Tomorrow in colour
It’s been less than a week since the elections. One week – and so much has already happened. Borders are being tightened, fences are being raised, rhetoric is being sharpened. The AfD is gaining momentum – along with the illusion that isolation is a solution. And as all this unfolds, the truly urgent questions are fading from view: How do we protect our democracy? How do we respond to the climate crisis? How do we deliver social justice? These questions barely found a place in the debates. Instead, everything was reduced to a single narrative – migration as a threat.

It is disheartening to see how almost every party has seized upon this issue, as if nothing else mattered. But this isn’t just about politics, numbers, or laws. It’s about people. It’s about children who have no home, whose identities are erased between stamps and paperwork, long before they even find words for themselves.

I started writing the song Tomorrow in Colour some time ago—it was a matter of the heart. Now, it is finally complete. It was an honour—and a true joy—to work with Arya Atti and her daughter. I don’t usually include children in my videos. But she represents so many others—the unseen, the nameless. Those whose lives are dictated by documents, whose futures are determined by regulations.

We filmed at the Huguenot House in Kassel, a place deeply intertwined with the documenta, a space for art, for questioning, for engagement. There, Silvia Freyer’s wall installation “A work that opens spaces and connects people” stands—a piece that embodies exactly what is needed now: it opens spaces and brings people together. And that is what truly matters. At the same time, the Huguenot House is not just a place of memory—it is a place of lived presence. Arya Atti works here, has her studio in these rooms, painting, creating—bringing life into the space. It is this vitality that carries the house. She is the one giving it a future. Maybe that’s exactly what this moment demands. Keeping spaces open, where not only the loudest and the most powerful are heard. Asking questions that go beyond fences and restrictions. Thinking in colours instead of borders.

Because another world is possible. It begins in the images we create. In the stories we tell. In the hands that reach for one another.

Alice Weidel and the Rhetoric of Power

It begins with language. Always.

With words that dehumanize. With phrases that shift the boundaries of what can be said—until violence is no longer spoken, but carried out.

Yesterday, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I transformed into another figure—the German Shepherd. A symbol of obedience and control. Of what the AfD now, for me, embodies across the country. Over 30 percent in the East, in the so-called “new federal states.” History that does not repeat itself but persists. The AfD thrives on fear. It feeds on resentment, grows in the cracks of disillusionment, whispering promises it will never keep. It is not a protest. It is not an alternative. It is a warning. A party that normalizes hatred, that chips away at democracy while pretending to defend it. A party that once again divides, excludes, and erases.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing. I stand atop the bunker at the Weinberg, concrete beneath my feet, the cold seeping through me. Below, the city. I imagine history pressing in at this moment—who once stood here, and who now seeks shelter in a bunker somewhere else, in a different geographical spot.

Then came the first projections. The numbers. The silence that followed. And now? Now that the Greens are no longer in parliament? Now that the streams of those seeking refuge have only just begun? Now that the climate burns on—because it knows no borders?

It hurts. So much. I don’t know if it can be stopped. But it must go on. Because otherwise, it ends. The Language That Instills Fear

Alice Weidel speaks – and her voice is a performance. Let’s be clear: she disguises herself. She does not speak the way one would expect from a former investment banker, a woman with an academic background. Her rhetoric is eerily familiar. It is a style we know from a dark past, a tone that has inscribed itself into German history.

A calculated distortion. A dangerous performance.

Weidel has perfected the art of dressing authoritarian command in a bourgeois facade. She speaks with a sharpness that reveals itself in her sentence structure: short, rhythmic phrases, sudden shifts in volume that escalate into aggression. Anyone truly listening will recognize that she employs an intonation and rhetoric that echo historical figures we vowed never to follow again. And a man? A man could never do this. A man adopting this tone, this style, would be immediately exposed. But Weidel can. She stands on stage, wearing her pearl necklace and tailored blazer, freely using linguistic tools that should set off alarm bells.

The AfD has strategically positioned women like Weidel. They are there to make the party appear “socially acceptable,” to maintain the illusion of intellectual discourse. But beneath this facade, the same dangerous ideology lurks—just this time, with a different voice. The boundaries of what can be said have long since shifted. And Weidel is exploiting exactly that.

Toxic Wolf Disguised as a Sheep – The Paradox of Alice Weidel

There is a term that encapsulates her political strategy: toxic wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Alice Weidel leads a life that, by her own party’s standards, should not exist. She lives outside of Germany, in Switzerland, shielded from the very political consequences her party seeks to enforce at home. She is in a same-sex relationship with a woman of Indonesian heritage. She has two adopted children. She enjoys every single freedom she wants to deny others.

And yet, she stands on stage, celebrated as the defender of “German values,” while politically despising the very people she belongs to.

How is that possible?

How can a party that openly opposes LGBTQ+ rights put Weidel at the forefront? How can a woman who lives abroad be the voice of anti-immigration politics?

Because it was never about principles.

It is all a performance. One that makes the unspeakable socially acceptable. One that disguises itself in rhetoric we should recognize. One that seeks applause—at any cost.

