Hakim Khadour

People call me the “model of integration” sometimes. At 35, I suppose I understand why they say it, but the phrase always sits uncomfortably with me. My journey began in Syria, where I’d trained as a nurse. But when the war broke out, I left everything behind to come to Germany. I arrived here with no German, no job, and a qualification that didn’t count.

Starting from scratch felt like being erased, but I was determined. I enrolled in language school, studied hard, and kept at it until I could apply for the nursing equivalency exam. It was exhausting—mentally, physically, financially. But it worked. Now I’m a nurse in one of Berlin’s best clinics, working alongside doctors whose names are practically medical legend.

It wasn’t smooth at first. Even when my German improved, I’d notice people speaking to me as if I couldn’t understand. There were times I had to stand under the weight of loaded glances or half-hidden remarks. “Refugee” seemed to come before anything else in people’s minds. Over time, though, I’ve earned a place. My patients, especially the older ones, trust me. They talk to me as if we’ve known each other for years, sharing stories of their lives in Berlin before the Wall came down or about family feuds that started over something silly. And even if I can’t spend as much time listening as they’d like, I make sure they know they’re heard.

I have a German girlfriend now, and she’s taught me a lot about the culture here. I feel I belong more. But I’d like to see Germany shift a little too—not just toward me, but toward all Syrians, toward anyone new who arrives here ready to work. This rising right-wing sentiment worries me. It’s a question I keep in the back of my mind: *What happens if one day it’s them in power?*

For now, though, I choose to hope. I didn’t come this far to let fear be my guide.