Eventually, Dr. Müller called me into the therapy room, and I took a seat. My eyes were drawn to the books behind him. When I enter a bibliophile’s library, I cannot help but think that the texts are not just an indication of what the book owner values but also what they want their visitors to know about their values. From what I could see, Dr. Müller was invested—for obvious reasons— in psychoanalytic and German-history texts. Unlike the other psychotherapy sessions I’d had up to that point, where I had lain on a couch or sat in a comfortable chair, this session felt like an interview. Dr. Müller’s lips were compressed, his voice low and steady, and his demeanor serious. “Why are you here?” he asked. There was silence on both ends, a long pause, and I eventually responded:

“My brother was shot in January. I am constantly stared at on the streets. I have been followed, touched, and harassed on the streets of Berlin.” I took a brief pause; his raised eyebrows made me anxious. I continued, “Strangers have called me ‘Africa’ and ‘Ausländer’ for no other reason than seeing me on the street. I can’t cope with everything. It’s too much.” I stopped, hoping he would interject, but I heard only silence.

“This sounds like a political problem—not a psychological problem,” Dr. Müller said.

The words hung in the air briefly; I was dumbfounded and grew defensive. “Racism in Germany is a psychological problem,” I replied. In response, Dr. Müller began describing how he carried the burden of his grandparents’ crimes—his grandparents were members of the Nazi Party—and how their sins caused profound psychological anguish: guilt. This self-disclosure hardly felt appropriate in the therapeutic setting, but then he said: “There is no racism in Germany. What you have to understand is German guilt. We’ve dealt with our past. You should try learning about our history and our trauma.” Within a few minutes of my talking to him, the desire to seek treatment from this man had evaporated.

Guilt, as a sentiment, is inherently psychological; however, in the German context, its symbolic weight raises grave concerns about public memory and political responsibility. That is to say, contemporary German identity is built on the history of the Nazi regime. Most Germans receive instruction on the Nazi period in public schools, and those horrors are ingrained in the public consciousness. While some Germans have challenged this narrative of guilt, the late theorist Jürgen Habermas rightly explained why it was important to face that history: “There is the obligation we in Germany have—even if no one else is prepared to take it upon themselves any longer—to keep alive the memory of the suffering of those murdered at the hands of Germans, and we must keep this memory alive quite openly and not just in our minds.”

There is, however, an irony in what Dr. Müller said to me and what was happening in Germany at the time. The country had allegedly learned from its past, yet wasn’t the far right gaining strength at the very moment we were talking? This irony reminded me of Hannah Arendt’s critique of guilt. “Upon them and only upon them, who are filled with a genuine fear of the inescapable guilt of the human race,” she writes, “can there be any reliance when it comes to fighting fearlessly, uncompromisingly, everywhere against the incalculable evil that men are capable of bringing about.” Here, the philosopher notes that guilt has its limits, implying that shame, as a feeling, might not be enough to challenge evil in a society. Taken together, Habermas’s emphasis on memory and Arendt’s focus on action show that psychological contrition alone is meaningless without unwavering social justice.

In his own assessment, Dr. Müller was echoing the most sacred tenet of the German historical catechism—the people’s supposed collective guilt for the Holocaust—in a way that does not address the ongoing bigotry in German society but instead emphasizes German psychological distress above all else, with little concern for the verbal or physical harassment someone might endure because of their racial identity. Much like the way most Germans treat the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the country’s collective guilt over its treatment of the Jews trumps any consideration of the Roma, Arabs, Africans, Asians, and other minorities. An overcorrection.

With Dr. Müller, my psychological state was not taken seriously, and it was clear I would not receive the care I deserved, precisely because I was in his office to begin with—anti-Black racism. It was unprofessional for this health provider to ask me to direct my energy toward his alleged German self-condemnation rather than to provide me with the tools to cope with my ongoing discrimination. Somehow, he felt the need to explain that his guilt was more oppressive than being harassed or followed.

