Being Human: A Biography of overcoming Limitations

Prologue

I love to dance.

Lose myself to the melody.

Become one with the rhythm.

It reminds me like little else,

how good it is to be alive.

There was a point in my life, where I was ready to end the music. Instead, I promised myself I would dance until my heart gives out. The secret is to *want* to dance. Despite. Even when dancing seems impossible.

Because to dance is to feel life within yourself to the fullest. To be filled with fire and sparks, to set the ground beneath your toes alight and to feel vapour trails streaming off your fingertips.

To become your own storm.

There is a popular poem, concerning Life, and the enduring of its storms (Vivian Greene, American writer and entrepreneur, 1979). It has come to be one of my favourites, reminding me that fear is ever-present. An irremovable part of life. A necessity even, for our survival. Her poem reminds me, that I am constantly faced with nuisances and cataclysm, with irritations and terror, perturbations and heartbreak. And having worked through one challenge, it will be replaced by something else, equally dramatic, equally draining. So, the secret to dancing, is not to wait for the sometimes loud and seemingly atonal symphony of the life to end, but to hear the music within.

The quote also reminds me that dancing is a learning process. And that it is okay to falter. Or even, to trip and fall. To fail. But always keep trying. So, despite how badass aging yogis sound, when they teach their students to Do. Or do not. And that *trying* implies failure by default, I disagree. Vehemently so.

Sometimes, even giving *everything* you have simply *fails* to turn the tide in your favour. Instead, you are swept off your feet and hurled against the rocks. The music is drowned out and you find yourself broken, seemingly beyond repair, without the means to help yourself, and without any idea or hope of how to carry on. Sometimes doing means simply pulling the blanket over your head, shutting out the world, trying to get through the pain. And telling yourself that tomorrow, you will try again. Because sometimes, trying is all we can do.

Often enough, people do not acknowledge others’ humanity. We fear what we do not understand. We oppose change and we loathe what is strange. We fight what we do not recognise as part of our group. This lies in our nature. In our past as a species, it was necessary to set cultural and traditional boundaries to survive.

Nevertheless, it is my conviction, that there is more to humankind than one-upping each other in the Darwinian arena. It remains my profound hope, that we as a species grow beyond these boundaries, into a society that thrives on inclusion, compassion, and dignity. And I believe that I, and people like me, have something unique to contribute.

I was raised as a white boy in Tanzania and Zimbabwe. Among a multitude of different cultures, far away from my birthplace, always on the move. And often singled out, on account of my appearance, on account of my identity, or both. It is only in recent years, that I have found something akin to roots, and they are not geographic.

I am trans* gender. I describe myself as a woman, who was born into this world without functioning ovaries or a womb. Which already says quite a lot of my views and my hopes for this life.

This book is a very personal account, and I would like to emphasise, it describes and expresses *my* experiences. My conclusions and my perspective of my life as a gender dysphoric, and my views on the lives that have touched mine.

I have written this with the best of intentions and the hope that it contributes to a deeper understanding of what it is to be human. That it enables people to be their best possible selves. And in doing so, contribute their best, our best, for society and for our future. I have tried to explore and illuminate some of the challenges I faced. Predicaments, emotional double-binds, and insecurities, causes for ambivalences or heartbreak. Many of which I saw, or see, reflected in those lives that touch mine. People I teach, people I counsel, people I love.

We humans are economic creatures. We like simple answers. But the world is complex. Being human can express itself in forms and variations so far from normal, that we sometimes barely recognise this humanity in each-other. At the same time, my own empowerment was only possible, because total strangers were able to look beyond the immediate, and make choices based on imagination and compassion.

It is important to me, that this book is more than just my Story. I very much want to pass on some of the hope, the insight, and the sheer exuberance of having taken the leap and determined my own path. And that it is in fact absolutely worthwhile carrying on, in the face of a storm.

I have tried to be as authentic and true to myself as I can. Which is not always the socially accepted. Or the politically correct. So please forgive if I offend. I do not mean to. My life is a learning process, and far from over.

And finally, this book is… …how do I put it? You cannot have a breakthrough without something breaking. And sometimes, that which breaks is you. I have tried to be open, tried to be clear, without being graphic. There will be violence. There will be despair. There will be things that trigger people who are susceptible to flashbacks. There will be morally grey areas and reasons for ambivalence. There will be sex. There will be politics and science. There will be opinions and decisions, that will challenge a great many peoples’ core beliefs thoroughly. Read with caution.

But happiness *is* a choice.

Well, no, it is not. Actually, left by itself, that is a very condescending and disempowering thing to say. But there *is* a choice to be made: whether or not to take that next step. Whether or not to look at causalities. And be mindful of what we learn from our experiences. It is human to be afraid. Afraid of change. Even if sometimes, something does in fact need to change, possibly to break, before we can recognise either choice, or happiness.

And sometimes, we just need to trust our hearts. We need to remind ourselves to hear the music, take the next breath, and just follow the rhythm.

Alice Oehninger

Second revised edition September 2024

(1) Being Different

Roots…

…I feel, I was born without them.

A part of me always felt lost.

