Dreams and Visions E-Book

Kurt Bangert

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 352

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

"Dreams and Visions" is the autobiography of Dr. Kurt Bangert, theologian, poverty expert, public relations officer, and book author from Germany, who lived for extended years in Europe, America, Africa and Asia. The book recounts his numerous journeys to nearly 100 countries across five continents. Having already travelled around the world as a young man, his work as a development expert took him to countless cultures, from Malawi to Micronesia and from Mongolia to Papua New Guinea. He also shares his theological and ideological journey from a fundamentalist Christian to becoming a liberal theologian with an expertise on early Islam, on the social question and on the question of God.

Leseprobe

I dedicate this book to Aline with whom I shared a very substantial portion of my life

Content

Preface

Early Years

In the Country Side

Discovering Berlin

The American Dream

California

Back to Europe

Discovering Africa

Around the World

Back to the U.S.

Beautiful Tübingen

Aline

Christian Blind Mission (CBM)

Penang and East Asia

Mastering Manila

A Vision for the World

The Final Years

Preface

This book is a journey through memory—woven from the landscapes I’ve walked, the people I’ve met, and the quiet transformations that shaped me along the way. I never set out to collect stories for their own sake, but over the years, life offered more than I could hold in silence: fragments of joy, loss, tragedy, awe, and learning that quietly asked to be remembered.

Having traveled across five continents, lived among vastly different cultures, and shared moments with people from all walks of life, I’ve come to see that what unites us often lies beneath the surface. Through these pages, I hope not only to recount events, but to reflect on the deeper threads—of connection, wonder, resilience, and the unexpected grace that sometimes meets us in the most unlikely places.

This is not a complete record—nor could it be. Memory is a living thing, shaped as much by time as by geography. What you will find here is simply my own truth, told as faithfully as I can recall it, with gratitude for all that has been given, and all that has been endured.

If there is a purpose to these pages, it is not to instruct, but to share—something of the journey, and perhaps, something of the soul behind it.

Kurt Bangert

Early Years

As a young boy, I had been a rather quiet soul—at least, that was how I saw myself. An introvert. A boy of few words. I had never been one to gather many friends around me. Prior to going to school, there had been one short friendship with a boy from the neighborhood, but he was never a close companion. In time, even his name faded from my memory.

At elementary school, solitude became my shadow. Yet solitude was not always a burden. Often, it felt like home. It wrapped around me like a familiar cloak, shielding me from the unspoken.

My parents were loving in their way—caring, dutiful—but they had never been taught the language of emotions, let alone their intrinsic value. In their household, feelings were unwelcome guests, acknowledged only to be dismissed. If my mother, my older brother Bernd, or I myself ever dared to speak of sorrow or unease, our father’s response was swift and resolute: “You don’t have to feel that way.” And so, we learned not to. Emotions were neither discussed nor examined; they were something to be avoided, ignored, erased. It was a legacy of the post-war times.

The war had ended not long before, but its shadow lingered. Our parents had emerged from its horrors, not unscathed but hardened. Our mother had lived through relentless bombardments, explosions tearing through the air, some perilously close. She had survived, outwardly untouched— lovely still, but quiet, timid. Our father had fought on both the French and Russian fronts, enduring the brutality of winters that swallowed men whole. (Image: Paul Bangert as Soldier)

In one bitter season, a Russian sharpshooter had nearly claimed his life. The bullet tore through one cheek and exited the other, shattering most of his lower teeth. He remembered thinking, with eerie admiration, “That was a perfect shot.” He was carried on a skeletal stretcher to a hospital, slipping between life and death, but he survived. And in the German army, survival meant submission—to duty, to command, to the unflinching suppression of fear. Emotion had no place in war. Nor, it seemed, in the home our father built afterward.

My father often spoke of his war years, his stories orbiting, again and again, around his time in Russia. The brutal winters, the endless marches, the near brushes with death. Leave was a rare luxury, and when granted, it never seemed enough. More than once, he overstayed his permitted days, choosing stolen moments of respite over duty—only to find himself imprisoned upon return.

Yet for all his service, he harbored no admiration for the man who had sent him to war. He despised Hitler—his ruthless militarism, his deceit, his intoxicating populism. To him, the Führer was a destroyer, not a savior. But our mother had seen a different side. To her, Hitler had been the leader who lifted Germany from the depths of the Great Depression, who had given the nation back its pride. In our household, the past was not just history—it was a fault line, running quietly beneath our lives.

