Former Iron Curtain oddity now a tourist hotspot

By Caroline Copley

MOEDLAREUTH, Germany - A tiny village of 50 residents straddling the former border dividing East and West Germany and nicknamed "Little Berlin" has preserved its own 100-meter section of the Iron Curtain -- for tourists.

For more than 38 years Moedlareuth belonged to two different countries and ideological systems. The 2.5 meter (eight foot) high Wall, similar to the famous Berlin Wall, remains a fixture in the village center even 20 years after Communism collapsed.

Nowadays the farming hamlet that lies some 300 km (186 miles) south of Berlin has become a prime destination for tourists searching for the remnants of the Communist era when East and West Germany were divided.

"Visitors can come here to get a real glimpse of what it was like to live here with the Wall running through the middle of the village," said Robert Lebegern, director of the Deutsch-Deutsches Museum in the heart of Moedlareuth.

For four decades the villagers of Moedlareuth were divided by the Iron Curtain. Half of the village was in the old German kingdom of Bavaria, the other part lay in the eastern state of Thuringia. It was one bizarre aspect of the country's division.

A neighborly cup of tea is now a mere matter of a few steps, but traces of the old division still persist: there are two different post codes, two dialing codes and two different school systems.

Those living in the former East greet each other with "Guten Tag" (good day) while their neighbors from the heavily Roman Catholic state of Bavaria tend to use the traditional greeting "Gruess Gott!," literally translated as "Greet God!."

In addition to the original segment of Wall -- which looks like a compact version of its big brother in Berlin -- the old border posts, watch towers and barbed-wire fencing still stand in their original positions.

The occasional barking dog -- an eerie echo of the past border control -- interrupts the droning of a tractor in the nearby fields. But gone are the armed guards who once surveyed residents. Instead snap-happy tourists arrive by the busload.

The inhabitants of sleepy Moedlareuth have grown used to the constant influx of visitors who shuffle to the museum to watch a 20-minute film documenting the peculiar split reality that became normality for nearly four decades.

NO WAVING

More than 60,000 visitors came to Moedlareuth in 2008 and the museum expects a similar number to make the trek to the isolated village this year as the 20th anniversary of the Wall falling approaches.

"It feels very frozen in time," said Huw Diprose, 20, a student of International Politics at Aberystwyth University in Wales, who was on a walk along the former Iron Curtain.

"I was barely a year old when the wall fell. I wanted to come here to get into the mindset of what it was like back then."

East Germany started to fence itself off from the West in 1952 -- a border that for centuries had been administrative then divided families, friends and neighbors. East Germany built the Berlin Wall in 1961 and at the same time in Moedlareuth.

Even neighborly greetings were outlawed.

"We could wave to our friends on the other side of the wall, but they weren't allowed to acknowledge us back," said Karin Mergner, a 62-year-old farmer living in western Moedlareuth.

When the Wall finally cracked open in 1989, eastern Moedlareuth was overwhelmed by the sudden media attention. Residents quickly became resentful of visitor stereotypes of backwardness and reports of bitter East-West division.

It took a while for the small town to reunite. Four weeks after the Berlin Wall was opened on November 9, 1989, a direct border opening was finally made in Moedlareuth on December 9 1989 but everyone was still required to present their passports.

It wasn't until six months later, on June 17, that people were allowed to cross the border in "Little Berlin" freely, after the mayor on the Bavarian side, Arnold Friedrich, knocked down larger chunks of the Wall with a digger.

"It was a great moment of celebration," said Lebegern, director of the museum. "But afterwards some East Germans complained that he had damaged East German property."

Tuesday, September 30th was a special day. It was the first day after the month's new moon and Muslims all over the world were celebrating the Eid al-Fitr festival, marking the end of the holy month of Ramadan. It is a joyful day for Afghans too. Families prepare delicious food and celebrate together with friends and relatives.

I was attached to a unit of German and Belgian soldiers driving to the town of Taloqan, about 75 kilometres east of Kunduz. There was tension in the air. Some roads were closed to military vehicles because suicide attacks or roadside bombs were expected during the holiday period. Just a week before, a suicide bomber driving a car had got close to a German army convoy, causing damage to armoured vehicles. German military personnel travelling inside had a lucky escape.

Our convoy was forced to use another route with very bad roads - no better than dust tracks - which were only accessible with off-road vehicles. We reached Taloqan after a rough, two-hour long journey and I noticed immediately that something was different from my last visit to Taloqan a few days before. The people were dressed more fashionably and children ran around the streets in brightly coloured clothes, much smarter than their usual dusty attire.

We passed the busy bazaar crowded with people, where children were playing on wooden merry-go-rounds. After parking the vehicles at the small army compound, we went on a foot patrol around the bazaar. The soldiers distributed greeting cards for the Eid al-Fitr festival to locals and were quickly surrounded by children. 

As I took pictures, I was aware of the tension in the soldiers' faces. The fear of being attacked was ever-present. German and Belgian soldiers don't wear their helmets during foot patrols as it makes them appear less aggressive, but it also makes them more vulnerable. They looked intently around, vigilent, monitoring the situation at all times.