Alone.

Which is untrue, of course.

Geography or family. Tribe or culture. I had plenty labels.

But the tags and the stamps I grew up with,

were things that were stuck on me

by other people.

Not mine.

When a child is born. What is the first question that is asked? The biological prerogative is universal. Pick any continent at random. Pick any culture. Pick any period in recorded history. In the overwhelming majority of cases, it will be;

Is it a boy or a girl?

And all those present to assist or witnesses the birth will check to see: penis means boy, vulva means girl. And that is it. Even today, the answer to that single, solitary question will determine the upbringing and socialisation of that child. It will influence how the child is integrated into the family, and what value or worth is attributed to this creature. Going so far as to predetermine what is invested into the raising and education of this human being. It has a far-reaching influence on what kind of character traits this human will develop, which of these are encouraged, which are discouraged, or supressed. It influences what kind of behaviour is tolerated, appreciated, or disdained. And all of this leads to career choices and career opportunities…

Fremdbestimmt dict.leo.org says: German, adjective. Externally-determined, heteronomous, other- directed.

…actually, it is quite incredible. This child, this new human being has barely taken its first breath. And already its future has been planned and chiselled in stone. Is that not frightening? How totally non-autonomous, how completely patronised and utterly domineered this child is? So absolutely dependent and helpless.

Disempowered.

All of this is influenced by the parents, by the immediate surrounding family, by the tribe. By the community into which this young human is born. We cannot deny how deep and how lasting the parental imprinting of our personality is. In fact, the basic biological learning mechanism is enabled by mirror neurons, as our brains develop during infancy. We cannot deny that we are biologically conditioned to imitate and learn from the world surrounding us.

We are socialised into our gender roles. We are *conditioned* to respond in the patterns corresponding to our gender roles. Roles that someone else determined for us. Furthermore, we are conditioned to *react* when someone else deviates from those patterns. Breaks the mould. Steps across the immoveable borders of cultural taboos. Or even if they are in any way different.

Those reactions, forged by primal conditioning.

Often, those reactions are not kind.

Switzerland, 1970

I was born into a biologically male body. It was in a hospital near Zürich, and from what my parents have related, I broke my first gender-pattern there and then. Or perhaps, they broke it for me? Apparently, my Dad had quite the row with the nurses, who disputed the name chosen for me by my parents, saying it was an inappropriate name for a boy (it is a unisex name in a lot of countries).

Gender patterns and friction

I was a girl in kindergarten.

Pretty much everyone, with whom I have ever spoken about this, has asked me how do you know? As a matter of fact, every one of my therapists asked me at some point, what gives me the assurance and the security, that I am trans* gender? That I am female?

My first, impulsive answer would be, Um… …how do you *not* know?!?

How can any person not know what gender they are? And, yes, I did (and do) in fact tell my therapists, that I do not know how to define what I feel. That I cannot pinpoint what it is that gives me the sure knowledge that this soul of mine was born into the wrong body. I had extensive discussions with all my therapists, obviously, since this is the therapists’ jobs. Nevertheless, the bottom line is, I cannot pinpoint why I feel the way I do. It just is.

Okay, so that is not really helpful. How *can* I be so sure?

I suppose, ultimate proof is the fact that, the feeling that I was a girl in kindergarten turned out *not* to be a phase I would outgrow. It accompanied me well through my pubescent years into adulthood, regardless of whether I got to wear dresses or not. My behaviour was consistent over decades.

A feeling of wrongness, a feeling of this body not reflecting who I am, a feeling of this body being somehow ill-fitting and always one step removed. Like wearing a left glove on a right hand. You can make it fit, but it is far from comfortable. And it always hinders your senses and restricts your self-expression.

To the point of where it *hurts*.

From a very early age, I developed strategies and coping mechanisms to deal with this feeling I had no name for. Not looking at my own body. From the age of six, right through to the age of twenty. No looking down. No checking in the mirror. Nothing. For fourteen years. Instead, I regularly used the mirror to make myself up. In the absence of any eyeliners or lid-shades, I used water soluble colour pencils I had. I am aware, stereotype, and not exclusive proof of femininity. But, it was what I needed, to feel more myself.

Of course, my parents did not dress me in dresses, or offer me girl-gendered clothing, this was not something parents did in the 1970ies. But I remember, we had a huge trunk of dress-up clothes, cloths, shawls, and accessories in our Kindergarten. I was a regular and a great enthusiast for dressing up. Always as a girl. So, yes, I was a total cross-dresser as a child. Mind you, I would hesitate to diagnose a child with gender dysphoria, simply because they enjoy dressing up across gendered borders at the age of four.

I gave myself a female name and requested of my nursery schoolteachers and the other children in kindergarten address me by this name. Some of those said playmates got on easily with the fact that I was the boy with a female name. They took in stride the fact that I liked dresses, and they never seemed to be perturbed by the fact that the adults called me by a different name. We painted lots, sometimes pictures on paper, and sometimes each other. We crafted dolls houses and cars from cardboardboxes, we ran round screaming and climbed trees. We played Cops and robbers, where I was invariably the suave blonde. As much as you can be suave when you are four or five years old. And we played family, where I was invariably the mother or the daughter. Yes, total stereotyping. But, these were the 1970ies, and broadening horizons was work still in its baby shoes.