My mother was a quiet soul with whom I deeply resonated. She was caring, loving, and self-sacrificing—often putting others before herself. Though at times emotional, her heart was always in the right place. A woman of deep faith, she remained steadfast in her religious values and lived them with quiet conviction. (Image: Else Bangert)

Both parents had endured harrowing times and, when the war finally ended, their greatest relief was simply being alive. They had married in the midst of the chaos, in 1942. My brother Bernd was born in early 1944; I saw the light of day in July 1946—a child of the fragile peace that followed the storm. (Image next page: Kurt and Bernd)

The post-war years were marked by hardship, by hunger, by an ever-present uncertainty about what the future might hold. Yet, compared to the war, they felt almost merciful. At least now, survival did not depend on the whim of bombs or the cruelty of the front. And with Hitler gone, there was a sense—perhaps fragile, but real—that things could only improve from now on.

Photographs from those early years tell the story without words. In the grainy black-and-white images, our parents appear gaunt, their faces drawn, their bodies thinned by years of deprivation. And yet, beside them, the two boys stand sturdy and well-fed. It was no accident. Our parents had made a silent, unwavering decision: Their children would not know hunger, not as they had. And so, while the boys ate their fill, mother and father scraped by on what little remained, wearing their sacrifices as quietly as they wore their tattered post-war clothes. (Image: Mother, Kurt, Father, Bernd)

My brother and I were, for the most part, well-behaved. But there was one incident—so vivid, so unforgettable—that it seared itself into our memories like an old scar.

It happened on a visit to a grandaunt’s rural home, somewhere on the outskirts of Mönchengladbach. The visit itself faded into obscurity, but this moment remained: While our parents lingered in conversation with the elderly woman, we both, weary from being patient listeners, wandered outside, eager to leave.

Near the house, we discovered a gaping, square hole in the ground, brimming with foul-smelling manure—a cesspool of rot and filth. Being about five years old at the time, I stood at its edge, staring into the bubbling muck, wrinkling my nose at the stench, when I sensed movement behind me. Turning, I met my brother Bernd’s smirking face, approaching me in silence.

I stepped aside, granting Bernd a clearer view of the pit. My brother peered in, curiosity replacing amusement as he studied the wretched mire. And then, with deliberate slowness, I took a step forward.

And pushed.

It was the gentlest of nudges, just enough to tip the balance.

Bernd toppled forward, flailing, but managed—just barely—to throw out his arms at the last moment, gripping the edges of the pit. The rest of him, however, was not so lucky. From the neck down, he was submerged in the thick, reeking sludge, only his shocked, spluttering face visible above the filth.

Hearing the commotion, our parents rushed outside to find Bernd, wide-eyed and sputtering, half-submerged in the murky filth. The farewell was forgotten; the visit, unintentionally prolonged. Clothes had to be washed, the shivering boy scrubbed clean, and then came the wait—for fabric to dry, for tempers to cool.

While Bernd endured the aftermath of his muddy ordeal, I found myself led away by my father, through the garden and out of sight. Father stopped, turned to me, and asked a simple question:

”Do you deserve punishment?”

Without hesitation, I admitted that I did.

A “good beating” followed. Corporal punishment was not only common in those days but considered a parental duty, a necessity for raising decent men. Father would often invoke scripture, citing Proverbs 13:24: “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him.”

A cane rested permanently atop the kitchen cabinet, always within reach, its mere presence a silent warning. Whether it was ever used on me, I cannot say with absolute certainty. More often than not, the threat was enough—a single wave of the cane, a sharp look, and mischief was abandoned.

My brother, however, was less fortunate. Bernd received his share of punishments, while I, quick-witted and nimble at times, found ways to slip free. I seemed to have a gift—one my father secretly admired. With a well-timed remark, a clever turn of phrase, I could make father laugh, and his laughter, more often than not, was my escape.

Perhaps that was why, despite everything, I remained father’s favorite.

Our parents were devout members of the conservative Seventh-day Adventist Church, a faith that set them apart in ways both subtle and profound. Unlike most people around us, who observed Sunday as the Lord’s Day, Adventists worshipped on Saturday—the Old Testament Sabbath. This distinction was more than a matter of scheduling; it was a conviction rooted in the belief that the Bible was the inerrant Word of God, to be interpreted literally and obeyed to the letter.

