Rebekka was only called rebel by her friends with respect and her enemies with envy. And she was, a rebel. After all, that was her job, or at least that’s how she saw it. At the age of 16 you had to rebel, to lead the adults, so-called authorities and superiors, dignitaries and office holders over the edges of their well-tempered attitudes encrustations, to question what seems unquestionable, to disavow what seems irrefutable and ridiculous to do what is so firmly cemented in the minds of value nostalgia. When else should she do it? At 26, when, busy with work and family, she would always have to fear that she would scorn someone who could make life difficult for her. No, it had to be now, at 16, without dependencies and obligations, without being at the mercy of the goodwill of others. It tried itself in insurrection, civil disobedience and passive resistance.
When she learned that a girl who was in the same school as she was about to be deported, who had been in the country for years, had many friends and was well integrated into the community, she immediately organized a rally. No, she didn’t know the girl personally, but she had found out all about her background and spontaneously decided not to simply accept this injustice. Of course, many people whispered to her that they thought it was great how she stood up for the poor girl and thus indirectly for her family, but it was just words. She was alone with her protest. The deportation happened and Rebekka stayed a little more sobered. Nevertheless, a few months later she did not let herself be stopped from standing up for a boy who, because of his sexual orientation, was bullied by the other players on the soccer team. No teacher, not even the headmistress, felt compelled to do anything about this exclusion. Rebekka sought conversation, drew attention to the injustice. She found herself facing a wall of silence and ignorance. Nobody was responsible, felt responsible.
But what did she expect? In their naivety that someone, no matter who, would support them or at least take their concerns seriously. Instead, she was allowed to do it, with her letters to the responsible authorities, with her banner that she had put up in front of the school, or optionally for the authorities. They were ignored, according to the motto „She’ll be able to fix it again“. You sat out until it happened, the deportation was Rebcomplete, and the social isolation could no longer be stopped.
Rebekka had done everything she thought she could do, except that she hadn’t raised her voice. „It’s all pointless,“ she said to herself and settled on having fun, moving around the houses all night and consuming a lot of alcohol. The latter specially to banish the emptiness from her thoughts. Her parents didn’t want to let her go. After all, she was only 16. Now she had two options. She could wait for her parents to sleep and then slip away on the balcony in her room, or she could act openly against her instructions. What should their parents do about it? Lock you up? Take away the key from her? Put you out on the street? The same game was repeated every Friday and Saturday evening. „I’m going now,“ she called to her parents. „No, you stay!“, her mother replied, „Otherwise …“ „Otherwise what?“, asked Rebekka, amused. „Then I’ll cut your pocket money and turn off the WLAN.“ „That’s right,“ replied Rebekka with a shrug and let the door fall shut. Then she met up with her friends, preferably in a student bar in the city center. There they sat, warmed up with alcohol, desperately looking for something to enjoy. The neurotoxin helped Rebekka to forget all the injustices and contradictions, the helplessness and senselessness for a few hours.
On one of those Saturday evenings, they were back in the pub, Rebekka, who with her short-cropped black hair, dressed in jeans and a sweater, looked like a boy, had jovially put her arm around her best friend Sybille’s shoulders. Casual, as she said. That was fine among girls. Nobody thought anything other than that these two were best friends. But Rebekka suspected that it was not so, even if she did not admit it. Not even to herself. Her thinking was just as riddled with barriers as anyone else’s. Maybe there were a few less with her. She had kissed Sybille once. “You never trust yourself”, the friends had shouted, whereupon Sybille, who was otherwise rather reserved, pulled Rebekka to her and pressed her a deep kiss on the lips. Hours later, Rebekka still felt the touch as if it had been burned into her.
Paul, a tall, lanky guy who looked like a holdover from the 1960s with his long hair, tore her from her thoughts. „Look, isn’t that the son of the pig farmer over there?“, he asked calmly, whereupon all eyes turned in the direction he was pointing. In fact, they recognized him immediately. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with deep scars on his face, probably remnants of particularly severe acne. It was easy to imagine him massacring pigs and beating people who got in his way. “It should be particularly horrific in the stable,” Paul added, “Only recently activists got on there to take photos, but they were caught and arrested.” “Yuck, who goes to a pigsty voluntarily. Pigs are so dirty and it must stink terribly”, said Sybille piqued. „That’s why it was built on the outskirts so that nobody hears or smells anything,“ grumbled Paul. “What do I care about pigs,” Rebekka interjected, “As long as people are treated so horribly. You don’t even have to start with the pigs.” “You only say that because you don’t dare,” said Paul, with a challenging grin. He knew his girlfriend well enough to know she couldn’t just let this sit on her. After all, there was nothing she didn’t dare to do, even if she didn’t know exactly what Paul was getting at. “What should I not dare to do?” Rebekka asked. „Break into the pigsty,“ he replied. „You mean you don’t dare,“ she replied promptly. „I have no problem with it, but you,“ Paul went on to piss her on. „Then come on, we’re going, right now. Then you will see what I don’t dare to do!” Rebekka followed suit, got up and left the restaurant.