He also seemed to take me for a fool. I had learned about the Holocaust through my primary and secondary education in the United States. I had read Anne Frank’s diary at 13, fearful that the hateful sentiments directed toward Jewish people in Europe would reverberate as hatred toward Black Americans in the United States. Though distinct in history and character, I recognized similarities between antisemitism and anti-Black American racism, including how both groups are marked as different in Christian-majority countries, their legacy of displacement, and the various mechanisms to foster community from below. What is striking is that I learned more about the heinousness of Nazi crimes in my public education in Florida than I did about the maleficence of white America. I knew that Hitler, the Nazi regime, and the millions of Germans who had put them in power did not think people who looked like me—with my skin tone, nose shape, and hair texture—were fit to be in their country.

During my first year living in Berlin, I started to feel the weight of xenophobia and anti-Black racism on my spirit. It starts as a low buzz that clings to the ear. I’m nearly always sitting next to an empty seat on a busy train. I’m not invited to outings by white coworkers. I’m asked when I will move back to the United States in a tone that suggests I should. Americans are more direct; the bigots are less craven. Sometimes they’ll admit that they are racist to your face, and in a sense, you can learn to work with such coarse behavior and know which side of town to go to. They’re honest, even if it hurts. But Europeans will deny their racism to their dying breath and make you feel like you’re demented for even asking if racism is possible.

At first, the incidents were minor. Older white Germans would stare at me with a sharpness that cut deep. The first time, I was confused. I wondered: Is there a leaf in my hair or lipstick on my teeth? But as it kept happening, I realized it wasn’t about my clothes or makeup. Some white Germans who saw me on the street would say “Africa” while rubbing their skin and pointing at me—as if I, born and raised in Miami, represented an entire continent with 54 countries. When I felt bold, I would rub my skin, point at them, and say, “Racist.” But this was just the surface.

Every day, I encountered something different. One month after moving to Berlin, I attended a conference on race, power, and privilege at Humboldt University. I was informed about the event through an online group called “Black in Berlin” and thought attending would be an excellent opportunity to meet a new community of Black scholars and writers. During the break between sessions, a white person started speaking to me in English. We discussed my research, and I asked her what she was studying. She commented, “Your English is excellent.” I paused for a second, thinking this must be a joke. So I responded, “Well, I’ve been working on it all my life.” Not understanding my sarcasm, she replied, “Good for you.” I was dumbfounded, but this was a mild precursor to other instances in which I would be condescended to or racialized in Berlin.

One Friday afternoon, while sitting on my balcony with several Black friends, drinking wine and laughing, a white German neighbor shouted the N-word in German at us from her window. I was shocked and angry but also confused, knowing she did not want me living in the building. After reaching out to my friends about my racist neighbor, I heard about a spare room for rent in a shared apartment 10 minutes away. I moved into the new flat within six weeks.

Being followed, touched without my consent, and pointed at by random people made me wonder: Will I ever feel safe anywhere? I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, paralyzed by the sinister inertia of major and minor forms of racially based harassment. I decided to get help, but the initial consultation with Dr. Müller only left me feeling worse.

This was maddening and made me want to connect with others who could sympathize, people who might understand what it means to be Black in Europe. So I turned to my friends and comrades. I founded a radical reading group and a feminist writing collective, where we read Frantz Fanon alongside Audre Lorde and gathered to workshop the poetry and prose we had written. As I reconciled myself to Berlin as my home, I found a union with kindred spirits who danced to house music until dawn, to a melodic rhythm that transcended the provincialism of the native inhabitants’ choleric energy. In a sense, my mates gave me a sense of belonging and clarity that home can be shaped from within.

Since the middle of the last century, fascism has festered along the edges of American and German society. For a time, its champions were officially rebuked and lingered on the margins, bitter about their defeat. Given the rise of the far right today throughout Europe and North America, the chaotic daze of Trump’s first presidency now feels puerile. Nearly a decade later, I learned that I cannot simply run away from my problems. Avoidant behaviors have their limits. But more importantly, there is little sympathy (or reprieve) from someone who can’t look beyond their alleged guilt.