For Bernd and myself, this faith came at a cost. In those days, German schools still held classes on Saturdays, but our parents forbade us from attending. Instead, while our classmates sat at their desks, we were in church, listening to sermons, singing hymns, and marking ourselves as different. Our absence made us outsiders, setting us apart in a way that neither of us welcomed.

The practical consequences were just as burdensome. Each Monday, we returned to school having missed an entire day of lessons, forced to rely on classmates to relay assignments—an arrangement that was unreliable at best. Sometimes, the messages were incomplete; other times, they never arrived at all. And so, there were Mondays when we faced our teachers empty-handed, our unfinished homework a silent testimony to the faith that governed our lives.

Although a Catholic school stood just around the corner, our parents chose instead to send their boys to a Lutheran elementary school farther away. Each morning, we walked the mile-long journey, passing through streets still scarred by war. The bombings of September 1944 had left much of the area in ruins—houses reduced to rubble, blackened skeletons of buildings standing as silent witnesses to past devastation. But to me, this wasteland of shattered stone and ash was unremarkable. It was simply the world as I had always known it.

After four years of elementary school, I advanced to middle school—a small but significant step. There was no tradition of higher education in our family; neither of our parents had attended Gymnasium, the rigorous academic high school that led to university. They came from working-class backgrounds, where ambition stretched only as far as securing steady employment.

At middle school, I found a friend in Erwin, the son of a stationery shop owner. But academically, I was unremarkable. My grades hovered between B’s, C’s, and the occasional D—mediocre by any standard. One day, my class teacher summoned my father for a private conversation. The message was blunt: ”With his intelligence, Kurt should be earning only top marks,” my teacher told Dad. But intelligence alone was not enough.

No amount of admonition could change what lay at the heart of the matter: I lacked drive. I was neither ambitious nor diligent. Preparing for lessons was a task I postponed until it was too late, if I bothered at all. My mind was elsewhere, lost in daydreams, wandering through thoughts that had little to do with my schoolwork. I was no go-getter, not a hard worker—just a boy more inclined to muse than to strive.

Our family lived in a modest three-room flat on the fourth floor of a four-storey corner house at Bozener Straße 34 in Mönchengladbach. Calling it an “apartment” would have been a stretch—there was no proper entrance door separating our living space from the staircase, no designated kitchen, and no bathroom. A small sink was by the landing, and the only toilet—a cramped, windowless cubicle—was two floors down.

At the time, Mönchengladbach was little more than a name on a map, unknown beyond its own region. Only years later would it rise to fame, carried into European recognition by its legendary soccer team, winners of two continental trophies.

One day, without much preamble, our father made an announcement: we were moving. Not just to another street or another neighborhood, but to an entirely different region—and to a better apartment, he assured us.

For me, it was a farewell to the only world I had known. I would leave behind my school friends, our church community, the familiar streets of my childhood. And yet, the prospect of the unknown held its own thrill. A new environment, a new home—change was unsettling, but it also shimmered with possibility.

In the Country Side

Our family’s new home lay within the sprawling grounds of Gut Arienheller, a baron’s estate near Rheinbrohl, on the edge of the Westerwald—a breathtaking expanse of rolling hills, dense forests, and sun-dappled meadows, where orchards spilled over with fruit and the Rhine flowed not far beyond. It was a world apart from the gray streets of Mönchengladbach, a place where nature stretched in every direction, untamed and full of quiet beauty.

The move had come about swiftly. A friend and colleague of my father had mentioned an empty flat on the estate, and the decision was made almost at once. The baron and his family occupied the ground floor, while the friend’s family and my family took up residence on the upper level, now sharing not just a home, but a daily life.

Both families had two sons, though I and my brother were slightly older than our new neighbors. The boys quickly became playmates, their lives intertwined through shared adventures and the simple joys of being young. Beyond the home, our bond extended to the church pews, as both families worshipped together, bound by faith and friendship in equal measure.

The baron presided over a vast estate, a world unto itself, where fields had to be sown and harvested, forests tended, and livestock cared for. The farm bustled with life—cows, pigs, chickens, and geese roamed the grounds, while dogs and cats kept watch over the land. Fresh milk was available straight from the cow’s udder, still warm and frothy, a simple luxury that city life had never offered.

