My journey begins in January 1978 in Cologne. The start wasn’t particularly pleasant; I apparently wasn’t too eager to stick around – my heart stopped, but as you can read here, the doctors managed to bring me back to life. A strange life, one in which I’m still searching for my purpose and place.
The tiny baby that I was actually had everything one could wish for a good start: a mother and an older brother who both loved me. Sure, my father shirked his responsibility when he got the joyful news that I was on the way, but unfortunately, that happens all too often. And I think that’s probably just as well because what can a child possibly expect from such a person?
I have only scattered memories of that time. A cot, mom, brother, bathroom, Christmas tree, toys, my brother’s friends – well, and the dreadful wallpaper we had. But that was just the trend back then. Ochre, beige, brown, orange – hideous! Well, there are also many other impressions that somehow managed to stay in my memory.
My brother’s room – he was a big Bruce Lee fan, of course adorned with the corresponding posters. Or the mirrored wardrobe in my mother’s room. As a child, I always feared that a crocodile could come out of it. Don’t ask me now how I came up with crocodiles, but that was just one of those fears. This little happy world lasted three years – then my brother was murdered.
When one person kills another, they don’t just kill the individual, but also a part of those who love them. Some more, some less, but there’s always something inside them that dies as well. And sometimes such an act ripples through years to come.
The funeral service for my brother took place in a church in Cologne Buchheim. Friends and relatives, who still existed at that time, were invited, and the funeral home had organized everything as far as possible. The only problem? The local parish priest was very fond of alcohol and had neglected to inform the adjoining elementary school that a visit should not take place on that day.
What happened next was inevitable – the funeral service became a disaster.
A class from this elementary school stormed into the church, and the children displayed interesting gestures to the mourners and roamed around the open casket. My mother had a nervous breakdown, and among the mourners, there were some who supported her and others who confronted the priest. From what I’ve been told, it was quite a scandal.
A dispute broke out that became public, and the priest was forced by the diocese to issue a public apology. He had made a mess of things and was so self-absorbed that he couldn’t even handle being held accountable. Three years later, I had to pay the price for the whole thing. Free school choice wasn’t possible back then, so I was assigned to the elementary school that belonged to that very same Catholic church under the responsibility of that priest.
I can still vividly remember my first day of school. I felt as proud as ever, carrying a green and blue school cone with a red tulle closure – packed with sweets, a pencil case, and colored pencils. I had been excited about starting school. I could already read and write, and I was curious to discover the further secrets I’d encounter on my journey to adulthood!
The first one and a half years went great. I was well-liked by my teachers and classmates and received mostly good grades. There was one B (a „two“), but hey, that’s not the end of the world! I must have been doing pretty well because one day my teacher invited my mother in and suggested that I skip a grade. I was there during the conversation, feeling mighty proud of myself!
The problems started in second grade when I had my first experience with religion class.
The religion teacher was a repressed old nun who could have easily also worked as a dominatrix – with her black skirt, the gray crocheted vest, and her tightly bound bun. Only the cross around her scrawny neck revealed that she was supposedly a preacher of Christian love. Mrs. Brandt! Yes, that was her name. She could really talk! Hour after hour after hour, and she was not at all pleased when one of the students dared to ask questions. Definitely not if the questions were critical.
One summer day, her face lit up with joy. It was time; she was going to lead us little devils into the arms of the church. We marched behind her in a single-file line and entered the neighboring church. Even the pastor was present to greet us all. Of course, he asked for our names: “Ingo, and your last name?” “Jäckels.”
Perhaps things would have gone differently if my last name had been Müller or Schmitz, but the name Jäckels isn’t that common. I noticed that the pastor stared at me longer than the other children, but hey, I was about to be advanced to a higher grade. Maybe he had already heard of me? I had no idea about the funeral drama that had taken place three years earlier in that very church and with that same pastor.
Then it started two days later.
My answers were suddenly wrong. Homework was either incorrect or supposedly not done. Interestingly, when I gave an answer, I was reprimanded for being foolish. Yet when a classmate gave the exact same answer, they were praised. My grades took a nosedive, and instead of advancing to the next grade, I ended up having to repeat the year.
