Water 

The only way to go to Christmas Land is through perfect water. The perfect water is where my mother is. There are two specific waters in Berlin that allow a gateway to the Christmas Land: one in Tiergarten and by Hansabrücke. At nighttime, the water is pitch black, with lights moving on the surface. The bodies of trees are heavier at night. Days have gone by, and the voices and sounds in my head got worse to the point that they became my voice. I have been cursed by sound. However, it is the fault of all the lost people because they were ignorant and trusted God too much. It is also the pleasure of water that draws people into the water. I remember swimming in water that muffled and muted all the sounds in the world. It is this memory that made water so appealing, forgiving, caring, something that understands me as a child, but “water doesn’t wash sins away” (Strugatsky). Water also gives an illusion that there is another world inside, partially because of the reflected landscapes, but because it is also where narcissists would go. (Bachelard)

Christmas Land

It was the spring of 2024 when I went to the Christmas Land. I call it Christmas Land because the gate at the entrance of the territory had Tschiokovsky’s music ‘March of the Nutcracker’ playing every time one entered. There were many trees in the Christmas Land whose trunks had axed marks because it is the Christmas season, and there were attempts by forgers to find a good tree. But here, the attempts were unsuccessful and the trees were still (barely) standing. There is a long straight road as you enter the Christmas Land and there are two benches there: one located on the side of the road and the other at the very end of the road near the river. When you sit on the bench near the river, you can observe people from a distance, either walking towards you or away from you. It gives you an illusion that you are viewing the past or the future. It is a cinema. The long road is covered in white and red rubies, repeating their patterns. When you go for a walk, all you do is walk with your head down, admiring the jewels. Magically, you get enlightened just by following the jewels long enough. Residents of the Christmas Land adore the jewels, and they are all that they look at and think about. There are governors residing with the residents who oversee the land. They don’t look at the jewels with a sense of wonder as the residents of the Christmas Land do. That’s because governors walk faster with their backs straight (because they don’t know), and the residents slouch and walk with incredibly mellow speed (because they know). The residents of the Christmas Land do not speak much but they use very simple words and expressions. For example, there was a woman with no legs who used her legs to communicate. 

There are good governors, and there are bad governors. Good governors are the ones who look into your eyes and tell the truth, while the bad governors are the ones whose gaze is shut down like a shutter, like the governor with blonde hair who wore a black Max Mara sweater that had fake sparkles on it. Once, I asked her for directions to a well, and she rolled her eyes clockwise from my side and un-clockwise from her side. So, to her, it must have been so annoying that she wanted to turn back time or something. She was a mean German. I’ve heard of stories but never actually met one. Our encounter briefly took place with some smiles and ended with a very minimal smile. I noticed from the Christmas Land that all governors, both good and bad, feared writers and photographers, but they never showed this fear openly. Instead, they sent nutcracker soldiers to be friends with the writers and photographers of the Christmas Land and told them to report everything they observed from proximity. The Nutcracker soldiers carried plastic toy swords. But it turns out that beneath the plastic cover was an actual sword, fully capable of killing. All the Nutcracker soldiers were incredibly charming, especially the young Nutcracker soldier with brunette hair and porcelain skin. The young nutcracker soldier would follow me around and watch me from far and close. She asked me about mundane things like the weather, meals, friends and my days but was simultaneously observing how I made or avoided eye contact with her, bit my lips, fidgeted my fingers around to try to read something that wasn’t even there, so I mastered the skills of manipulating small movements. One day, the Nutcracker soldier invited me to a slumber party. When you lie down on a bed with an enemy side by side, with faces looking at each other with only a breath apart, you tend to forget that they are your enemy. I told her fake secrets and fake histories of my life that I am a princess, a daughter of the North Korean King, with a big speech about my desire for democracy, unification, justice, and all those wet European fantasies. The story somehow touched the heart of the nutcracker soldier, and she decided to become a true friend of mine, telling me her past, showing tears and sharing gossip about the governors. The next day, the nutcracker soldier was executed in a public gallows. 