My mother was given a small garden of her own, a patch of earth where she cultivated peas, tomatoes, and other vegetables. Occasionally, I was called upon to help—pulling weeds, watering the plants—but my enthusiasm for such tasks was fleeting. My limbs grew sluggish, my hands heavy with the monotony of farmwork. It was not a labor I enjoyed.

Yet, in spite of that, country life was a revelation. The air was fresher, the days quieter, and the nearness of nature brought a sense of wonder. Here, beneath open skies and among the whispering trees, I felt something I had never quite grasped before—a closeness to God.

I had been raised in faith, taught to sit still in church, to listen, to obey, to believe in the Bible. Even before going to school, I had vowed to myself that as soon as I learned to read and write, I would read the entire Bible from cover to cover. Religion to me was what one would believe about the Bible, about God, about God’s creation, about how to be saved. But now, divinity seemed not only confined to sermons and scripture but present in the rustling of leaves, in the vastness of the fields, in the golden light of dusk.

To attend middle school, I now faced a daily journey that tested both my endurance and my sense of belonging. Each morning, I had to walk several miles to Bad Hönningen, where I boarded a train for an half-hour ride to Neuwied, and then walked another ten minutes to reach my new school. There, as a newcomer, I again felt like an outsider. My grades remained unremarkable, yet I persevered and managed to complete middle school.

Not long after, I began an apprenticeship as a typesetter at a large printing house in Neuwied. For the next three years, my routine remained unchanged—commuting back and forth between Rheinbrohl and the city, caught between two worlds.

Outside of work, I would spent time in the Baron’s fields but also playing soccer with friends; but my greatest joy came from playing table tennis with Andreas, the older son of our neighbors. The two of us could spend hours at the table, exchanging rapid volleys, pausing only to catch our breath and talk a bit.

Life in the countryside had been unlike anything we had known before— vast, open, full of new experiences. It was nothing like the war-scarred streets of Mönchengladbach. The rolling hills, the camaraderie, the endless games of table tennis—all of it had given me a new sense of belonging. But as with all chapters in life, this one, too, came to an end.

At first, it was Andreas’s family who left, moving to Hamburg. Not long after, our own family relocated to Berlin, and just like that, the friendship that had seemed so central to daily life faded into the past. For decades, our paths never crossed.

Andreas, never one for religious devotion, pursued a career in acting before eventually finding his niche in product placement. I, meanwhile, took a different route, one that would later lead me to work as a PR Director and press spokesman for a relief agency.

More than forty years passed before both of our names resurfaced in each other’s lives—I came across an article about Andreas in the media, while Andreas stumbled upon my name in a newspaper. The past, long buried, suddenly felt within reach. Curious and nostalgic, I picked up the phone and called my old friend. I offered to visit him, and Andreas welcomed the idea. When we finally met again after four decades, the first words Andreas spoke were unexpected:

“You were the one who taught me how to think”, he said to me, as if this was a matter of course.

The admission took me by surprise—and filled me with quiet joy. It was a reminder that the impact we have on others, whether great or small, is often invisible to us. Influence, like memory, lingers in ways we may never fully grasp. I was reminded of a quote from Albert Schweitzer:

“Not one of us knows what effect his life produces, and what he gives to others; that is hidden from us and must remain so, though we are sometimes allowed to see some little fraction of it, so that we may not lose courage. The way in which power works is a mystery.”

Discovering Berlin

But let me return to the time when we moved from Rheinbrohl to Berlin. Sometime in 1965, my father received a phone call in which he was offered a position with the Adventist Church in Berlin. Without hesitation, he accepted, and soon the family was preparing for yet another move—this time, to a city unlike I had ever known.

Berlin was no ordinary place. Though politically part of West Germany, it was geographically stranded within the borders of East Germany, an island of the West encircled by the East. The scars of war still marked the city, both physically and politically.

To understand Berlin’s unique situation, one has to look back to the final days of World War II. When Nazi Germany surrendered in May 1945, the victorious Allies—the United States, the United Kingdom, France, and the Soviet Union—divided Germany into four occupation zones. Berlin, as the former capital, was likewise split into four sectors, each controlled by one of the occupying powers.

However, as tensions between East and West escalated, the division of Germany became permanent. In May 1949, the three Western zones united under a new constitution to form the Federal Republic of Germany—better known as West Germany. In response, the Soviet-controlled zone was transformed into the German Democratic Republic, or East Germany.