And the teachers were visibly angry with me – for reasons I couldn’t understand. It finally escalated to the point where I came home with bruises almost every day. Corporal punishment was already banned at that time, but that didn’t stop the fine teachers there from occasionally slamming a ruler on my fingers, jabbing me hard in the side with their long fingers, or throwing the classroom key, a dirty sponge, or pieces of chalk at me. Even the class register wasn’t always used for its intended purpose.
And woe to me if anything in the classroom wasn’t right. The culprit was always predetermined. Were toy blocks scattered in the room? I had to clean them up. Something went missing? I was the thief. It didn’t matter what it was – it was always my fault. And in the beginning, I even accepted that blame and felt ashamed.
Alright, that was one thing. What weighed more heavily was how things developed on the schoolyard.
When someone apparently does so many things wrong, they quickly become the target of ridicule. And when you’re ridiculed, people start shoving you around. Maybe even hit you a bit. Maybe even more than that?
When kids tussle, it’s normal. And it’s also normal for them to fight back. For me, it was a bit different. I had to stay quiet! If I was pushed and tried to defend myself, a playground supervisor was quick to intervene and reprimand me. If I was spat on, I was scolded for antagonizing the other kids. If I was hit and tried to fight back, I’d be yanked brutally by the collar.
Kids learn quickly – unfortunately, they also learn to vent their frustrations on another kid if they feel they can get away with it, especially if that kid gets punished for it.
The beatings became more frequent, and not a day went by when I wasn’t spat on, insulted, or beaten up. At some point, I started running. Defending myself wasn’t an option or the teachers would show up, so running was all I could do. The first time things escalated was when I tried to escape a group of classmates by climbing over a wall. I slipped, fell awkwardly onto my right arm, and broke my wrist.
I think at that moment, my homeroom teacher became afraid. She didn’t call an ambulance but put me in her car and drove me to my mother. Not without making it very clear to me during the drive that I’d end up in a foster home if I told her what had happened. I cried from pain and just wanted to get away. And yes, at that moment, I was terrified of never seeing my mother again.
So I said nothing…
Of course, my mother asked questions, like why I came home with bruises every day. I was just a lively child, they explained, and unfortunately very aggressive too, so sometimes another student would hit me. They assured her they’d try to watch out and prevent it, but with how spirited I was, these things could happen.
I still wonder today, what else could my mother have done? Move away? With what money? Her job didn’t pay much. And then there was the matter with my brother. I don’t think she ever fully recovered from that, which is why she distracted herself with work. None of it matters anymore.
I was out of school for six weeks. Six weeks that did me a world of good. When it was time to return to school, I cried my eyes out, but it was no use. School attendance is mandatory. You can’t escape hell once it has set its sights on you.
It only took two weeks before the gang had worn me down again. Their leader, a big, stupid jerk two grades above me, told his followers to hold me down because he wanted to „have a closer look at“ my injured arm. What’s the point in beating around the bush? He kicked so hard that the arm broke again. This time, it was a complicated fracture that needed to be fixed with pins.
At least I got another break from this nightmare, and a small scar on my right wrist still reminds me today that getting justice is always a matter of majority, not fairness.
After this second fracture, my mother sprang into action and put pressure on the Cologne school authority. They agreed that a psychologist should look into the matter. Unfortunately, it turned out that while this man did see many of the things that were wrong, his hands were tied. The headmaster of the school had connections that were too good. No chance of changing anything.
By the end of my second year at school, I had reached the point where I sat alone in church and begged God — who supposedly always listens to children, as I had been taught — to free me. I wanted to die. I just couldn’t take it anymore. You go to sleep, feeling afraid. You wake up, feeling afraid. You walk down the street, feeling afraid.
The beatings became a part of everyday life, my self-doubt grew stronger and stronger, and I blamed myself for what was happening. But it didn’t change the feeling of disgust when I was again soaking wet with spit. I must have deserved it somehow; otherwise, surely someone would do something. Right? And the teachers? They always had an excuse ready: “He fell,” “He walked into a wall,” “Well, why does he pick fights with groups of kids?” And so on and so forth.