So. Since I knew I was a girl with such surety, why I did not pursue this with more vehemence or tenacity?

My deviation from my assigned gender caused immense friction with some of the other kids. Looking back, I assume that there were only a few actual instigators. But this was kindergarten. And children *are* uninhibited and impulsive, thus highly susceptible to mob psychology. This culminated in my being pursued and harassed by the outright majority. They made it *very* clear that my behaviour was undesired. On multiple occasions.

We had a snoozing room which was strewed with a kind of semi-hard pillows, stuffed with unprocessed cotton. The smell still makes me want to curl up into a dark, tight ball of silence and pretend I am not there.

They have found me. Shouting and shoving. More than I can quickly count. Running is not an option. I know that from experience.

I pretend not to care. Pretend they are interested in something else, try to slip past them.

There is always one. One who pushes the first shove, throws the first punch. Aims the first kick.

There are faces shouting and screaming at me, hands clawing. They cling to me, holding my arms, holding my legs. Panic rises hot and tight in my throat. I drop any pretence of being unperturbed and try to make a break for it. I struggle as hard as I can, I try to run, but there are too many holding onto me.

I fall. They drag me down, piling on top. So heavy I can’t breathe.

I try to crawl forward. Away. There are fingers in my face. Fingers my hair, pulling. I feel that they are tearing off my clothes. I scream. I have lost my pants. I feel the cold air. I scream harder. I feel hands on the back of my head, pushing my face into a pillow. I cannot breathe. My chest hurts. It burns. My head pounds. I kick my legs to try to break free, but the others are too heavy. I feel hands grabbing my *anatomy* and yanking hard. They scream into my ears, You are not a girl, you are a boy, over and over.

So yes. I can confirm, that when you are being asphyxiated, your sense of hearing is the last thing to go.

And, yes. I spoke up about this. I spoke with the nursery schoolteachers. Once. Maybe twice. I do not remember clearly. I went to see Erika. She was the child- minder to whom I had the deepest rapport so far. I remember her, saying, But you *are* a boy. And, Oh don’t be ridiculous, they would never do that.

I became a *very* quiet child after that.

I became extremely careful to whom I spoke about who I felt I was. I did not address this topic directly with my parents for another forty years. Decades later, when we were talking about my childhood in another context, my Dad confided in me, telling me that the supervising nursery-school teacher did in fact suggest to my him, that he take me to see a child-psychologist. I understand my Dad avoided this at quite some effort.

You might think that an interview with a specialist, experienced in interacting with children, might have actually been the right thing, and saved me from a lot of grief. I will gently remind you, that in the 1970ies, the degree of enlightenment in things concerning sexual diversity and identity awareness was still at a point, where it was considered a crime against nature and a psychological illness to be homosexual. As for trans* gender? Whether or not such a thing actually existed, was still being hotly debated. It was only four years later that one of the specialists, who later interviewed me for a psychiatric evaluation, would leave the Gender Identity Clinic in Baltimore. He would take up residence in the University Clinic of Hamburg-Eppendorf, and later become one of the most widely known specialists concerning gender dysphoria.

In the meantime, I have spent several years supervising and counselling youths, who are either questioning their gender, or are decidedly trans* gender. And the things they tell me, about some of their so-called specialists and therapists, make me *very* angry. Even taken with a pinch of salt, to account for youthful exaggeration, some of those statements require me to take a deep breath, and then go speak to my own therapist, Dr Chamberlain, for supervision. That fact that we are twenty-odd years into the new millennium has apparently done appallingly little to improve either the mindfulness, or empathy of said school-specialists. Nor has it done much to provide for increased breadth of training for child- and youth therapists, or raising awareness over what some of humans can go through.

I am overall so very grateful that my Dad protected me.

Make no mistake. Those children in my kindergarten cannot be blamed for their behaviour. They behaved and performed precisely as they were preconditioned to do. By society, by the people around them, by their families and tribes, by their peers.

From infancy on up, humans are raised according to the maxim, that you need to be strong, you need to be tough, you need to assert yourself, you need to be better than the rest. And. If there is someone who shows vulnerability, who is weaker, someone who is *different*, you exploit it. You make best use of this opportunity to weed out the competition. And. If someone else was faster than you, to single out someone vulnerable, then you make sure to ally yourself with the strong.

What remains in the forefront of my memory, is how few friends or playmates I had that were my own age, and how much of my interaction was orientated towards the adults that surrounded me. Even more curiously, the children with whom I got on best were usually outsiders or in some way different themselves. Either having moved in from someplace else and thus spoke an audibly different language or dialect. Like Florian and Michael, who had moved to Zürich from Bern, and all they needed to do was open their mouths for this to be obvious. Or they had some kind of outwardly visible difference that ostracised them, like Lisa, who had a case of psoriasis, so bad, there were days when she would rub herself bloody.