The Giant

Governors of the Christmas Land treated Damien, the Giant, like a little puppy, thinking he was too dumb to understand anything. But they were the dumb ones, one of those people you can never discuss poetry and good films with. There was an incredibly beautiful quality in Damien that no one saw. Damien always sat next to me in the tower. He usually observed me from the back and slided next to me. Damien always referred to me as ‘Sie,’ but I called him ‘du’. How rude of me. Damien, anyway, had a good heart. He was a man who was 5m tall, had a bald spot in the middle of his head, wore his pants halfway around his ass, and had a big chunky belly. I was smoking in the tower, lying down on a bench. He sat next to me when I was giggling on my own. He came next to me and mumbled: “Sonst, sonst,” he said. His speech was urgent. Maybe he found danger in my giggling and wanted me to stop immediately. The way he looked at me was always full of curiosity. He found me somewhat foreign or amusing, something that he had never seen in his whole life. When I shared a cigarette with Damien in the tower, a governor said something rude, saying that “he doesn’t understand a word” in condescension. He didn’t not know that Damien’s language is a lot more vibrant, rich, full of life, and original than the ones he uses. The governor’s language was nothing special but rather wooden and predictable, one that mimics the voice of hyped-up best-seller books. However, Damien’s language was full of colour, and I could listen to him all day. Damien, therefore, was a much more remarkable human than the governor. Damien and I can communicate even though we don’t understand each other. We read the air between us instead. I asked what his favourite colour is, thinking it must be white (because he was wearing a white Nike hat). He said ‘white’. I handed him my headphones which had one of my favourite songs playing. It was by a Korean artist, Boohwal (in English translation: resurrection). He listened to the song for about thirty seconds. First confused, but later content. I asked Damien if life is beautiful, to which he responded: “Life is beautiful, but you are difficult.” 

Sakura

Sakura was tying his shoelaces in front of a door and I was writing in front of the panopticon-like room of the building, where governors observe and hear everything. I was sitting on one of the red chairs in front of the panopticon. Sakura greeted me, “Sojin!,” very delightfully, so I greeted him with similar passion and said good morning. Sakura was the person who called for help when Jemma fainted in front of the panopticon. He was the only one who rushed and helped. Sakura sat next to me quietly. I was happy that Sakura sat next to my red chair. The chair he sat on was also red. He had a very intelligent face with sagging skin. He always wore a hat and a jump-suit. He was someone who admired and studied the jewels on the ground. We exchanged glances several times but never engaged in a conversation. Sakura sat next to me and said he was waiting for coffee. He took a long pause and said today was his last day at the Christmas Land because he was moving to the Halloween Land. He sounded very sad. He looked at the jewels as if he was looking at his future. He said he was going to the Halloween Land, where all the skeletons are. He said he had problems with candies and sweets that rotted his teeth. When I turned my head towards the right, I saw him looking straight into the path in front of him, with his left index finger wiping a tear coming from his left eye. It was a silent and heavy tear. I heard his heart trembling. When I wipe my tears, I wipe them with the back of my hand or the whole hand, but Sakura only uses his index fingers as if he perfectly understood the weight of his tears. I asked if he would like to stay at the Christmas Land, and he said he would like to, but he has no choice but to go to the Halloween Land. He seems deeply saddened by the fact that the word skeleton is associated with him. Sakura is a kind person. Sakura is someone who has a heart that resembles the sun. He once took me and Jemma to the rose garden hidden in the Christmas Land. Sakura said his nickname is a man with eight legs, Spider-Man or something. I cannot remember. I wonder why he was called that. I asked if he swam, and he said no and smiled. Sakura asked what my name means. I said: So (昭) means ‘shining’ and Jin (辰) means ‘star’– a shining star. Sakura seemed awed. He sang to me briefly, ‘Fly, Sojin, fly!’

