Gentrification Reflections, An Uber Day In Washington D.C.

Yonder's Slovenian-born Andrej Mrevlje is also a part-time Uber driver in Washington. Oh, the people he meets.

Uber view; 14th Street, NW, Washington DC
Uber view; 14th Street, NW, Washington DC

WASHINGTON — "My son has very dark skin and unusual grey eyes. They are so intense that you see his eyes first, and then the rest of his body." My conversation with Mona — whom I'd picked up for an Uber ride near Howard University, in northwest D.C. — began when she asked about my name and how it was pronounced. It's a question I'm often asked and, instead of the usual courtesies, I usually cut short the exchange by saying that my name was not meant to be pronounced. It's my signal that I am ready to chat, and usually prompts a giggle.

"Ha," Mona laughed, "Imagine the problems of my son. His name is Tsilhqot'in." I asked her to clarify, saying, "What kind of name is that?" And from the back seat, she was off; the words were streaming out of her. When she was pregnant, Miss Mona explained, she started to look for a name for her son by researching her family tree, digging for a meaningful connection among her forefathers. She went all the way back, she said and discovered that her fifth generation grandfather was a native Indian, a member of the Tsilhqot'in tribe. She'd found the name for her son with the intense grey eyes. I tried to imagine the young man as I looked in the rearview mirror at Mona.

I saw where this was heading; it was an invitation to an exciting conversation and more fiction from this impressive woman. But I had to drive. Still, perhaps I could interrupt the stream of her words with questions that flooded my mind, like: Why would she complicate her son's life with such a complicated name? How do people refer to him? Does he have a nickname? If you cannot read or pronounce Mrevlje, the difficulty of pronouncing the name Tsilhqot'in is unimaginable!

Your Uber is approaching — Photo: Will McKinley

But I missed the train: Mona's thoughts were already far away, explaining her maternal line of ancestors, and how she discovered that she was able to understand German.

She discovered her talent for German when she first heard it spoken. "It must have been something I inherited from one of my mother's ancestors, whose name was Geiger," she said.

I cut in with the question of what she was doing for work. She said she used to be an opera singer and now runs a business. She said her name was Mona Lisa And when we returned to the topic of the grey eyes of her son, I asked her about his father. He was Sicilian, a trapeze acrobat who died when Tsilhqot'in was six, she said. An accident. We arrived at her destination, telling each other how nice it would be to continue our conversation one day. "I'll see you around," Mona said, shutting the door. I never managed to ask her about her African-American heritage. But then again, with an Alaskan Indian Tribe, German ancestors, a Sicilian partner, the room was already crowded.

Not far from the place I dropped Mona, I got a new request from a rider, who asked, "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" A young African American slid into my car, speaking perfect "hochdeutsch." My god, I thought, what is happening today? We exchanged some phrases, testing each other's level of German, but then switched to English.

It is incredible how fast our minds clicked.

It was my time to ask how she speaks such good German. "I am a daughter of a German mother and Kenyan father," she said. It is incredible how fast our minds clicked. The ride was short; she was going to the office at Howard University, where she organizes the departmental curriculum of African studies. I inquired about the sources she uses, how she selected them and asked about the funds for the program. We talked about Howard University and the quality of the education, vital to building up the African-American middle class, so long under the thumb of white supremacy. I learned much, and I was amazed by this young lady, who could talk equally about Cologne, where her mother lives, or Paris, where she studied for a while, and Kenya, where her father remarried. What on earth was she doing in the U.S., considering that neither of her parents ever lived here? She came here as part of her studies, she said, and her brother is here too. We could've talked forever, but we probably never will again, unless Uber decides otherwise.

The day was not yet over, though. On that very same day, a man in his mid-forties got into my car. He was born in Bali to a couple of hippies who traveled there periodically for vacations. His parents gave him an Indonesian name and, after his family moved back to the U.S, he lived for 20 years in D.C. He'd recently moved to South Carolina, which seems to be the new American paradise of a modest and laidback lifestyle —apart from the recent hurricanes. Driving him to the airport, I learned some new lessons in my Uber school and in the car that is my classroom.