I think adults simply did not take seriously what I claimed about my gender, putting it off as a game or a phase, whereas for other children this was indeed very real and deeply conflicting with what they saw and what they had been conditioned to believe.

My Dad

My Dad’s parents were the epitome of traditional. When my Grandad lost his job in the 1930ies economic crisis, they were forced to move from the countryside to the city. Upstanding and conform, straight and narrow. My Grandad became a copper, and was later promoted to district station master or superintendent or something like that. My Granny was a housemother for their four children. From what my Dad tells, they were poor by standards (yes, there were and are poor in Switzerland, and yes, despite my Granddad’s station). My Dad tells of his mother not knowing what to feed her family in the last week of the month for lack of there being anything edible in the house.

And my grandparents must have been very strict as parents. Not unkind, but certainly rigorous. So when my Dad went to study mechanical engineering, and he joined the students’ union, that caused immense tension for a time between my Grandad and my Dad. My Dad met my mother in the various activities of the students’ union (Vietnam protests, women’s rights marches, rocking the roots of the establishment) and I assume, sadly enough, my grandparents saw my Mum as a bad influence. My being born, the first grandchild in the family, probably contributed to a significant degree to my grandparents mellowing considerably.

My Dad was and is one of the very few people I trust.

Which, I suppose is not surprising, considering the stretches of time he was alone with me.

He rode me to kindergarten and back on his bicycle when it was dry, or we rode the bus together when it rained. He was also probably the only person to truly realise, that I was not really happy in kindergarten. In retrospect, I get the impression, he did his best to make up for that in the time he was able to spend with me.

He spent hours making up stories or reading to me. He drew (technical) pictures for me and taught me how to draw and write. Or we played with my building blocks or Lego. I remember walking through the pedestrian areas or through supermarkets, and he explained endlessly, how escalators worked, or how trees drew water out of the ground, how clouds formed and rained water back onto the earth. He taught me to cut hazel branches and carve intricate patterns into the bark. As a matter of fact, I got my first (Swiss Army) pocketknife from my paternal Granddad at the age of five. We spent a great deal of time in the woods nearby, my Dad and I, walking, looking for pretty snail shells, watching birds and squirrels. We built kites, we build bowsand-arrows. My Dad was there for me, when I skimmed my knees with my rollerskates. He taught me to ride a bicycle.

So, yes, my Dad was *the* foundation in my life. My rock of reliability and refuge. And my source of warmth and love.

And despite this, I never emphasised or pushed the topic of being a girl. I am sure he caught that I liked to dress up. I am sure that he knew, I said I was a girl. I *know* he knew that some of the other children gave me a hard time in kindergarten. But I think he was ready to just wait it out, and see how I would develop. Not to mention that I am fairly sure, he saw himself helpless and overwhelmed with having a child that consistently broke gender boundaries, and caught loads of heat for it. And I am sure he saw himself powerless and abandoned by a society, and probably his own parents, because these were things you just didn’t speak about.

I think I intuitively did not force the topic. I must have intuitively realised, how this would expose me in an extreme unfavourable light, and how it would create a great deal of grief for my Dad. So, yes, I kept it very low key. And no, my mother did not know, I know she didn't.

In connection to that, among the few things my Dad did *not* teach me, was to stick up for myself. Even when someone overstepped my boundaries so completely.

My dad is a tall man, and he was always very athletic. My mother is easily two heads smaller and of a much slighter build. And yet, despite all the physical abuse she gifted him with, he never once raised his hand against her. I believe he is one of those men, who has enormous respect of his own physical capacity. One very vivid memory of my parents, involves my mother tearing a whole bushel of hair off my Dad’s head. He stoically shielded himself the best he could, physically and emotionally, and waited for her fury to burn itself out.

In fact, I do not even remember him ever raising his voice much. Withdrawal and mute endurance were always his method of coping, waiting for a more calm moment. Then he would patiently, diplomatically state his point of view and try to explain his reasoning. And after a point, give up in resignation. Because he perceived the situation lost and any argument futile, since my mother was simply not prepared to come to any kind of compromise or to meet on common ground.

There were times we dawdled in the woods on our way home, sitting on a bench under the trees, just talking. Both of us afraid to go home to my Mum. As horrid as this sounds, these are fond memories. Quality time with my Dad. And. Fact remains, things were so much more peaceful when she was not there.

Looking back, the behaviour pattern of mute withdrawal and detached (dissociated) rationalisation reflects so plainly in my own behaviour through the years. I suppose withdrawing myself was exactly what I did myself for most of my life. So what I never truly learned, not from my Dad or from anyone else, was how to fight an honest, healthy, fair, and cleansing fight. And therefore, I never learnt that it was okay to fight. Obviously, I am not talking about physical violence. I mean a direct confrontation of wills and world-views. I never learnt as a child, that it was okay to get angry. And that it was possible to make up, and be okay again afterwards. Neither did I learn how to stand my ground when I saw my insight being ignored or depreciated, or my sphere of comfort or my person being violated.

But this is an insight that required many years to grow.