The Applause Grows – And With It, the Danger

It is not just her words. It is how she says them. Her voice has become an instrument of a politics that divides, incites hatred, and justifies its own violence. And the more votes she receives, the louder the applause.

That is what is so terrifying.

It Has to Stop – Before It’s Too Late

Then came the first projections. The numbers. The silence that followed.

And now? Now that the Greens are no longer in parliament? Now that those seeking refuge are growing in numbers? Now that the climate continues to burn, because it knows no borders?

Weidel speaks—and we listen.

But we must listen carefully. We must name what is happening here.

Because it begins with language. Always. And if we are not careful, it ends with something we swore we would never witness again.

The forest, the song and the returning wolf
A melody, barely audible, drifting through the snowy landscape. Hummed, whispered, shaped by the cold. The icy wind carries it, scatters it, only to deposit it elsewhere. A song that has survived—through the camps, through the war, through time. A song that was not forgotten because people sang it when they had nothing else left.

The forest takes it in, swallows it, passes it on. Up here, where the mountain park begins, where the trees stretch towards the sky, another fairy tale unfolds. Kassel,  Acity that almost ceased to exist, ninety percent destroyed, forced to reinvent itself. But the forest, the mountain park, the hills around the Hercules—they remained.

The German forest.
It has always been more than just a forest. A space for thought, a symbol, a refuge, a promise. The Romantics searched for their images here, sought themselves in the tangled roots, in the shadows between the trunks. For the philosophers, it was a place of contemplation, of solitude, of purity. But also a place of deception.

Because the forest follows an order that remains unseen. And now, the wolf returns. For a long time, he was gone. Banished, hunted, erased from the landscapes, from the stories. In fairy tales, he remained—a threat, a warning. But now, in reality, he is coming back. Not loudly. But silently, almost invisibly, moving between the shadows of the trees. They say he belongs to this landscape, like the seasons, like the old oaks, like the morning mist. Others fear him. Not because they see him, but because they know he is there. Perhaps that is the real fear: that he has long been among us. Not the wolf that roams the forests. But the one who has changed his form. The one who has learned to move unnoticed. The one who blends into the herd, adapts—until the moment comes when he no longer needs to hide.Not between the trees, not as a shadow in the undergrowth, but right among us. He no longer wears fur. He moves differently, speaks differently. He disguises himself in the voices of the reasonable. He talks of security, of homeland, of identity. He has understood that he no longer needs to hunt. The herd comes willingly.

SONG  for Gerti DEUTSCH  project

Gleis 13 – Verwaltung eines Endes

9. Dezember. Kassel.
1000 Namen, reduziert auf Zahlen.
463 aus der Stadt,
die anderen aus den Landkreisen,
zugewiesen, transportiert, verwaltet.
Der Bahnhof als Mechanismus,
Gleis 13 Protokoll.

Kein Chaos, kein Zufall –
ein System, das sich selbst erhalten will.
Die Räder rollen,
der Stempel fällt.
Riga erwartet,
niemand fragt,
niemand hält an.
das Unvermeidliche der Logik

Im Sommer dann:
neue Listen, neue Transporte.
Juni nach Majdanek,
September nach Theresienstadt.
Einer nach dem anderen,
ohne Unterbrechung,
ohne Rückkehr.
Der Mensch verschwindet nicht im Feuer,
sondern im Aktenschrank.
Die Behörde kennt keine Namen,
nur die Nummern auf dem Papier.

Es war nicht persönlich,
es war nur logisch.

Gleis 13,
nicht Vergangenheit, sondern Gegenwart.
Das Gedächtnis der Gleise
ist keine Erinnerung,
sondern ein Beweis.

The White Hare – A Metaphor for Our Time
Once, the white hare stood for innocence. A quiet creature, adapting, surviving. Blending into the snow, yielding to its surroundings.
Today, it stands in a world that has hardened. A world where logic dissolves, where words are twisted until they lose all meaning.

They tell us: Everything is a lie. Everything is deception. Truth? It does not exist. Only narratives, only perspectives, only power.
But that is not true.
Thoughts remain. They cannot be erased. They cannot be silenced or broken. They persist, even when ignored, denied, defamed.
We live in a time where language has become a weapon of fear. When everything is reduced to interpretation,
when facts are dismissed as opinions, uncertainty turns into distrust. And distrust turns into fear. And fear turns into hate.
And now?
Now, elections lie ahead. And with them, choices that will not just define a moment, but shape a future that many may not yet see coming.
I am afraid. Afraid of what is unfolding, afraid of indifference, afraid of the voices that say: It’s not that bad.
But fear is not an argument. It is a condition. And it can tip—into paralysis or into resistance.
The white hare still runs.
For now.

Weißes Rauschen. Wolf. Zukunft?

Es beginnt nicht mit einem Lied.
Es beginnt mit einem Ping.
Dem ersten. Dann dem zweiten. Dann dem endlosen Strom.
Nachrichten. Bilder. Videos, die sich von selbst abspielen.
Man scrollt weiter. Man atmet aus.
Es gibt immer ein Rauschen. Ich bin hier.
In einem Land, das sich daran gewöhnt hat,
Geschichte als etwas Vergangenes zu betrachten.
Nicht als etwas, das geschieht.
Aber ich wache auf und weiß: Es ist wieder geschehen.
Aber das hier ist kein Kreis. Kein bloßes Echo der Vergangenheit.