Because he was born abroad, when his family moved back to D.C., he was particularly sensitive to the ethnic issues in the U.S. and the history of the city I now live in. I took advantage of the opportunity to learn something.

I finally understood why the city was predominantly African American. From all my previous conversations and reading, I knew that by the mid-1970s D.C."s population was 80% African American. That fact, I learned that day, was due to a Supreme Court decision declaring that separate education for people of different races was unconstitutional. As a consequence, white people fled the city and by 1957 Washington's African-American population surpassed the 50% mark, making it the first predominantly black major city in the nation, and leading a nationwide trend.

In 1963, 250,000 people marched on Washington for jobs and freedom. The assassination of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., on April 4, 1968, triggered strong reactions throughout the nation and the city. During the riots in that year, in the area of the city where I live now, the buildings were burned and destroyed, many African Americans rebelled against continued racism, injustice, and the federal government's abandonment of the city. Even before Dr. King's assassination, demands for justice forced the federal government to take steps towards "home rule" by appointing Walter Washington as mayor in 1967. In 1974, the year I first visited DC visit as a student, residents chose Washington as the city's first elected black mayor, and the first black mayor of the 20th century.

As even a little tourist bulletin described it, by 1975, African Americans were politically and culturally leading the city, making up more than 70% of the population. The Black Arts, Black Power, Women's rights, and Statehood movements flowered here. Indeed, Marion Barry, who succeeded Washington as mayor, began his public life here as a leader of local justice movements. There were independent think tanks, schools, bookstores, and repertory companies. Go-go (DC's home-grown version of funk), as well as jazz, blues, and salsa, resonating from clubs, parks, recreation centers, and car radios. With the uniting of political activism and creativity, African Americans were transforming the city and culture once again.

Photo: pingnews/Worldcrunch montage

To this day, in the exponential age we live in, gentrification is progressing with the speed of the light. My professor-passenger in the car told me little-known details of the white and Jewish community, who were moving back to the city. As a result, the money started to flow in again. I learned about this also from gay neighbors on my street, who moved into the area during the same period. What used to be an almost exclusively African American area is now home to hipsters and gay people, and me, not belonging exclusively to anyone. I booked my ticket for the forthcoming D.C. History Conference immediately.

My last drive of the day was particularly peculiar.

With my head buzzing from all the information, I'd decided to drive home when, right on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue, Mike got in the car. He had his helmet on and was dressed in one of those yellow security jackets. He looked tired and resigned. He explained his outfit by saying he worked in architecture, and that he was in charge of the many construction sites in the capital. I was taking him from one site to another, when Mike declared that another housing bubble and real estate crisis looms. Most of what you see, he said, all those hundreds of condos sprouting in residential areas, the office buildings and even hotels that developers are putting up will remain empty.

We are changing the vibe and makeup of the city thanks to government-lowered taxes and other incentives for developers, he said. But it's not what the residents want or need. If this president gets impeached, he said, the crisis will be immediate. Otherwise, it will happen in two or three years, when the economic investment cycle will arrive at its natural end. Mike explained all of this calmly, then he thought for a moment and turned back to the subject of the current president: He'll never get impeached. Nobody who has money in this city will get impeached, he said to me upon his goodbye.

My last drive of the day was particularly peculiar. I was called to pick up the rider at Corcoran Street, just a few blocks away from my house. A man knocked on the window of the driver's seat. He was holding a white envelope in his hand. Would you mind driving this letter to the address indicated on the envelope, he asked. I did; I put the note on the passenger seat next to me. It was the first passenger who didn't speak to me that day. I was happy with the silence, busy thinking about how to put into writing one of my most exciting days yet in this stimulating and fascinating city.