Joanna

I was pretentiously pretending to read a book at McDonalds. People who pretend to read bounce their eyes between the page and their surroundings numerous times. The importance here is not that they’re reading but the very picture of them reading, so they must observe their surroundings to see if anyone admires them. Anyhow, an old lady sat two chairs away from me. Her eyes were fixated on me while I tried my best to avoid eye contact. The woman stood up from her table, walked towards me and sat in front of me like a high school girl would do at a cafeteria. She had a curious face that sought many questions about me. I acted surprised (although I did see her coming near me) because this type of entertainment is necessary sometimes. The woman didn’t greet me but jumped right into her point and asked what I was reading. I told her I was reading about salmon. (This was true). The woman held her hands by her chest and looked directly into my eyes. She said: I am illiterate! She then told me that she was never taught how to read or write and that she is envious of those who can read. She stared at me and the salmon book with great admiration. The woman then asked me my name. Conscious of the eyes of others, as it is safe for the residents at the Christmas Land to remain anonymous (except for me and Sakura), I lied that my name is ‘Joanna.’ The woman’s face brightened with an incredible jolt of happiness. She said: my name is Joanna, too! She was thrilled like a child and couldn’t believe that such a coincidence could even happen. Joanna asked if I could write her a letter, a postcard or something so she could look at the shapes of the words. So I did write her a postcard to her address a few days later and received a lengthy letter from her in return which I found surprising, given that she couldn’t even read or write. Joanna’s letter revealed her identity as a celebrated writer in Germany, one of her works that moved many hearts.

The Thunder

There was a thunderstorm at the Christmas Land, and when I woke up, a good governor told me that I had lost all my memories because I got struck by lightning. It felt like my head got electrified. I could feel electricity running in my head non-stop, deep-frying every brain cell. (Ironically, this is also when I had the most electrifying ideas.) There is a chance that I could have seen an angel. (Mohaghegh) The good governor gave me a piece of paper with some words and told me to read it out loud. It was kind of like a spell: “Genuss braucht Zeit/ Genuss muss erlaubt sein/ Genuss geht nicht nebenbei/ Genuss ist Geschmackssache/ Weniger ist mehr/ Ohne Erfahrung kein Genuss/ Genuss ist alltäglich”. I would read one line and forget the line as soon as I read the next one. I could not remember anything, and I could not recognise the sounds coming from my mouth. (It also took me an hour to do a simple math of one plus one.) The good governor told me that I will be a better person when I finished memorizing the whole thing. To bring back my memories, she also gave me all the different scents in the world so I could learn the smells again: lemon grass, lavender, apple, peppermint, rosemary, rose, etc. I tried memorizing the spell again. No matter how hard I tried, I could never memorize– not even a single sentence. When the thunder stopped, the good governor of the Christmas Land told me to go back to the outside world because there was nothing she could do to save me. I then packed all my belongings and left the Christmas Land right after. It took me an hour to find an S Bahn because all my memories had been wiped away, or maybe the streets had changed their structure without me knowing while I was gone. It was only a hundred days of absence, but the outside world had changed dramatically, the air and time were running artificially on the streets. New constructions were going on, some of the familiar stores were closed for renovation, the owner of the Späti in my neighbourhood changed, people moved out of my apartment, friends had new hair-do, my neighbour got a new girlfriend, and my mother’s face had more wrinkles. Despite all the changes, everything in my room remained the same. Even after my long absence, every object was waiting for me: 

“Nachts in dem Haus am Meer/ Seufzen die Schatten/ Rebecca, wo du auch immer bist/ Dein Herz ist ruhlos/ Wie die wilde, freiе See/ Wenn der Abend bеginnt singt der Wind/ Rebecca, komm heim Rebecca/ Aus dem Nebelreich zurück nach Manderley / …Jeder Raum in diesem Haus atmet Melancholie/ Alle Dinge hier warten auf sie/… Hüte dich, fürchte dich/ Sie lässt sich nicht bestehlen/ Und rächt den Verrat/ Wer sie beleidigt wird es eines Tages büßen/ Dieses Haus ist ihr zu Haus Alles wartet auf sie/ Die sie liebten vergessen sie nie”

– Rebecca das Musical. Mrs. Danvers.