A column of international perspectives on queer Berlin

The cacophony of mechanical hums and annoying beeps was unrelenting. She longed for peace. She turned the ear-splitting machine off. The entrance of a stern-faced nurse thwarted her quest for quiet, “It’s a matter of life or death, you know. You can’t just turn it off,” the nurse chided. An hour later, driven to the brink of auditory insanity, she committed the audacious act once again. This true story transpired in a Mannheim hospital when a 72-year-old woman unplugged her roommate’s ventilation machine, with fatal consequences. It was too loud; she defended herself. How far could one go to maintain the Ruhe?

As extreme and bizarre this account may seem, it bears an eerie resemblance to the everyday quirks of life in Berlin. In Germany, quiet hours are treated with reverence and stipulated into law. Especially on Sundays, with all businesses shuttered, activities like gardening, home repairs, or even house cleaning could earn you a complaint from a neighbor. Everything takes a backseat on Sunday; only church bells get a free pass. Berlin’s auditory control extends from neighborly discord to public spaces. Outdoor party organizers must keep up a balancing act to avoid a police squad showing up at the club’s door.

Most people know that quiet hours begin at 10 pm, but I found out the hard way that a couple of quiet hours exist in the midday, too. I was minding my business, dancing to some trashy pop in my apartment one afternoon, when I heard the doorbell. An unhappy-looking young man appeared at my door. Not only was he aggrieved about the music, but he had a long list of sounds I should keep to a minimum – causal conversations with my friends, thuds of doors, and the sound of my footsteps. “Your rent contract has a section devoted to this,” he smirked as he left.

I have been called a quiet person all my life. Order is an esteemed German value, like frugality, punctuality and hard work. However, these values can be exploited and abused. There is reason to believe that the noise complaints have an uglier side. Some noises are more objectionable than others. Residents in a Berlin district recently demanded a refugee camp be removed, citing noise. Queer friends chilling at a park last summer were accused of terrorizing sunbathers on account of mellow beats from a music box. I wonder if my neighbor would have been as audacious if the noise had come from a lovely heterosexual couple’s wailing baby.

We can extol the virtues of Ruhe all we want, but to wield it as a weapon against the joy of those whose lives defy convention is what I call audio fascism. Embracing the multitude of sounds that compose the vibrant tapestry of life is an inherent part of city life.