What my Dad *did* pass on to me, is perseverance and endurance to the point of being stubborn, along with endless patience, be it with machines or with people. He is my role model for accuracy and painstaking precision bordering on the obsessive. But all that springs from an ethic and a pride that we take in a job well done. In the same way, his unfailing loyalty to me, to Amahle (my stepmother) and my siblings certainly inspired me in how I modelled my later partnerships and how I picture a family to function. Not perfect, but real. And despite, or because of, my Dad not taking an active part in any conflict, he did instil me with a sense of fairness and justice. And he made it transparent, that he was and remains dedicated to furthering communication between peoples and the improvement of living conditions of the people he chose to share his life with.

As is evident in his biography.

I spent my most formative years with my Dad in Tanzania, where he taught at the faculty of engineering as part of the Swiss development aid programme. This was 1976 to 1983. In this time, my Dad climbed Kilimanjaro twice. Despite altitude sickness. He divorced my Mum in 1980. In 1982, he met Amahle, and they were married the same year. From Tanzania, we moved to Zimbabwe, where he maintained a chemical plant and trained new staff. When I left Africa at the end of 1989, my Dad moved on to Malawi, because at the time, moving to apartheid South Africa was out of the question. He worked as a technical manager for a textile firm, maintaining the plant and training new artisans and engineers. I visited him there once, and I have very fond memories of hiking in the majestic Mulanje Mountains and strolling along the beach of Lake Malawi at sunrise.

When South Africa passed the referendum to end the racist regime in 1994, he and Amahle moved to Johannesburg, Amahle’s hometown. As exuberant the mood was in SA, so did it have its down-sides. He caught the full brunt of the wave of affirmative action and for a few short years, he did technical support for industries in the greater Jo-burg area. He was never really happy with that though, prevailing (lack of) work ethics and residual racism made it hard for him to fit in. Particularly with his boss, who treated company funds like his private purse. Today, I am particularly grateful, my Dad finally found a position with a medical aid organisation. Just in time, before his former boss absconded to the USA with all the remaining company funds.

The medical aid organisation placed him in beautiful, enchanting Lesotho, where he spent the better part of a decade maintaining six clinics, ensuring they had running water, ensuring the self-same water was safe, ensuring they had as few power outages as possible, making sure the medical wastes were treated before being disposed of, making sure that there was in fact, a reliable road leading to these clinics, some of which could only be reached with a four-wheel-drive. And ensuring that there was an artisan present in his absence. In all his placements, my Dad found fulfilment and connection, making many long-term friends along the way. Nevertheless, I have the impression, this job in Lesotho was my Dad’s most memorable and rewarding, and of the many students, doctors and their families sent by the medical aid organisation, many of them were sad to see him retire. And I certainly take heartfelt pride in saying, that my Dad belongs to those people who moved mountains to empower the African peoples and contribute to improving their lives.

Following his retirement, my Dad and Amahle spent many rewarding and peaceful years in Johannesburg. He was attentive, when she suffered her first stroke in 2016, and I like to believe it was through his care, that she recovered all her faculties as quickly and completely as she did. When she finally left his side in early 2018, he gave up their house and moved into a home for the retired, with facilities for assisted living. That is my Dad, always prudently looking ahead.

What he did not yet know then, is, that a year after he would move into his new home, he would meet Khani (Khanyisile), a widowed nurse, also retired, who took a sweet and endearing fancy to him. I believe she is a source of inspiration and a focus for his care and attention, providing him with warmth and purpose in his late life. She certainly is someone whom I can call Mom with all my heart. I hope they still get to share many fulfilling years together.

My Mother

When I was approximately 16 months old, my mother spent some five or six months in a kibbutz, somewhere on the Palestinian-Israeli border. Around 24 months after my birth, my mother spent some time in the south of Switzerland in a community, that explored the possibilities of self-subsistence and independence from the establishment.

One of my earliest actual memories of my mother, is, when she came back from Mexico. I must have been close to four years old. She had been living in a commune for about half a year, and she was seriously ill with something tropical.

To explain this, I need to digress a little: There are a lot of good things to say about the Swiss. They are industrious and dedicated, they are very keen on developing and improving processes. In fact, you can tell that this is a hardy mountain folk, who have had to fight for their survival in a potentially hostile environment, where ingenuity is a key trait to prosperity. They are overall kind, a joyous and sweet natured people. Once they have let you into their generous hearts, their loyalty is highly tenacious. Incidentally, much like the British, to whom I also feel quite a close connection.

Unfortunately, one thing that the Swiss are *not*, is particularly adaptable. Despite what I previously said about ingenuity. They are loath to change, and cautious to trust new things, new people. They are slow to accept, never-mind integrate, new ideas.

So many young women today are unaware, that the right to vote, is something that came to be only relatively recently. Finland pioneered in Europe in 1906. The Swiss, I am not proud to say, were among the last of the European countries, to acknowledge that women are eligible for this very basic human right too, followed only by Portugal and Lichtenstein.

The Swiss finally decided to grant women voting rights in 1971. The victory was hard fought for, and only partial. The voting rights were granted on a federal scale, but the regional (Cantonal) administrations still had the sovereignty over their local affairs. And it was in fact November 1990, that the federal government finally pointed out, that the regional (Cantonal) constitution actually contradicted the federal constitution, and passed a law that to the effect, that the boys were to finally put away their peckers, and let the girls play along.

