African, Indian, Javanese, Jewish, Chinese, Indigenous and European, German blood.

All In Berlin. Suriname, South America

AntonJieSamFoek

The scent of smoked piment hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sweet rot of mangoes, fallen way too late. 

Old Ma Gertie stirred her pepperpot, the deep brown stew bubbling like a forgotten memory. Her hands, gnarled and darkened by a lifetime of sun and soil, moved with the practiced grace of someone who had stirred this same pot countless times before. 

Today, though, the familiar rhythm was punctuated by a tremor, a nervous flutter in her stomach.

“Tante Gertie,” called a voice, cutting through the humid air. ” Are you okay?”

It was her grandson, Kai, home from Paramaribo for the weekend. He stood framed in the doorway of the small, weathered house, his modern city clothes a stark contrast to the rustic charm of the quiet countryside and interior of Suriname surrounding him.

“Fine, fine,” she rasped, not meeting his eye. “Just thinking.”

Kai approached cautiously, his brow furrowed. “Thinking about what?”

She sighed, a sound like rustling leaves. “About them. About where we come from.”

Kai knew where she was going. 

He knew the whispers that haunted their family, the fragments of a story pieced together over generations. 

Their skin was darker than most in Suriname, their features holding a subtle, angular difference. 

They were the descendants of German missionaries who had sought to convert the indigenous population, and in doing so, had planted seeds of a different kind, ones that intertwined with the existing tapestry of 

“They were just trying to help, Tante,” Kai said, a familiar defense rising to his lips. He, unlike his grandmother, saw a kind of nobility in the past, a misguided benevolence, perhaps, but benevolence nonetheless.

Gertie snorted, a surprisingly forceful sound for such a small woman. 

“Help? They came with their Bibles and their German, and their idea of what was right. Did they ask us what we needed? Did they see the riches and beauty in what we already had?”

She gestured around the small room, her hand sweeping over the wooden carvings, the woven mats, the brightly colored fabrics. 

“This,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “is what survived. This is what we held onto.”

She remembered the stories her own grandmother and her mother had told, tales whispered in the dark when the mosquitoes buzzed and the jungle seemed to press closer. 

Stories of the missionaries, their strictness, their attempts to erase the old ways. Yet, alongside the suppression, there was also a strange kind of integration. They learned German hymns, their Creole inflected with a peculiar lilt. They adopted German farming techniques, learned to cultivate different crops. They even, in secret, incorporated German folk remedies into their traditional healing practices.

The German influence was a thread, woven tightly but sometimes painfully, into the vibrant cloth of their identity. 

It wasn’t the grand, imposing influence found in Namibia, where German colonization had left a scar etched deep into the landscape. 

In Suriname, it was a more subtle presence, a whisper in the wind, a ghost at the edge of the forest. “Even small villages like Hamburg and Berlin – bearing the proud names of their German counterparts across the ocean – still echoed with faint memories of that influence,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“They built schools,” Kai offered, trying to steer the conversation. “And hospitals. They brought knowledge.”

Gertie remained unmoved. “Knowledge without understanding is a dangerous thing, child. They came bearing gifts, but they came with a price. They wanted to erase who we were, to make us in their image.”

She was silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on the bubbling pepperpot. Then, she said softly, “ A scholar, one of their own, said, ‘Christianity is not a fixed quantity; it is a seed that must be continually sown.’ 

That seed took root here, Kai, but it grew in soil already rich. It mingled with the roots of our ancestors, with the spirits of the land. It changed us, yes, but we also changed it.”

Kai didn’t respond. 

He knew she was right. He saw it in the way she held herself, in the quiet strength that radiated from her. He saw it in the stories she told, the songs she sang, the prayers she offered.

He knew the German influence wasn’t just about education or medicine. It was about the subtle shifts in perspective, the barely perceptible changes in language, the quiet infiltration of ideas. It was about the constant negotiation between assimilation and resistance, between honoring the past and forging a future.

He looked at his grandmother, at the fire burning in her eyes, and understood that the burden of remembrance was hers. He was part of a new generation, one that was less burdened by the past, more focused on the future. But he also knew that he could not deny the truth of their history, the intricate and often painful dance of cultures that had shaped who they were.

He reached out and placed his hand on hers, her skin warm and papery beneath his. “We survived, Tante,” he said, his voice filled with a newfound understanding. “We are still here.”

Gertie looked up, her eyes softening. A faint smile touched her lips. “Yes, child,” she said. “We are still here. And we will continue to stir the pot, to remember, and to find our own way.”

The aroma of smoked piment drifted on the air, a testament to resilience, to survival, to the enduring spirit of a people who had taken the seeds of a foreign culture and transformed them into something uniquely their own. 

The German influence remained, a silent ingredient in a complex and flavorful dish, a reminder that even in the deepest parts of the South American rainforest, history had a way of leaving its mark. 

And it was up to them to decide what that mark would mean.