An indictment of forgetting

It was 23 November 1992. During the night, in the city of Mölln in the northern state of Schleswig-Holstein, two neo-Nazis threw Molotov cocktails into houses occupied by Turkish families. Afterwards, they called the local police station, alerting them to the burning houses on Ratzeburger Street, and ending the call with "Heil Hitler". 

Three people died that night: 10-year-old Yeliz Arslan, 14-year-old Ayşe Yılmaz and 51-year-old Bahide Arslan. Amongst the survivors are İbrahim Arslan, seven, because his grandmother Bahide managed to wrap him in wet towels before succumbing to the flames. İbrahim's brother Namık, just eight months old, was saved because his mother threw him out of the window. 

Today, over 30 years later, İbrahim and Namık are still working through this traumatic experience. They give workshops in schools and now tell their story in Martina Priessner's documentary "The Moelln Letters". The film had its premiere at this year's Berlinale and is out now in German cinemas.  

The past weighs heavily on both men. If İbrahim smells something burning in the oven, memories come flooding back. He suffers from insomnia and is constantly coughing. And he imagines things: suddenly, he is back in the house, surrounded by flames. Namık also speaks openly about the psychological help he needs. His childhood was exhausting, especially whenever that one topic came up.

Letters of solidarity, lost in the archive

When right-wing or racist violence is depicted on screen, in Germany or elsewhere, it's always worth asking how necessary such films are. Do they give victims agency and prompt audiences to reflect? Do they risk shifting the attention to the perpetrators, or even glorifying them? 

It's especially problematic when survivors are forced to relive their trauma in front of a camera. Films like this are only valuable if they open up new perspectives: not merely documenting the past, but also suggesting ways to process trauma in the present.

Priessner succeeds in doing just that with the Arslan family. In "The Moelln Letters", the arson attack is only one part of the story. Immediately after the attack, Mölln residents and people from across Germany wrote letters to the Arslan family and other victims—letters they would not receive for more than 30 years.

Words of solidarity and comfort, children's drawings, small gifts—all sent to a municipal archive, because the then-mayor never handed them over to the families. Instead, the mayor opened the letters himself and even replied to some. So much for Germany's culture of remembrance. 

Years later, a student stumbled across the forgotten letters and reached out to İbrahim. Only then were the letters finally read by their intended recipients.  

How could something like this even happen? "When we heard about the letters by chance in 2019, we realised that we had received so much solidarity from a major part of German society. The fact that we were not allowed to read them for decades was a huge betrayal of trust for us," İbrahim Arslan told Qantara in an interview. 

"How can a mayor open letters not intended for him? And on top of that, how can he have the audacity to reply to them?" According to Arslan, the mayor stole the solidarity that was meant for the victims, effectively assuming the role of a victim and becoming another kind of perpetrator. "He placed himself in the victim's role by taking the letters and absorbing all solidarity that was meant for us. For us survivors, it felt like a second attack."

Unmistakable parallels

Priessner's film not only documents the past, but it also works as a reminder to never forget, to not lose focus on the victims and their families. As far-right ideologies gain traction once more, the film acts as a mirror, making visible the lives of migrants in postwar Germany and showing how certain wounds cut right through to the present. Parallels to more recent crimes, like the racist attack in Hanau in 2020, are impossible to miss. 

 Speaking to Qantara, director Martina Priessner recalls how Mölln was a turning point in her own life. "I was 23 at the time, and it politicised me. The silence afterwards, the lack of empathy—that hasn't changed since." 

She met İbrahim five years ago, when he told her about the letters. Priessner says she wasn't surprised, but still found it shocking. She felt it was her duty to take on this subject. One sentence from İbrahim in particular helped make her decision: "He told me that his family's greatest longing was to tell their story themselves. While it wouldn't erase the trauma, it would make it all a bit more bearable."

The family cares deeply about how and by whom their story is told. They have always been let down by the state. The withheld letters are just one example of how appallingly they have been treated since the attack. Another example is the annual memorial organised by the city of Mölln, which the Arslan family refuses to attend. They are only invited as guests, not as co-organisers. Instead, they hold their own, independent commemoration event.  

"Mutual understanding and empowerment"

İbrahim no longer trusts state institutions. For him, this story of the Moelln letters is a clear case of racism: "I've often asked myself: What if all this had happened to a German family who happened to be white? At the very least, they probably would have received the letters and would have had much more support. Maybe there would also be a different way of dealing with the survivors today. People did show us solidarity, but we thought there were no such people in Germany. We never got their letters. We thought we were all alone."

But they weren't alone, and that is the film's most important aspect. The letters they weren't given are shown one-by-one on screen, becoming a moving part of the narrative. A ten-year-old child wants to comfort İbrahim, a twelve-year-old girl from Hamburg writes that she is ashamed to be German. Messages like "What's the point of this arson attack?" or "Down with swastikas"— all these words would have meant so much to the family at a time when they thought no one cared. At a time when they were even harassed by the police: during an "open house" event, officers mockingly told little İbrahim that, with his Turkish roots, he would surely see the inside of a cell some day soon.  

In "The Moelln Letters", İbrahim meets one of the letter senders and thanks her in person. He also talks with a Jewish teacher about fear and about the connections between attacks, from Hoyerswerda to Rostock and Mölln. These encounters seem especially important to him. "We need to build mutual trust with people affected by right-wing, racist and antisemitic violence," he says. 

"Mutual understanding and empowerment are vital for our survival in this country. We can only strengthen each other by meeting as equals and sharing our stories. Otherwise, there will be no one left to listen to our issues with empathy. Only we can do that for each other."

"The Moelln Letters" comes at a time when right-wing narratives have found themselves once again part of the mainstream. Fascists are back in the German Bundestag. How does one function in such a climate, especially as a survivor of right-wing violence? And how important is it to stay in Germany, when so many are considering leaving? 

For İbrahim, the answer couldn't be clearer: "We cannot trust the German judicial system. We cannot trust politicians or the media. So we need to create our own media. We need to create our own politicians. And that is only possible if we stay here, if we build networks and we form alliances."

"That's why we will remain in Germany. I haven't trusted politics for years. I only trust my own people."

This is an edited translation of the German original. Translated by Schayan Riaz.