By the time I was nine years old, I finally understood that God didn’t like me and didn’t give a damn about the things I had asked Him for so many times. Instead of taking my usual route to school, I went in the other direction. To the Rhine bridge. The end. I couldn’t take it anymore. Looking back now, I wonder how blind society really is. A little nine-year-old boy walking alone on a heavily trafficked bridge, climbing over the railing, and disappearing. Luckily, it didn’t work, though at the time, I saw it differently: Could it be that I was so awful that even death didn’t want me?
I woke up about two kilometers away on the Stammheim riverbank. Soaking wet to the bone, with a pounding headache, spitting up water, and feeling unbearably sick. Every bone in my body hurt!
As I wandered, sobbing, through the local castle park, a man approached me and wanted to know what had happened. I lied. I said I had slipped while playing and fallen into the water. Looking back now, I don’t think he really believed me. I’m not sure. In any case, he asked where I lived, put me in his car, and drove me home. My mother, of course, was at work again, so I took off my wet clothes and went to my room. Sad that not even this had worked out as planned. At least I got a severe case of pneumonia from my little trip into Father Rhine’s arms, which gave me a bit of breathing room from school.
I don’t know what exactly happened — whether my mother caused too much trouble or whether one of the teachers intervened — but I was allowed to spend the last half-year of elementary school at a different school!
Not that it made much of a difference. I was so shy and full of fear that I either responded to others with violence or ran away. Playing normally with others? I couldn’t imagine it. And the teachers seemed to have mixed feelings about me, since I never spent recess on the playground as instructed but instead hid away.
Nevertheless, when it came time to test which secondary school I should attend, I was in for a surprise. A few of those little aptitude tests—logical thinking, writing, artistic talent—well, the two women appointed by the school authority concluded that I should go to a grammar school (Gymnasium). Something I would often regret later, because for a while, I thought that maybe I would have had better opportunities because of it. But today? I don’t know if I would have really made it; I tend to think I wouldn’t have, not in the state I was in.
Besides, the recommendation was ignored anyway. There were several other assessments of me on the table: those from my teachers and—most notably—that of the headmaster. An aggressive, inept troublemaker. A fool who could barely write his own name and who stood out positively mostly by his absence.
And who does the school authority believe? Two young women freshly out of university or a seasoned headmaster with connections and his loyal entourage of long-serving teachers?
So, special education school…
Before that, there was a little escapade I had the Cologne Youth Welfare Office to thank for. My mother resisted the placement in a special school; at the very least, it should be a Hauptschule (secondary school for vocational preparation), not one of those “dumb schools”! And the Youth Welfare Office offered assistance—on one condition! I was to be placed in a therapeutic children’s home for observation and assessment.
A lucrative business, such a home. At least back then. Someone owns a large house with many rooms, employs five staff members with educational backgrounds, and agrees to provide a home for poor, abused children, to help them get back on their feet, and turn them into valuable members of society.
At least in theory.
In practice, it worked like this: every month, around 6,000 Marks per child changed hands. We were supervised by five educators, four of whom should have been sent to addiction counseling right away. For instance, Monika always brought her best friend to her night shifts: Mr. Johnny Walker. Or Peter—he went to Holland quite often, which I don’t blame anyone for (I smoke weed myself today), but during work hours? Then there were two others I can’t even remember; probably because they spent their time killing hours on some game console.
The only one who was really good was Horst. An older gentleman from the former East Germany who actually cared for us kids. When he was there, things were amazing: craft days, outings in nature, kayaking—the man really made an effort. But one person alone can’t save a mess like that.
I won’t list everything, but there was violence, theft, vandalism, and twice, younger children were sexually assaulted by the older ones. After half a year, my mother, who had unexpectedly come for a visit and was visibly shocked by the conditions, pulled me out of that hellhole.
The final result? Still special education school…
But that’s a chapter in itself. Because, contrary to all expectations, I learned a hell of a lot during that time. But not necessarily in that school…