Picture this: a young man starts off his evening in a typical Berlin apartment—lowly lit, wearing silk, and lascivious. The protagonist waits for his date but he does so with some commentary from a friend, an undisclosed caller. In response, the young man scoffs, “Why do I want a relationship?” pauses with a deep sigh and continues, “I am alone but not lonely.” This is Malik, an Afro-German queer man in his mid-twenties, who ends the phone call with a ritual, burning Palo Santo so as to soothe his mind and spirit. Several minutes later, a white German man enters the room, with a kiss, initially put off by the smell. What follows is a conversation about the tardiness of his arrival, and eventually, the white man exhibiting slightly boorish behavior—he barks at Malik.
Illustrated by Pamela Guest
In spite of this crude behavior, lust trumps pride—so they have sex. After coitus, the two men have a discussion that takes a turn for the worse. They discuss refugees in Germany, and this is the point the white German says that Germany does not have the capacity to take in more refugees. Malik, moves away from him, exasperated, and opposes his comment, stating that it is part of a Nazi way of thinking. The white man rebukes, “I work with refugees,” and then later responds that he experiences racism because he is East German. I gasped when I first saw this, not because I’ve never heard it, but I was reminded that even in the most intimate spaces, a white person can misconstrue racism for their own means. The scene is meant to be uncomfortable, mostly because the erotic at this moment reveals the emotional dissonance between the two and the different languages, they are using to talk about racial oppression.
Hundefreunde, a recent film produced and created by Sailesh Naidu, written and starring Lamin Leroy Gibba, and directed by Maissa Lihedheb. They show a microcosm of what it means to date as a queer person of color in Berlin—an ecosystem riddled with discomfort but also one where the intimate experience can also be tied to personal horror. The representation of queer love and dating is not new. In the United States, there is ongoing interest in the romantic lives of queer people of color--from Netflix’s Pose to HBO’s Euphoria, cultural produces are finding impeccable beauty in queer landscapes and stories. While these accounts offer insight, Hundefreund is different not only for representing queer stories of color but because it does so in the German context, produced by people of color living in Berlin.
Hundefreund dives deep into issues concerning love and race–while subtly (and at times loudly) opening up how dating and desire do not happen in a vacuum, but it is connected to race and systemic oppression are discussed more than ever, conversations about nuanced lived experiences and interpersonal connections are often decentered. In a way, the film is an entry point to thinking about who gets represented in film, but it does much more by honing in on a scene, a personal antidote, and the difficult situation that occurs when some people of color date white people in Berlin. Although the film is fictional, the script is based on Naidu’s real-life date, a moment of feeling trapped but temporarily being unable to walk away. When I asked Naidu about the film’s purpose, they responded, “The larger story is a mirror of the structural, larger structural issues that are going on in society today.” The structural issues are about the film production but also about dating as a person of color in Berlin. Regarding the structure, Lihedheb, founder of the film collective called BIPOC Film Society, wanted a space for people from marginalized communities to realize their dreams in film and to realize their cinematic dreams even in the context of being rejected in the film industry. The collective has grown significantly to the point of the British Film Institute (BFI) Flare Queer Film Festival in 2022. But the structural issue remains: What does it mean to date as a queer person of color and how do BIPOC people negotiate intimacy in Berlin?
Dating in Berlin, for most queer people can feel jovial and plentiful, with queer bars and clubs providing a space for the lighthearted, providing a safer environment for many queers—of all backgrounds—to hold hands, kiss each other - and even be themselves here. But even more so, queer spaces offer people a bit of reprieve when heteronormative spaces flower at same-sex intimacy or gender non-conforming people. But even in queer spaces, courtship and love are not neutral. Within the larger context of dating, really about what does it mean to exist as in a black and brown body within a context of white supremacy? I don't even think Justin Berlin and Germany, I think in, in, in these seats of white supremacy and Western supremacy when we date in these environments, how ultimately when
While dating is just one part of the spectrum of how people move through the world, and how racialized bodies are read. Desire, even in subtle ways, is tied to the history of colonialism and the racialization of Black and Indigenous people on German-speaking lands. Between 1876 and 1931, 42 so-called “Völkerschau” took place in the Leipzig Zoo, at which more than nearly one thousand Black people and people of color (BIPOC) were exhibited and exploited. But this is not just part of the past, but even in the present. More recently, in Augsburg, an "African Village" was set up in 2005 where Black people were supposed to convey "African culture" as "basket weavers". Nearly a century apart, the practice of displaying African and Indigenous people in zoos and museums—for white Europeans to stare at—is not only exploitative and humiliating, but it exoticizes non-white people, suggesting that they are less than human. These accounts of African descended people being exhibited in Germany are not just about the horrors of Germany’s colonial past, but they also shape romantic desirability today.
