes that others hold in front of your nose. Not into the roles that you would like to play. I was always somewhere in between – between left and right, between order and chaos, between rules and rebellion. And strangely enough, that was often exactly the place where it was most needed to have someone there.
Back then, as a student – it wasn't just books, libraries and exam stress. It was a time when the political climate was seething, lecture theatres were occupied and meetings were louder than some pubs. And me? I was right in the middle of it. Not because I liked causing trouble. Not because I enjoyed demonstrations. But because I saw that there were people who just wanted to finish their studies in peace – and that it was precisely these people who were falling by the wayside.
I wasn't a hero. I wasn't even particularly loud. But I was there. My hero – in a simple, clever way.
At the university, I was a kind of mediator. I was the one who sat down at the table with the occupiers – while also trying to stop the dean from cancelling the entire semester. I was the one who had to listen to left-wing groups accuse me of not being radical enough – and right-wingers call me a dangerous subversive. Sometimes, both sides wanted me gone. And me? I just wanted people to be able to graduate in peace. I was happy to say that, but I also had to ‘enforce’ my ideas and do what I said.
What was particularly important to me at the time was that those who only had a few weeks left until their final exams were allowed to take them – without blockades, without political power games, without the feeling that their path was being blocked at the last minute. I protected these people. And I protected them with a determination that sometimes surprised even me.
I remember one scene in particular: I was in a meeting with representatives from all sides. Some had banners on their laps, while others were wearing suits and ties. I sat in the middle – with trainers, a well-worn legal text and a plan for how we could somehow get everyone through this chaos. It was not an easy road, and I was not rewarded for it. But I learned that sometimes doing the right thing is more important than getting applause.
At some point, the university tried to get rid of me. Allegedly, I was a disruptive factor, a troublemaker. They not only wanted to expel me, but also impose a nationwide ban on me studying – as if I were a danger to the entire education system. But what they didn't know was that I knew the system. I knew the people. I knew who was listening. And I knew how to get things moving without shouting.
In the end, the president had to apologise to me. Publicly, on a public stage. And that wasn't just a personal victory – it was a sign: you can go your way if you stay true to yourself. And you can effect change without raising your voice.
But it wasn't just about politics. Not just about strategy. It was also about the heart. It was about feeling needed. About the opportunity to help. That I was not just learning for myself, but for an idea: that education should be free. That young people need opportunities, not obstacles. That the focus should be on people, not ideologies.
I remember a fellow student, the daughter of a pastor. Intelligent, sharp-witted, humorous – and she always had a way of unsettling me, especially when I wanted to appear particularly self-confident. We sat for hours in university seminars and later in cafés, discussing Kant and Kafka, constitutional law and its absence, life and what it does to you. And in between, we laughed – not infrequently in the middle of the library, much to the displeasure of those who were studying hard.
The pastor's daughter – a very charming time, full of wit and love. We were in love with each other back then, were a couple. Sometimes it's okay to think back to that time now and then.
It was a formative time for me. Not because I got the best grades or excelled academically, but because I learned how important it is to take a stand. How valuable it is to stand up for something, even if you are alone. I was no rebel and no hero, just someone who didn't look the other way.
I was a tutor and later a point of contact for many younger students. I helped, advised, corrected, listened. And if someone had a question at two o'clock in the morning, I was often still there – sometimes with coffee, sometimes with tired eyes, but always with an open ear.
Shortly before I graduated, I withdrew a little. I was often in Paris, in love with the city, with the life there – and perhaps also with someone special. I was hardly physically present at the university anymore, but I remained in the minds of many. As someone who had stood up for something. Who had not spoken for himself, but for others.
I was not originally supposed to be mentioned at the graduation ceremony. The dean – probably overwhelmed by my ‘unclear role’ – had forgotten me. Or ignored me. But then colleagues stood up. Professors, assistants, even administrative staff. They demanded that I be named. And in the end, the dean said one sentence – a single, short sentence. But that was enough for me.
Because that sentence meant: it wasn't in vain. I was never someone who completely conformed. And that's exactly why I was able to make a difference.