Berlin also became a divided city. The three Western sectors—controlled by the U.S., the U.K. and France—became known collectively as West Berlin, while the Soviet-controlled sector was absorbed into East Germany and declared its capital. Thus, West Berlin became an isolated enclave of democracy, completely surrounded by East Germany, a city cut off from its own hinterland by a ring of checkpoints, barbed wire, and watchtowers. For me, the move to Berlin was not just a geographical shift—it was an immersion into the heart of the Cold War, a city where history itself seemed to hang in the air.

East Germany was more than just a neighboring state—it was a tightly controlled Communist regime, firmly under Soviet influence. Along with Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, and Bulgaria, it was one of the Soviet Union’s many satellite states, each ruled by a government that answered not to its own people, but to Moscow’s will.

By 1952, the German Democratic Republic (GDR or “East Germany”) had reinforced its borders with the West, erecting a fortified demarcation line to prevent East Germans from fleeing to freedom. Legal crossings were granted only under strict conditions, effectively sealing off an entire population from the Western world.

Tensions erupted on June 17, 1953, when years of economic hardship and political repression triggered a mass uprising across East Germany. Thousands of workers took to the streets, demanding better wages, free elections, and an end to Soviet rule. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the Communist government might fall. But the rebellion was swiftly and brutally crushed—Soviet tanks rolled into the streets, opening fire on protesters, restoring order through sheer force.

In the West, the memory of that failed uprising lived on. West Germany declared June 17 a national holiday, a tribute to the courage of those who had stood against tyranny. In East Germany, however, the mere mention of that day was met with silence—or worse, repression. The scars of that moment remained an unspoken reminder of the iron grip that held the country in place.

Berlin had become the last escape hatch for East Germans yearning for freedom. While the rest of the border between East and West Germany had been heavily fortified, the internal division of Berlin remained relatively open—at least for a time. Thousands seized the opportunity to cross from East to West, with numbers surging alarmingly in 1961. That year alone, more than 8,000 people fled, among them doctors, engineers, intellectuals, and skilled workers—those whose absence threatened the stability of the East German economy.

Faced with this escalating brain drain, the East German government, with full Soviet backing, took drastic action. On August 13, 1961, in the dead of night, construction began on what would become one of the most infamous symbols of the Cold War: the Berlin Wall. Soldiers and workers rolled out barbed wire barriers, later replaced with towering concrete slabs. Streets were torn apart, train lines severed, families and friends abruptly and permanently divided. What had once been an invisible line became an impenetrable fortress, slicing the city in two. The Berlin Wall loomed as a stark symbol of a divided city, cutting through streets, neighborhoods, even families.

From that moment on, escape became virtually impossible. Only a privileged few—high-ranking officials, trusted party members, and select government-approved travelers—were granted exit permits. For the ordinary East German citizen, the world beyond the wall was now forever out of reach.

But despite the danger, some still dared to defy the regime. Ingenious escape attempts ranged from tunneling beneath the wall to soaring over it in homemade hot-air balloons. Others braved the perilous crossing disguised as diplomats, hidden in car trunks, or even swimming across treacherous waterways. But for every successful escape, many others failed. The death strip, a barren, heavily guarded zone flanking the wall, became a graveyard for those caught in the act. More than 300 people were shot or otherwise killed in their desperate bid for freedom.

The Berlin Wall stood as a chilling testament to the stark divide between oppression and liberty, a concrete embodiment of the Cold War’s unforgiving realities. For nearly three decades, it would remain an unyielding barrier.

For Westerners traveling from West Germany to West Berlin, the journey was anything but straightforward. Since West Berlin was an isolated enclave surrounded by East Germany, reaching it required crossing through Communist-controlled territory—either by train or by car. This transit travel was strictly regulated, and every trip was a test of patience.

At the East German border, travelers were met by stone-faced border guards, notorious for their meticulous inspections and deliberate intimidation tactics. Every passport was scrutinized, every face compared to its photograph with an air of suspicion. Vehicles were thoroughly searched—trunks popped open, suitcases unzipped, and even car seats sometimes probed for hidden compartments. The process could take minutes or drag on for hours, depending on the whims of the guards. At times, they seemed to delay travelers just for the sake of harassment. Once cleared, travelers had to remain on the designated transit Autobahn, forbidden from exiting or making detours into East German territory. Straying from the route was not just discouraged—it was illegal and could lead to arrest.