There was collective sigh of relief when the soldiers reached the main gate of the compound in Taloqan after the foot patrol. They were back, safe and sound, without incident. Laughing children and the mostly friendly faces of the people they'd encountered in the bazaar were the images that would remain in their memories.

We left Taloqan and headed back to the base in Kunduz. Another two hours on the road. I started editing and sending my pictures as soon as we reached Kunduz. In order to get the strongest satellite signal, I perched my kit on the bonnet of an armoured vehicle outside the main building.

Suddenly I heard a bang. I thought it could have been the sound of a mortar or a rocket, but it could also have been the sound of a firework set off for the Eid al-Fitr festivities. There was silence, so I continued to file my pictures. Then a couple of minutes later there was a second bang and now I was sure this was a rocket attack on the base.

I grabbed my kit and ran to the nearest shelter in the building. We were under fire. The joint operation centre gave the alarm and a coded loud speaker announcement confirmed this was a rocket attack. Seconds later there was a third bang and shortly afterward the sounds of a faraway explosion. Then silence again. In the shelter, the soldiers looked at each other, waiting for the next rocket, but nothing happened.

We waited for hours in our shelter. Fortunately, the base had not sustained any damage. This had been the first rocket attack in two weeks. "That's normal, daily business in Afghanistan", said one of the soldiers to me.

U.S. actress Goldie Hawn poses on the red carpet as she arrives at the screening of the film 'Elegy' at the 58th Berlinale International Film Festival in Berlin February 10, 2008.  Photo by Fabrizio Bensch

Each year film stars from all over the World bring their gloss and glamour to the red carpets of the worlds' most important film festivals such as Berlin, Cannes and Venice. With them come hundreds of photographers, writers and TV crews all on the hunt for stars. The Berlinale film festival in February opens the annual season in the winter cold of the German capital. Paparazzi stalk stars outside restaurants and hotels all looking for exclusive pictures. We concentrate more on the daily photo calls, press conferences and the red carpet premieres at the festival cinema. I have covered the festival nearly every year since 1991 and things have changed a lot in that time. Where there used to be only a couple of dozen of us at press conferences and premieres but today in the digital age there are at least 100 accredited photographers producing tens of thousands of images every day from the Berlinale.

Guests arrive at the screening of the opening film 'Shine A Light' running in competition at the 58th Berlinale International Film Festival in Berlin February 7, 2008.
Photo by Fabrizio Bensch

IN addition to me our team of photographers included Tobias Schwarz, Johannes Eisele, Christian Charisius, Hannibal Hanschke all working long days running from one event to the next in Potsdamer Square where the Berlinale cinema is located. As well as the usual remote filing our editorial team of Amanda Andersen, Michael Leckel, Kirill Iordansky and Wolfgang Ratty used our remote editing system, which allowed them to edit events live from the 'comfort' of the Berlin office. These days everything is always 'on deadline'. When there are stars like the Rolling Stones, Madonna and Penelope Cruz at an event everyone wants the pictures now!.

 
 
U.S. director Martin Scorsese (C) poses with Rolling Stones members Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, Ron Wood and Mick Jagger on the red carpet as they arrive for the screening of the opening film 'Shine A Light' at the 58th Berlinale International Film Festival in Berlin February 7, 2008. Photo by Johannes Eisele
 

Madonna poses during a photocall to present her film 'Filth And Wisdom' running at the 58th Berlinale International Film Festival in Berlin February 13, 2008.
Photo by Hannibal Hanschke

A photocall often takes just minutes. As soon as a star like Madonna emerged in front of the blue backcloth their would be a deafening noise from the assembled media - "Look left! Look straight ahead! Over here!".

DDP Photographer Michael Kappeler sets up his remote
camera before the photocall with pop star Madonna
 

This view is from my remote camera fired synchronously with my other cameras.

A festival is as much about those moments as anything else, it is just like a film... everything is an illusion.

Gold and Silver Bear awards are lined up for the fortcoming Berlinale film festival at the Noiak bronze foundry in Berlin February 5, 2008. Phot by Fabrizio Bensch

Here are some more pictures from the Berlinale - 

http://pictures.reuters.com/c/C.aspx?VP=Mod_EmailPackage.EmailReceiver_VPage&RP=Flash&PID=2C04EB9ORTA4&M=PPA&SST=1&SH=F
 

How we photograph scenes of death and injury is a tough call. We have to make decisions about how close we can get to the victims. If we are not working then perhaps we are just in the way and may even be making matters worse. At what stage do we stop shooting pictures to help somebody who is hurt? What if it is a colleague?

It is a balancing act and anyone who has ever covered a funeral will recognise that  tangible point beyond which the presence of cameras becomes intrusive and hurtful for the bereaved.

Is it different if our exposure to death is not unexpected? What happens when it is anticipated, even meticulously planned?