My mother was one of those women who fought for voting rights in Switzerland in the 1960ies. She marched, chanted, and screamed for basic human rights along with all those other brave ladies. They chained themselves to the houses of government, they created roadblocks, they stood endless hours in public squares and supermarkets to collect signatures. They burnt bras, they threw paint-eggs (and bricks), and they danced in the streets.

My mother spent her entire adult life, working for the betterment of how women are recognised and treated in Swiss and European society, and sometimes beyond European borders. She and her friends /comrades formed communal centres, engaged in social and political reformation programs, ensured that women and children had safe-houses to go to. They argued and fought, rationalised and debated, begged and wheedled, coerced and blackmailed the patriarchal powers that were (and are), to not only tolerate women in positions of power, but cooperate inclusively. My mother fought her entire life so that younger generations would be able to lead independent and self-determined lives. Even today, she still remains an active thorn in the establishment’s side, as well as spending hours a week being there for other people, by way of an emergency support hotline.

Mum, I am SO DAMN PROUD of you. What a gift! What a legacy to bestow your daughters with.

Nevertheless, my relationship with my birth mother was never an easy one. For as long as I remember, my mother always seemed angry. And being a child, I thought it was my fault.

Today, I get it. She had (has) loads of reasons to be angry. My Mum comes from a household, where verbal and physical abuse were liberally distributed. My maternal history is *RIFE* with violence and depreciation, the kind of archetypal abuse women globally face. My grandmother was first deported and abused as a young woman. By the Germans, for having the wrong faith. Then slurred a traitor and a collaborator by the French, and let me tell you, they were not kind. And finally, she was raped by the Americans. She fled to Switzerland, where she got pregnant by a man, who abandoned her. And the man who did marry her became an alcoholic, simply in order to survive the constant abrasion of her fury. As a result, my maternal grandmother was highly irascible, and did little to provide my Mum with a role-model of a loving maternal figure.

Fact is, I was afraid. I was afraid of my own mother.

Of both my mother and my grandmother.

My dad was, and still is, in so many ways, the traditional gentleman. The knight in, not so much shining-, but in definitely serviceable armour. My Dad most certainly questioned the system and the powers that were. Moreover, the fact that he was the son of a police superintendent, it was absolutely scandalous that he should be a spokesperson of the students’ protests of 1969. And I assume this was a strong contributing factor to the attraction between my parents. Nevertheless, he was certainly so much more settled, steady, and rooted in tradition and correctness. He is so much more a diplomat, rather than the anarchist rebel.

My mother was barely twenty when she became pregnant with me, and I speculate, she was in no way prepared. There were multiple instances when she implied, that she would have and should have gotten rid of me. My Dad prevented this and did, what was at that time the honourable thing to do, and married her. I believe this created enormously conflicting emotions in my Mum. I assume there was enough in my Dad, that she loved and that she was attracted to. At the same time, it was the traditional role, which she so entirely abhorred, and she might have seen herself captured and enslaved into the same oppressive fate as so many other mothers.

So, yes. I get it. My mother was *not* a happy camper. Switzerland had finally come to its senses and granted voting rights to women. I would assume, she saw a central lifegoal realised, a door opened. And then along comes a baby. She was angry. She appeared ambivalent and unsteady in her loyalties and her affection. Both to me and my Dad. Above all, she was irascible and highly volatile. There were days, a lot of them, when she made it clear that I was unwelcome. I was in her way, hindered her from pursuing her own life, her dreams of liberty and her ambitions. And I bound her to this man, this gentleman. A man who was so established.

On top of which, my mother carried, and still today carries, a searing, seething anger against anything patriarchal. It has coloured every one of her relationships to any man I ever witnessed. And then she bore a son. Perhaps that might have been like adding insult to injury? I do not know for sure if my gender truly played a role for my mother. When I think of *my* childhood, it certainly seems likely, and when viewed in the light of my mother’s often openly displayed misandrogyny, even more so.

On the other hand, when I look at the childhood Eirian experienced, that at least raises some doubts, as to just how personal my mother’s anger, impatience and rejection was. Eirian, my sister, was born seventeen years after me, and she grew up with a different Dad, Francesco. And yet, the tragedy is, when I look at my sister, when we speak with each other, she, too, carries psychological scars that are all too similar.

My impression is, like some Artists and other great People, my mother saw her Children as obstacles. As challenges to overcome. Things that hindered her in her work and her passions for creating a world in which women would thrive and decide unhindered. I am aware, this not how my (our) mother would describe the situation. Bottom line remains. I felt unloved by my mother. Not welcome. Not good enough.

And that was the first of a long line of not-good-enoughs that would continue to prevent me from ever developing a healthy self-esteem.

Today, my Mum and I share an amiable bond of mutual affection and respect. But this took my becoming independent. Legally and psychologically, emotionally capable of stating my own case, naming my needs, drawing up and maintaining my own boundaries. Things are still not without effort. We both still hurt at the past. And sometimes she struggles with what I am and who I am today. But more than anything else, she respects the choices I made, and she acknowledges the battles I have fought to determine my own path. I dare say, that is something that she sees reflected in herself, and appreciates.