Unlike transit travel, officially visiting East Germany required a visa, which was not granted lightly. Only those with legitimate reasons—such as visiting relatives—stood a chance of obtaining one. But for me and my family, there was no compelling reason to visit the East. We had no family there, and the allure of Communist East Germany was nonexistent. To us, it was a bleak, joyless place, devoid of the vibrancy and freedom we cherished in the West.

By contrast, West Berlin was a dazzling metropolis, brimming with life, energy, and culture. It stood in stark contrast to the drab austerity of East Berlin, which seemed frozen in time. The heart of the city was the Kurfürstendamm—a grand boulevard lined with elegant department stores, chic boutiques, bustling cafés, and neon-lit cinemas. Here, I discovered a world of entertainment and sophistication unlike anything I had known before.

Having spent the last five years in the quiet countryside, I was captivated by the sheer excitement of city life. The lights, the music, the people—it all felt like a gateway to something bigger. The legendary “Berliner Luft” (“Berlin air”) was more than just a phrase; it embodied the city’s spirit of freedom, creativity, and boundless possibility. The famous 1904 song by Paul Lincke, titled “Berliner Luft,” had long been an anthem of the city’s exuberance, still played today as a favorite encore by the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra at the annual open-air summer concert, when audiences would enthusiastically clap along, celebrating the unmistakable rhythm of Berlin itself.

For me, Berlin was more than a new home—it was the threshold of a new life, a world away from the rural simplicity of Rheinbrohl. Here, I could breathe in the intoxicating promise of the modern world, a place where anything seemed possible.

Having completed my apprenticeship as a compositor in Neuwied, it was now time for me to find a job. As a typesetter in an era before computers, the job was grueling. Much of the day was spent standing at a letter case, meticulously placing each lead letter into a composing stick. In Berlin, I worked at several different printing houses, but none of them felt quite right. The 8-hour workdays felt monotonous, and the constant standing soon wore me down.

Those years were also a time of great technological change in the printing industry, and I could feel the winds of transformation blowing. Few professions would evolve so radically in the coming years as typesetting. Soon, photocomposition emerged, and while it was initially seen as a progressive shift, I never found myself drawn to it. The technology seemed cumbersome to me, lacking the tactile artistry of manual typesetting.

However, as the decades wore on, and computers began to reshape the world, I grew more intrigued by the rise of desktop publishing. This new wave of technology not only allowed for the digital creation and layout of printed material but also empowered individuals to write and design books themselves. Later in life, I would find the idea of creating and publishing my own works exciting. But back in the late Sixties, in Berlin, I knew this was not the work I would spend the rest of my life doing. The job was a stepping stone, and the pull of something greater, something more aligned with my own aspirations, was beginning to take shape. I began going to school again – in the evening, trying to finish secondary education and hoping to study at a university. But I did not quite finish the school – due to an unexpected turn of events that would change the direction of my life once again.

The American Dream

Already at an early age, I had been captivated by a film about the United States, and ever since, I dreamed of visiting that land of endless possibilities. My fascination only deepened when, from time to time, Americans would visit our church. As a conservative Christian, I found myself drawn to the influence these visitors had, and I began to feel a connection to a world far beyond my own.

My curiosity for the U.S. was further piqued when I attended an evangelistic campaign by the American preacher Billy Graham, whose powerful presence and message left a lasting impression on me. In the Sixties, the U.S. was still a beacon of hope and opportunity for many Germans. After all, it was the U.S. that had liberated Germany from the brutal grip of a dictator who had plunged us into another devastating World War. That war not only ended in a crushing defeat but also split Germany into two hostile states, a division that would last for four long decades. For many of us Germans, the United States of America were seen not just as liberators but as symbols of freedom, progress, and new beginnings.

Like so many others, I viewed the U.S. as a land where anything seemed possible, a place where dreams could be realized. The notion of visiting this country, experiencing its vast landscapes, its modern culture, and its boundless opportunities, became an aspiration that would shape my future ambitions.

One day, while attending a religious conference in Vienna, I met a charming young lady from Tennessee. The connection between us was immediate, and we began a lively correspondence that soon blossomed into something more. This exchange of letters marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

Fueled by my dream of experiencing the land of endless possibilities, I made the bold decision to leave Germany behind. In 1968, I set off on my first great adventure, traveling with Icelandic Airlines. My journey took me via Reykjavik to New York, then on to Chicago, before finally arriving in Nashville, Tennessee.