Das hier ist ein Loop. Ein Algorithmus.
Die Gesichter wechseln, die Orte, die Jahreszahlen.
Aber der Plot bleibt gleich.
Ich sehe das Rauschen darunter.
Die alten Spuren. Die Märsche. Die Namen.
Die Dinge, die hier geschehen sind.
Bevor das Weiß alles bedeckte.

Und jetzt?
Jetzt ist da dieses Gefühl.
Dieses Kratzen unter der Haut.
Dass wir nichts mehr fühlen, weil wir alles sehen.
Ich wische nach oben.
Neue Story. Ein anderes Gesicht.
Ich sollte betroffen sein.
Das Problem ist: Ich bin es.
Das Problem ist: Ich bin es jeden Tag.

Und währenddessen geschieht es hier.

Die Wahlen.
Die Stimmen, die sagen, dass es doch nicht so schlimm sei.
“Arenen” – das neue Wort in den Medien.
Die Frage, ob Menschenrechte wirklich für alle gelten.
Und dann wieder das Ping.

Der Wolf ist zurück.
Aber diesmal ist es kein Schatten im Wald.
Der Wolf ist clean.
Der Wolf geht ins Parlament.
Und die Demokratie…?

Lange bevor alles erwacht.

Ich bin immer die Erste.
Lange bevor Stimmen den Tag füllen.
Lange bevor jemand fragt, ob schon Kaffee da ist.

Da läuft schon die erste Maschine Wäsche.
Da ist schon Ordnung, bevor das Chaos beginnt.
Und doch – wer sieht es?

 aus Pflicht.  aus Zwang?

es tief in mir sitzt,
weil es immer so war.
Ich habe dieses Lied geschrieben,
weil diese Rolle so vertraut ist,

dass ich sie kaum oder doch immer Meer noch hinterfrage.
Und weil es manchmal müde macht.

Ausser atmen -ein Moment des Innehaltens.

Ein Lied über das Unsichtbare,

das doch jeden Tag geschieht.
Ich habe ein Lied darüber geschrieben.

Nicht als Klage. Nicht als Anklage.

Nur als ein Moment des Innehaltens.

Hearts in Flux – Cartographies of the Self in an Age of Dissolution

Where does a body begin, where does it end? In the liminal spaces between motion and stillness, we oscillate—not merely subjects in a world, but data points, echoes, overlapping layers of memory and projection. The present unfolds as an infinite stream of possibilities, yet these possibilities remain ambivalent: liberating and overwhelming at once.
We take less than we give. Our traces remain—embedded in networks, archives, in the bodies of others. But what does it mean when our bodies are no longer just flesh, but interfaces, porous thresholds between the organic and the digital? Hearts in Flux—a name for what we have already become: fluid, dissolving, continuously re-emerging. Modernity was a project of separation. Private and public. Physical and intellectual. Analog and digital. Yet these boundaries were always unstable, always constructed. Our thoughts have never belonged to us alone—they exist only in relation to others, transmitted, filtered, recontextualized. Consciousness is a network, in which the self is no longer a fixed entity, but an assemblage in flux.
Perhaps we must stop centering the singularity of the self. Perhaps loss is not loss, but transformation. Perhaps we are not individual beings, but sediments of an overlapping history, fragments of a shared syntax.
There is no final arrival. Only movement. A becoming that resists any definitive name.
Hearts in Flux. Because life is not an identity. It is a becoming.

Today. A birthday. Memories sharpen, even as the rain poured in streams through the halls of Westminster. It was before Covid. A memorial ceremony. The room, heavy with dark wood, was alive. Not an oppressive silence, but one that pulsed with presence. In the first and second rows, scattered all the way to the very back, sat the survivors. Their faces raised, marked by the years, but their gazes alive, resolute.

There was no uncertainty in their eyes. They knew why they were there. They knew their presence mattered because they were history, because they were the last who could speak. They carried the weight of that task with clarity. They looked at us—not to complain, but to ensure that we understood, that we listened, that we would carry what they gave us.

I remember their eyes. Not broken, but clear. In a world that had spent so much time in silence. In an era where the unspeakable had overwhelmed the spoken, they had found words—not because words could suffice, but because they were necessary. Their stories stood in the room like bridges. Between us and what we had never experienced.

What happens when they are gone? That question was already there then, as if it filled the space between their voices and our thoughts. Now, today, it is more urgent than ever. Almost all of them are gone. The rows are empty. What remains when the bridges grow thinner, when the witnesses no longer have faces?

What remains is what they have left us. Not complete stories. Not fixed knowledge. But an obligation. A demand to not let remembrance become an empty ritual, to not let it be just a story we tell, but a stance we live.

Perhaps that is the final task for those of us who are still here. Not only to preserve, but to tell. Again and again, despite everything. Against forgetting, against the noise of time. The voices of the survivors were never loud, but they were clear. And if there is anything we can learn from them, it is this: Humanity is not a condition. It is a decision. Every single day. For all of us