The mother I chose

There is a lovely parable, possibly Buddhist, of which I am extremely fond. Unfortunately, I have not managed to find its origins, despite extensive research. I barely remember where I heard it, I believe it was in Dar es Salaam. It states that a man (yes, a man, of course a man) can have three fathers. The one who gives him life (gets the mother pregnant), the one who clothes him and provides him with a roof over his head. And the one who teaches him a craft, and imparts wisdom and the ways of the world. It also states that, these three fathers can, but need not, be one and the same person.

I have four mothers.

The other person I learnt to trust, as a child, was my babysitter, Evangeline. And she was to some degree, the counterpoint to my father’s very technical way of analysing and detailing the world. And, heartless or cruel as it sounds, she was everything my mother was not. She had time for me. And more than anything else, she showed me unlimited tenderness, patience, and affection.

Evangeline read to me endlessly, told me stories of brave girls who rescued their brothers from selfish ice-queens, of boys who befriended dragons, of flowers who wore clothes and played musical instruments, and of winds with names and families. She told me stories of fairies and elves that populated the woods and hid behind ferns. Tales of gnomes and dwarves that lived under rocks and gleaned precious treasures from books. Of unending tunnels of libraries filled floor to ceiling with the most wondrous of tomes and scrolls. We spent countless hours together building villages of fruit, painting pictures or puppets. And she usually had a shawl or a pretty scarf I could borrow.

Above all, Evangeline was gifted with the patience of an angel. She still is. She very much became my ersatz mother, and when my parents decided to have me baptised at the age of five, I was permitted to choose her as my godmother.

She must have shown me tough love as well, but she obviously managed to do so in a supportive and appreciative way, because I have no memory of feeling anything other than welcome and cherished.

I have no memory of any kind of competing tension between Evangeline and my mother. Considering that my godmother was still in her early to mid-teens, there was no danger of my birth mother being replaced (aside the fact that this would have been so far out of character for my Dad). Remarkable is, that decades later, my mother recalls that she was indeed very jealous of the rapport between Evangeline and me. To counter this, my godmother recalls very fondly, my parents as being so very much older than her. She told me, how being introduced to my parents’ circle of friends, how being in on their discussions, had long and highly impressive effects on her way of thinking. How she felt treated as an adult for the first time. I also know that my mother met Evangeline, years later, when I married Wiebke. And that she thanked Evangeline profusely, for being there for me all those years.

Today, Evangeline has her own practice for art therapy, working with children traumatised by war and abuse. Alongside this, she has a part time job, working with families with a migrative background, facilitating their integration into Swiss society. This she does mainly by empowering the mothers through a large network of helpers and employees, and ensuring the placement of their infants and children in communal kindergartens and health care. The well-founded success being, that if the children are well integrated, then their parents will find it all the more easy to follow.

Above everything, she is guided by common sense and a deep love and respect for humans and their needs. She is empowered by the singular trust that we all love our children and want nothing but their best. If we had more women, more *mothers* like her, politicians would be out of a job, warlords would be out of soldiers, and fanatics would be out of zealot followers. Of course, individuals disappoint her every once in a while, but she remains committed and unshaken in her faith in the good in people.

She was, and remains today, my role model for everything that is gentle but steadfast, boundlessly creative but realistic, opinionated but fair.

We write as often as both our very busy lives allow for, and every once in a while, we visit one another. Her support and her counsel remain invaluable to me. And cautious as Evangeline was about some of my transitioning steps, she always managed to convey that she had my wellbeing and my happiness at heart.

Tanzania, 1976

I was six years old when my parents emigrated with me, to Dar es Salaam, on the East African coast.

Tanzania, most particularly Dar es Salaam, was an extremely interesting and remarkable place in the 1970ies. The country had been an independent member of the British Commonwealth since 1964. At that time, one of the poorest countries in Africa, and yet, the income gap was not that steep. Unlike today, there were few super-rich people (of any skin tone), the majority of the population existing more or less securely. The indigenous population was largely indifferent to friendly to the large number of expatriates living there. Despite no notable mineral riches, it was strategically well placed, and the Chinese generously offered to build a railroad, from the port city, around to Lake Tanganyika, past the East-African rift, and further into the heart of the continent, where the more exploitable mines lay. This was also the time when the Leakey family was discovering lots of hominid remains in Olduvai Gorge.

There was an open, ongoing armed conflict along the border to Uganda (check out Vita vya Kagera, and the Ousting of Idi Amin). The repercussions of this were of course an even further strain on resources and infrastructure. Any strategically important structure, like bridges, basic public service buildings, and of course water and power supplies, were guarded by heavily armed soldiers. There were checkpoints every fifty kilometres or so, and overall, there was a heightened military presence in the streets. Nevertheless, apart from the actual zone of conflict, Tanzania was by and large peaceful and even the soldiers were mostly good natured and easy going.