It was a transformative journey. The sights, the sounds, the vastness of America—it was a world I had only read about or seen in films, but now I was living it. Little did I know, this trip would not only fulfill a dream but would alter the course of my life forever. The experiences, challenges, and opportunities awaiting me in the United States would shape my future in ways I could never have imagined.

In Nashville, I had the opportunity to meet Gerhard Hasel, a German Adventist who had immigrated to the U.S. to pursue theological studies. Gerhard was nearing the completion of his PhD at Vanderbilt University and would go on to become one of the most well-known Adventist theologians, eventually teaching at the Adventist Theological Seminary of Andrews University in Berrien Springs, Michigan.

During one of our conversations, Gerhard offered me an intriguing perspective on his thinking. Reflecting on his time at the university, he mused:

“My non-Adventist teachers at Vanderbilt all have their predisposed assumptions and practice historical criticism without questioning its validity,” he said. “So I have decided, with equal certainty, to abide by my evangelical, Biblical presuppositions, and not question them.”

This approach made it possible for Gerhard to reconcile his Adventist beliefs with academic theology, allowing him to maintain a conservative, literal interpretation of the Bible while avoiding internal conflict with modern theological ideas. He encouraged me to adopt a similar approach.

But being deeply committed to seeking truth above all else, I was skeptical. I thought to myself, “I will certainly not follow Gerhard’s advice and accept any presuppositions without thoroughly investigating them. I am here to ask questions. I am here to search for truth.” I resolved to study theology in order to learn the truth. Truth to me became more important than orthodoxy.

Gerhard had found comfort in certainty, while I was determined to embrace the journey of questioning and exploration, even if it meant challenging long-held assumptions and cherished beliefs. This willingness to question and search for deeper understanding would guide me throughout my life and studies.

On a completely different note, while in Nashville, I became acquainted with country music, a genre that was initially not to my liking. The type of country music I saw and heard on local TV struck me as a cultural peculiarity, something foreign to my tastes. Though I took a photo of the iconic Grand Ole Opry in Nashville (Image: Grand Ole Opry), I never actually attended a concert at that legendary venue which many country music enthusiasts would consider worth a pilgrimage.

However, as time went on and I was exposed to more country music, my perspective began to change. I found myself listening to it more frequently and, eventually, started to appreciate it. What had once seemed strange, gradu ally became something I enjoyed; and I found myself drawn to the timeless sounds of artists like Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Linda Ronstadt, and Kenny Rogers. Even now, as I reflect on my time in Nashville, I continue to enjoy the rich storytelling and heartfelt melodies of country music, a genre I never expected to grow so fond of.

As for the relationship with the American girl I had come to visit, this unfortunately ended in a disappointment, mostly due to my own inexperience, and that led me to concentrate on my new aspiration: I wanted to study theology at an Adventist university. However, in order to fulfill that ambition, I had to meet two key requirements: improve my English, which was still quite deficient, and pass the General Education Development (GED) test, an indispensable prerequisite for college admission.

To improve my English, I enrolled in an English Composition course at Peabody College in Nashville, now part of Vanderbilt University. I worked diligently to improve my language skills, and my efforts paid off. I also successfully passed the GED test with an impressive percentile rank of 83.6, qualifying me for admission to what is now known as Southern Adventist University (Image: Southern Missionary College), located in the small town of Collegedale near Chattanooga, Tennessee.

It was during my time at this College that I met Theodoros, or Ted as he was commonly known, a Greek student who had come to America for heart surgery and decided to stay for good. Ted was intelligent, good-looking, and highly extroverted, always on the lookout for attractive girls. We became friends, and I learned a lot from Ted, particularly in the realm of social interactions and self-confidence ( Image: Ted Mamoulelis).

To help finance our college education, Ted and I worked at night on the assembly line at the nearby McKee Baking Company from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. Ted, whose family lived in California, was in Tennessee only temporarily, for just one semester. After completing my first semester in Collegedale, I moved to Knoxville for the summer break to earn money for the following semester’s tuition. During my time in Knoxville, two memorable incidents stood out.