I have an idea to try and document the process involved in obtaining human donor organs for transplant. I approach staff at one of Berlin's biggest hospitals, the accident hospital Berlin-Marzahn and then wait several weeks for the call to come. It comes on a Friday afternoon. A surgeon rings to say that a female patient of around 50 years has suffered brain trauma and is clinically dead. Her family have agreed to donate her organs for transplant and he has just called-in the specialist "explantation" team who are enroute to the hospital to begin the exhaustive checks to decide which organs would be applicable as donor organs.

Four hours later at 9pm I call the anaesthetist to try and find out when the operation will  begin, he doesn't know but says the decision will be made in the next six to twelve hours and that he'll ring me when he does.

At 1.30 as I go to bed my mobile phone rings. The surgeons of the operating team are ready and the operation is fixed for 4 am.

A nurse from the intensive care unit meets me at the hospital. The anaesthetist  is continually on the phone, coordinating flights and transport vehicles for the organs. The liver, both kidneys and the spleen are available as donor organs via the Eurotransplant International Foundation which is responsible for the mediation and allocation of organ donation procedures in Austria, Belgium, Croatia, Germany, Luxemburg, the Netherlands and Slovenia.

At 3.30 I am standing in the intensive care unit which is completely silent apart from the occasional noise from monitoring equipment. The motionless donor is brought to the unit in an elevator. I change into sterile blue scrubs, mask and cap and go into the theatre. Instruments are being laid out on special tables, everything made ready. Then the intensive care nurses and I sit and drink coffee while we wait for the surgeons.

The surgeons, on call 24 hours a day, come from all over the city. They change their clothes and scrub-up. Everyone is very calm, concentrated, nobody speaks much. The donor is brought in on a trolley and the operation begins.

She has been kept "alive" for days by artificial respiration. The surgeon isolates the abdominal wall and I take pictures. I have to keep a distance while taking pictures during the operation because of the risk of infection.

With a remote controlled camera I can photograph directly from above over the operation field. The only sounds are the surgeons giving each other instruction and the life-support machines with their flashing lights and the beeping  heartbeat monitor.

The liver, kidneys and spleen are ready for removal. Then there is a moment of silence. It is 5.42 am as the surgeons looks over to the anaesthetist, "we can switch off". The rhythmic beeping  stops, there are no vital signs, the female donor is dead. It is not until hours later that I realise I had unconsciously registered that moment. 

The team carries on working intently. Blood flow into the organs is interrupted to flood the organs with a special liquid. 

Then first the liver is detached followed by the two kidneys and the spleen. The operation site is continuously cooled with iced water and the organs are transferred into cooling bowls. Surgeons clean off the fat before packing the  organs into plastic bags surrounded by a chilling liquid which are then placed into cool boxes.

More than four hours after the procedure began the anaesthetist carries the cool boxes to to a waiting ambulance which rushes the organs to the airport.

The surgical team are exhausted but satisfied that through their efforts a dead woman and her family may have, by the gift of her organs, given others a second chance.

The conflict in Iraq is a familiar everyday story in our mass media world. Here a suicide bombing with dozens of dead , there a car bomb that kills and maims dozens. The pictures of life in a war zone have become familiar and similar scenes are shown again and again. For viewers a world away from the conflict these images are nevertheless unreal, far from their everyday experiences - but this is daily life in Iraq, for every Iraqi.

During my last stay in Baghdad in March I was confronted with the reality of the inconceivable, cruelty of this war. Corpses, bound and tortured lying in the roads; the dismembered bodies of Iraqi soldiers; children, women and men trying to live their everyday lives constantly afraid of becoming victims of the next bomb attack.

US servicemen often ask me what I expected to find in Iraq? My answer is always, "I don't expect anything. I just witness what I see". And I can see everything I want to see.
After three weeks in the city I can see that a little progress has been made.

The embedded journalist program is the only way a western journalist can operate with a degree of safety. Even so you have to take care every step you walk for fear of triggering a roadside device or being ambushed.

You live with the military 24/7, sleep in the same tents and eat the same food. They talk freely, openly and often controversially about their circumstances. They are a friendly bunch, usually happy to meet a German photographer as many have been stationed in Germany and have good memories of their time there.

For a foreign journalist there is no other way to work in an environment that is all to often lethal for even seasoned locals. Of course my report is just a window on events there but hopefully adds to a balanced picture overall.

Even from an armoured Humvees, wearing heavy body armour and a kevelar helmet, the small "baby steps" are apparent. The "concerned citizen" program, where local groups cooperate with US troops and provide limited security in their neighbourhoods has seen life return to the streets - small shops are open again and butchers are back in business.

I spent some time with a Blackhawk helicopter MEDEVAC unit, called the “Witchdoctors”. These are the medics who rush to the scene of roadside explosions and the number of emergency calls has diminished markedly in the past few months.

Today, patrolling through Baghdad’s Haifa Street - one of the most embattled hotspots between insurgents and U.S. soldiers -  apart from the Iraqi army checkpoints, some sort of stable existence seemed to be returning and people were out and about doing their daily shopping, there even new street lights.

Of course this is still miles away from peace, but the small changes, the “baby steps”, I have witnessed give me some hope for the future in Baghdad and if not for this generation, then the next, their children.