Racial stereotypes can influence how desire is constructed. As Professor Moya Bailey notes in her book Misogynoir Transformed, the racist and sexist treatment that Black women face can lead to unwarranted and violent claims about their humanity. Writing about Sarah Baartman, a Khoisan woman whose buttocks were circulated throughout European exhibitions throughout the late nineteenth century, Bailey remarks on how European scientists equated Baartman’s anatomical differences with sexual deviance. Like other Black feminists, Bailey notes how the stigmatization of Black women’s bodies in Western societies in contemporary context cannot be decoupled from who is deemed attractive in the twenty-first century.
In Hundefreund, Malik revealed his anger and frustration at the racism he experiences in Germany, but his remarks were like talking to a brick wall. In reality, part of the frustration with having discussions about racism in Germany—while on a date with an insensitive white person—is the recent wave of violence directed to people of color in Germany. The fear of being attacked, especially in light of the Hanau attack’s two-year anniversary, also shapes whether people of color feel safe in Germany. Speaking to ZEIT in October 2021, Awet Tesfaiesus is the first black woman to enter the Bundestag for the Greens and remarked about her desire to leave Germany after the Hanau attacks, especially after a barrage of harassment. But she realized, Germany is her home and ultimately, racism is an international problem that is best fought within the community you are from.
So it begs the question, what other forms of dating do people of color do to counteract these harsh realities of colonial and racialized desire. One thing that has been popularized is “queering relationships,” and sharpening platonic intimacy for articulating a broader spectrum of dating. And in some cases, it means digging deeper and finding spaces for queer people of color to love each other.
When I asked Naidu how their queer friends of color solidify relationships with each other, they responded, “I think in order for our love to persevere also means that we have to question our own relationship to why we value whiteness so much that that at one point has been, became a priority or that at one point we couldn't even see our beauty reflected in another person or even in ourselves.” But even beyond that, queerness can challenge the utility of romantic love, and the extent to that is tied to capitalism. John D’Emilio, a gender studies professor at the University of Illinois at Chicago, noted in his seminal essay “Capitalism and Gay Identity,” that on the one hand, capitalism has provided the material conditions for modern homosexual identity to evolve and coalescence into novel social formations, but on the other hand, but the economic system has also fueled modern homophobia and the scapegoating of homosexuals. Contemporary iterations of queerness are about being open to intimacy within everyone, and deepening our compassion and closeness with everyone—whether that be going on picnics together, cuddling, or swimming dates. That means deepening and broadening seemingly intimate activities to include platonic (non-romantic) friends, otherwise known as friends without sexual benefits.
Film critiques have noted that contemporary filmmakers—both mainstream and independent—have challenged the negative clichés about queer people in films. Hundefreunde is not just important for its representation of BIPOC in film, but it goes to show how dating and intimacy are changing, behind and in front of the camera. In a way, the film shows how people of color in Berlin can tell different stories about their romantic lives, the emptiness, the abundance, and everything in between. Of course, films will not liberate us, and within the context of capitalism, it is important to ask ourselves who is profiting and benefiting from these stories. But even more so, who are the directors—in film and in our lives—who shape our capacity to love and feel love. As Lihedheb noted, “Representation in the fictional world signifies one’s empirical existence in the real world – and the absence of authentic representation specifically is a subtle violence against the legitimacy of identity.” What she points to is that the physical act of not “being seen” or in the case of colonial residues—of being misrepresented—is a distortion and bleeds into the flawed ways roles that queer people of color are expected to play on a daily basis.
During this period of the pandemic, people are figuring out how they relate to each other, what love and intimacy are like, and which relationships provide growth. For many people, dating can provide infinite possibilities, and is free. What Hundefreund shows is that filmmaking is a powerful tool to tell stories, to speak in metaphor, but also to reveal the larger truths about what we're all going through as part of collective humanity. Whether we see versions of ourselves, queer loving, and or awkwardness, it can show us a lot about how we are all worthy of love.
You can read a German version of my insight on the Berliner Zeitung website.