One weekend, I joined a youth group on a trip to the Smokey Mountains National Park (Image: Smokey Mountains), located east of the Tennessee River. The Smokey Mountains, part of the Appalachian range, got their name from the natural fog that often hovers over the park. I remember that during the trip, the group leader brought along a large watermelon, which he placed in a river to cool off for a couple of days. After retrieving it, we all enjoyed a refreshing treat together.

During our trip, the group had an unexpected encounter with a black mother bear and her two cubs. As the cubs climbed a tree, the mother bear stood at the bottom, guarding her young. Eager for a better view, I got too close to the tree, causing the mother bear to take a few threatening steps forward. Startled, I quickly retreated, realizing how dangerous the situation could have become.

In Knoxville, I also witnessed a historic moment on television: the Apollo 11 moon landing on July 20, 1969. The whole world watched as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin made their first steps on the lunar surface, accompanied by Armstrong’s famous words, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

While many evangelical Americans at the time believed that such an event was beyond God’s permission, seeing it as an intrusion into the heavenly realm, I did not share that skepticism. Instead, I was filled with curiosity, hoping to see if the landing would be successful and whether the astronauts would return safely to Earth.

One day, my friend Ted visited me in Knoxville and convinced me not to return to Chattanooga. Instead, he suggested that I join him in California for further studies. After some consideration, I agreed. Ted called his brother Manuel in California, asking him to bring the family car to Tennessee so the three of us could drive across the United States together.

The three of us first traveled back to Chattanooga to gather my and Ted’s belongings before embarking on an extended road trip. Our first stop was Huntsville, Alabama, where we visited the Space Center and learned more about the Apollo missions. We saw a replica of the famous Eagle, the Apollo Lunar Module, which Armstrong and Aldrin had used to land on the moon (Images: At the Huntsville Space Center).

From Huntsville, we continued our journey to Atlanta, Georgia, before heading south to Miami Beach. I vividly remember the sight of the tall Florida royal palms lining the coast, swaying gently in the breeze. In Miami, we spent a few days soaking up the sun on the beautiful white sand beaches and also visited the Everglades National Park (Image: Everglades National Park).

As we made our way across the country, the three of us took turns driving, enabling us to travel both day and night. One of us would drive for four hours while another sat in the passenger seat, and the third would sleep in the back of the old Ford to rest up. We occasionally stopped to buy food along the way and would have breakfast on the trunk of the car, enjoying the simplicity and freedom of our trip (Image: Eating on the car trunk). The long journey across the United States became an unforgettable adventure, one that I would cherish for years to come.

From Miami, we continued our journey north along the Atlantic Ocean, eager to explore more of what the East Coast had to offer. Our first major stop was at the Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral, where we marveled at the iconic spaceport that had launched the Apollo rockets. Standing in the presence of so much history and space exploration, I couldn’t help but feel awe-struck by the achievements of mankind in the race to the stars (Image: Cape Canaveral).

Next, we stopped at Daytona Beach, where we enjoyed another refreshing swim in the Atlantic Ocean. The warm waters and the wide stretch of beach made for a relaxing and fun break from our long drive. After spending the weekend at Daytona, we continued our adventure, heading north to Washington D.C. The capital city, brimming with historical and political significance, offered a wealth of sightseeing opportunities.

In Washington D.C., we visited some of the most famous landmarks of the United States. We stood in front of the majestic Jefferson Memorial, admired the grandeur of the Lincoln Memorial, and marveled at the towering Washington Monument. We also explored the Capitol building (Image: At the Capitol) and visited the White House (Image), imagining the history that had unfolded in these very places.

From Washington, we continued our journey to the Big Apple, New York City. However, we only spent a single day there, as we felt little inclination to stay longer in the bustling and expensive city. After taking in a few sights, we moved on to Buffalo City to visit the Niagara Falls (Image next page: At the Niagara Falls), where the waters of Lake Erie flow into Lake Ontario. The spectacle was an impressive sight to behold and to be remembered. Unfortunately, we couldn’t cross the Rainbow Bridge into Canada to view the Horseshoe Falls from the Canadian side, as we did not have the necessary visa, which we couldn’t obtain on such short notice.

Undeterred, we continued our journey, traveling through Pennsylvania and Ohio, making our way to Indiana, where we visited Andrews University in Berrien Springs (near Benton Harbor). We spent the weekend here at this Adventist institution, and little did I know then that I would return to Andrews University four years later for my graduate studies.