by Philip Klumpen

Today I launched a drone in front of a flak tower.

With a rainbow flag.

Concrete.

Built for war.

Built for fear.

Built to control the sky.

And right there, a rainbow rises today.

In the book my great-aunt wrote about our family history, it says:

All four of her brothers returned from the war “healthy.”

But healthy is a big word.

They were traumatized.

Their father — my great-grandfather — a strict Christian, secretly listened to Radio Hilversum during the war.

In 1946, he founded the CDU in Vluyn.

Rebuilding. Order. Morality. Responsibility.

My grandfather died young from stomach cancer.

My father was in his early twenties.

Stress. Duty. Performance.

His father had wanted to study medicine.

Back then, you were only allowed to if you could later prove you would open a private practice.

My father became the first doctor in the family.

I was — let’s say — very clearly pushed in that direction.

Today, I thank him for that push.

Not every day, I must admit.

But I am not the sum of my genes.

Not the sum of my ancestors.

Not the sum of their trauma.

This drone was not a PR stunt.

It was a statement.

We can give new meaning to places made of concrete.

We all want no more war.

Not between nations.

Not between ideologies.

Not between identities.

Not inside families.

And that’s why this song is playing in the background:

What the World Needs Now Is Love — sung by Dionne Warwick.

Cheesy?

Maybe.

But sometimes the most radical thing is simple:

Love. Sweet love.

The flak tower still stands.

The concrete remains.

But what we choose to let rise above it —

that is up to us.

#FamilyHistory

#NoMoreWar

#Equity

#UnderDoc

#WhatTheWorldNeedsNow. 

Philip