Over the last decade Berlin has been changing more rapidly than most of its inhabitants can stomach. Because of its history, the brunt of gentrification that changes everything (from social fabric to architecture) has hit the German capital more than other cities around the world.

Before the Wall came down, Berlin used to be a mecca for bohemians, artists, left-wing idealists and military service dodgers, mostly from West Germany. The collapse of East Germany resulted in an abundance of neglected buildings available in East Berlin. Punks and artists flocked in and the city became Europe’s capital of squats. A maelstrom of unfettered subculture productivity ensued, bestowing the city with an aura of the urban cool that feeds into its reputation to the present day.

But the Berlin of the wild nineties is long gone. Most of the squatters have been evicted or their housing projects legalized. Some of those whom back then ran underground clubs are well-off nightlife entrepreneurs today. Ordinary people who shared their neighborhood with the artists have had to move away, because rents have gone up manifold. And the influx of bohemians from abroad has turned into a stampede of party tourists, turning the last subculture enclaves into playgrounds for reckless twenty-somethings.

The Tacheles art center mirrors the evolution of Berlin’s underground culture in many ways. It started as an art squat in a run-down eastern working class district and quickly became an international icon. But the fall of the Wall also meant that its neighborhood, the Mitte district, moved from the edge of East Berlin into the very center of the unified capital. Mitte became the focus of a real estate development boom and with it came the media types and those who could afford to live in Class A property. Amidst the fancy bars and boutiques that sprang up everywhere, the gritty, graffiti-adorned Tacheles building became a major tourist attraction.

<img src="http://blogs.reuters.com/photo/files/2010/07/loveparade9.jpg" alt="A rucksack is seen at the site where a stampede killed some 21 people during a festival in Duisburg July 24, 2010. REUTERS/Thomas Peter " title="A rucksack is seen at the site where a stampede killed some 21 people during a festival in Duisburg July 24, 2010. REUTERS/Thomas Peter " width="600" height="400" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-16769"

When I arrived at the scene there was no crowd, no screams, just this dark tunnel. A grimy concrete tube about the length of two soccer pitches and the width of a two-lane country road. It felt cramped and haunting even when it stood empty.

But it was not empty.

Broken bottles, ripped off rucksacks, torn-off shoes, a sleeping bag, medical gloves and thermo-blankets bore witness to the tragedy that had occurred here a couple of hours earlier. Young men in light-blue t-shirts of the security firm that was hired to look after the safety of the guests loitered at the rear of the tunnel, their faces gray from disbelief.

The throbbing base of the techno music that came down from the festival above reminded us why those, whose journey ended here, had come: to take part in what was to be the world’s biggest party. Every so often, when the base line heightened to a frenzy, elated yells of dancing revelers pierced the night. For them the party went on.

By this point the medics and emergency cars had left and taken with them hundreds of injured revelers. They had survived the stampede. Others did not. Their bodies lay behind meshed wire fences covered with blue tarpaulins to shield the scene from inquisitive eyes. More people died in hospital. By Wednesday the death toll stood at 21.