*Read more from part-time Uber operator and Yonder founder Andrej Mrevlje on what it's like to work with the controversial ride-sharing platform.

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What It Means When The Jews Of Germany No Longer Feel Safe

A neo-Nazi has been buried in the former grave of a Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender – not an oversight, but a deliberate provocation. This is just one more example of antisemitism on the rise in Germany, and society's inability to respond.

At a protest against antisemitism in Berlin

Eva Marie Kogel


BERLIN — If you want to check the state of your society, there's a simple test: as the U.S. High Commissioner for Germany, John Jay McCloy, said in 1949, the touchstone for a democracy is the well-being of Jews. This litmus test is still relevant today. And it seems Germany would not pass.

Incidents are piling up. Most recently, groups of neo-Nazis from across the country traveled to a church near Berlin for the funeral of a well-known far-right figure. He was buried in the former grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender, a gravesite chosen deliberately by the right-wing extremists.

The incident at the cemetery

They intentionally chose a Jewish grave as an act of provocation, trying to gain maximum publicity for this act of desecration. And the cemetery authorities at the graveyard in Stahnsdorf fell for it. The church issued an immediate apology, calling it a "terrible mistake" and saying they "must immediately see whether and what we can undo."

There are so many incidents that get little to no media attention.

It's unfathomable that this burial was allowed to take place at all, but now the cemetery authorities need to make a decision quickly about how to put things right. Otherwise, the grave may well become a pilgrimage site for Holocaust deniers and antisemites.

The incident has garnered attention in the international press and it will live long in the memory. Like the case of singer-songwriter Gil Ofarim, who recently claimed he was subjected to antisemitic abuse at a hotel in Leipzig. Details of the crime are still being investigated. But there are so many other incidents that get little to no media attention.

Photo of the grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender

The grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender

Jens Kalaene/dpa/ZUMA

Crimes against Jews are rising

Across all parts of society, antisemitism is on the rise. Until a few years ago, Jewish life was seen as an accepted part of German society. Since the attack on the synagogue in Halle in 2019, the picture has changed: it was a bitter reminder that right-wing terror against Jewish people has a long, unbroken history in Germany.

Stories have abounded about the coronavirus crisis being a Jewish conspiracy; meanwhile, Muslim antisemitism is becoming louder and more forceful. The anti-Israel boycott movement BDS rears its head in every debate on antisemitism, just as left-wing or post-colonial thinking are part of every discussion.

Jewish life needs to be allowed to step out of the shadows.

Since 2015, the number of antisemitic crimes recorded has risen by about a third, to 2,350. But victims only report around 20% of cases. Some choose not to because they've had bad experiences with the police, others because they're afraid of the perpetrators, and still others because they just want to put it behind them. Victims clearly hold out little hope of useful reaction from the state – so crimes go unreported.

And the reality of Jewish life in Germany is a dark one. Sociologists say that Jewish children are living out their "identity under siege." What impact does it have on them when they can only go to nursery under police protection? Or when they hear Holocaust jokes at school?

Germany needs to take its antisemitism seriously

This shows that the country of commemorative services and "stumbling blocks" placed in sidewalks as a memorial to victims of the Nazis has lost its moral compass. To make it point true north again, antisemitism needs to be documented from the perspective of those affected, making it visible to the non-Jewish population. And Jewish life needs to be allowed to step out of the shadows.

That is the first thing. The second is that we need to talk about specifically German forms of antisemitism. For example, the fact that in no other EU country are Jewish people so often confronted about the Israeli government's policies (according to a survey, 41% of German Jews have experienced this, while the EU average is 28%). Projecting the old antisemitism onto the state of Israel offers people a more comfortable target for their arguments.

Our society needs to have more conversations about antisemitism. The test of German democracy, as McCloy called it, starts with taking these concerns seriously and talking about them. We need to have these conversations because it affects all of us. It's about saving our democracy. Before it's too late.

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