Photo courtesy of Ofir Feldman 2019 and Nizan Lotem.
If you’ve so much as glanced at an arts or culture outlet at any point in the past few months, you’ll be well aware that 2019 marks 100 years since the founding of the Bauhaus, perhaps the world’s most influential art and design school. ‘Bauhaus Remains’, one of a slew of arts projects commemorating this centenary, is a collaboration between Bauhaus University Weimar and The Steve Tisch School of Film and Television in Tel Aviv, which aims to explore the impact of Bauhaus on modern culture in both Germany and Israel.
Commissioned as part of this initiative, We, People of Siemensstadt sees Israeli filmmaker Ofir Feldman explore the past and present of the Großsiedlung Siemensstadt, one of six modernist housing estates in Berlin collectively recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The International Style complex was constructed between 1929 and 1931 and designed by a team of seven renowned Weimar-era architects, including Bauhaus founder Walter Gropius, and Hans Scharoun, who would go on to build the iconic Berlin Philharmonic hall in the early 1960s. Overseeing the project, Scharoun aimed to foster a sense of community and to prioritise the well-being of residents – the apartments are uniform in size, have the same incidence of natural light and are built in a way that limits noise pollution, while each house has direct access to communal gardens.
But when envisioning the needs of future tenants, Scharoun had a very specific group in mind – workers at the nearby Siemens factory and their nuclear families. Today, naturally, Siemensstadt is home to an immeasurably more diverse community, and Feldman reflects this in his film, which premiered at the recent Docaviv festival in Tel Aviv. He focuses on three present-day residents: 11-year-old Ghanaian immigrant Hafiza; Stephan, a 40-something Siemens employee estranged from his ex-partner; and Suzan, a Jewish single- mother who fled her native Netherlands, fearing her teenage son had fallen in with a bad crowd. While both Hafiza and Stephan live on the UNESCO site, Suzan resides in a traditional German-style building erected nearby in 1933, just after the Nazis closed the Bauhaus down. The film only briefly alludes to it, but 1933 also marked the dawn of Siemens’ darkest days as a company, as it began manufacturing electronic goods for the German armed forces, with the assistance of forced labour between 1940 and 1945.
Photo courtesy of Ofir Feldman 2019 and Nizan Lotem.
On one level, the film props up Berlin’s modern global image as an oasis of harmonious multiculturalism that stands unwaveringly in opposition to right-wing populism. Speaking to Sleek ahead of the film’s Docaviv premiere, Feldman explained that each protagonist represents a contrast to what was intended when the buildings were designed, and that he was particularly drawn to the idea that Suzan is the exact opposite of what was supposed to happen in her building. “I can’t say what Scharoun would have thought of this, but it’s maybe the ultimate fulfilment of his vision to have families of immigrants living in his building. He really believed in equality. He lived there in one of the regular apartments. He didn’t build himself a luxury villa or anything like that.”
Moreover, on visiting Siemensstadt for the first time last year, Feldman found it to be an altogether more pleasant environment than your typical urban housing estate. “I was really struck by how calm and green it is, it’s like a village within the city. And it’s beautiful in an understated way,” said the director, also a teaching assistant at Tel Aviv University. “They could be mistaken for normal housing blocks because they’re so simple, but each one is distinct, and once you go inside you notice the attention to detail – the stairwells are incredible.”
Serving as an additional incentive for residents to take care of their homes is the fact that the estate today functions as an open-air museum, attracting connoisseurs of modernist architecture from all over the world. But while the film depicts Siemensstadt thronging with tourists, Feldman concedes this isn’t always the case: “It isn’t usually so busy, I just happened to be able to film on a day when two guided tours were taking place!” he remembers. “But the tourism keeps the residents aware of the area’s history. Hafiza’s parents weren’t surprised when I knocked on the door saying I wanted to make a film about their apartment. So I guess there’s a sense of pride in that.”
Photo courtesy of Ofir Feldman 2019 and Nizan Lotem.
But while Scharoun’s complex might be considered an enduring success in some regards, Feldman found a tangible sense of community hard to pinpoint in the neighbourhood. As the film delves into the protagonists’ backstories, Siemensstadt begins to resemble a more stereotypical modern urban environment, one in which individuals keep largely to themselves, politely tolerating their neighbours rather than reaching out to one another. Stephan moved to the area after splitting from his partner, who subsequently severely restricted his access to their young daughter. After spending time with him, Feldman came away with a strong sense that he was yearning for support from his community, but not receiving it. Hafiza’s parents have also struggled to integrate, though for different reasons. The girl’s mother in particular rarely speaks German at home, and seems to be perpetually pining for her homeland.
Compounding this sense of urban alienation is a conspicuous lack of modern amenities in the area. Take a walk around Siemensstadt today, and you’ll struggle to find a cafe or bar, or indeed any appealing place to socialise beyond a handful of parks and green spaces. And yet the sight of Hafiza herself, rollerblading around the leafy estate, playing with her friends, and generally thriving in Berlin whilst retaining an awareness of her Ghanaian heritage, offers real cause for hope. That she’s reaping the benefits of a living environment that the Nazis attempted but ultimately failed to curtail makes her story all the more inspiring.