Dares Salaam was at that time still the capital, and there was a large, sometimes thriving, sometimes grumbling community of expatriates situated there. The old colonials were dying out and being replaced with cheery idealists like my Dad. The Swiss have long roots, dating back to mission hospitals dotted across the country. There was a large German community, there were Dutch, Swedes, Norwegians, British, and of course a great many people of Indian origin. There were Yugoslavian refugees, even then. There was a very large Chinese community. And there was a strong community of Americans, most particularly of Americans of African descent, looking to find peace from racial conflicts, and rediscover their roots.

For any family that could afford it (pretty much all the expats), and even some that could not, it was a matter of course to have domestics. I realise that this is a topic of a somewhat delicate nature. And while this has its roots in the colonial hierarchy, it was simply natural to have somebody helping in the household and / or garden. And thereby provide opportunities for semi-skilled employment. But more on that later. Fact is, probably none of the expat wives had to work if they chose not to.

My Dad took on a lecturer’s position at the faculty of engineering in Dar es Salaam, and for several years, he was the coordinator between the Swiss development aid community and the Swiss embassy. For my Dad, this was possibly the closest to perfection he could have, jobwise. It was a highly practical, highly makeshift environment which required ingenuity and adaptive thinking. And it gave him every opportunity to pass on his experience and expertise.

For my mother, it was a dead end. As far as I know, the decision had been a unanimous agreement between my parents. I believe, she had supported the move to Africa, driven by ambitions to further women’s rights, women’s emancipation, and the ideology of gender equity in Africa. I believe she had all the hopes and good intentions, to bring the good fight to Dar es Salaam, and improve living conditions for women, strengthen their rights within society and within marriage, and ensure their right to education. I would think she still felt the rush of victory from the changes that were coming to effect in Switzerland.

Tanzania has a very diverse background, culturally, with a very strong influence of the Arabic traders, that came south by way of the Indian Ocean. Independently of the Muslim culture, there was, and still is, a deeply rooted highly patriarchal system in place. And Tanzania was at that time a picture-book example of a country where the women did pretty much all the work of keeping society alive, i.e., tilling that land, fetching the water, and raising the children. Things have improved since then, for example, in 2000, an amendment to the constitution was passed to strengthen the rights of women to own land, just to give you an idea of what kind of challenges we are talking about here.

So, what my mother found, was that empowering the local women consisted mainly of teaching them to make better use of the land, getting the land to yield more and better crops, encouraging them to sew and craft items they could sell, and thereby securing independent existences and improving living conditions. Perhaps most importantly, making very cautious, very tentative headway in teaching sexual hygiene and family planning, both being enormous taboos in East-African cultures. In pretty much any African culture I ever met, for that matter. The hot-plate of plain basic disposability (deliberate choice of word) of women for sex, was more than a generation away. Maybe more than three.

So despite the fact that most of the wives of all the expats had profited from education and vocational training, the vast majority of the expat women maintained a low profile as homemakers and mothers. A lot of them took up creative hobbies or other pastimes. A fair number contributed a lot of time and effort as volunteer work in the afore mentioned projects to strengthen the rural communities. But the progress was painstakingly slow. The thought of women’s lib and emancipation was, in Africa, more than a generation away. Women are still fighting for basic recognition of human dignity and self-determination today.

So instead of leading women to revolution, my mother found herself trying to teach *me* the basics of English and mathematics. She was not particularly patient. My being afraid of her temper did nothing to facilitate my learning. I still remember the seething frustration and agitation radiating off her, as scorching as the tropical sun.

The fact that there were beaches to explore, starfish to prod, sandcastles to be built, did not improve my interest. There were trees to climb, fruit to find, animals to marvel over… …so much to do, so little time. And all these fascinating dark-skinned people to follow around. The Tanzanians were (I presume still are) extremely fond of children, and any expat family with kids found themselves swamped by inquisitive and friendly people, who either wanted to touch the Mzungu (Swahili: white person) because touching straight blonde hair will bring good fortune. Or to sell then something. After all, everyone knows that all Wazungu (Swahili: white people plural) are richer than kings and more gullible than cows by standard.

Custody issues

My parents took me with them, when they went on a very long car journey, picking their way into the heartland of Tanzania, passing Mbeya, and approaching Lake Tanganyika that borders the East-African rift valley, going from mission station to mission station.

To be honest, in my memory, all of it blends together in a wild profusion of exuberant adventure, fun, and sheer sensory overload.

Exotic sounding names. Bagamoyo, Chalinze, Tabora, Iringa and Arusha. Settlements, ranging from innocently crumbling concrete, flaking bricks and corroded girders. With tarred roofs, sagging just slightly under the tropical sun. Windows, sometimes blind with age, or patched with plywood. Walls painted with advertisements in colours that must have at some point been vibrant. Villages of original wattle and daub, thatched with the typical Elephant grass (Pennisetum purpureum), complete with bomas (Swahili: livestock enclosures) and shambas (Swahili: tilled and cultivated fields).

Petrol was rationed, Diesel was in very short supply. Main roads were sunbleached tarmac, sometimes with vicious potholes, that could neatly swallow a