Fighting for the truth in Hanau

"Why is my brother dead?", asks Çetin Gültekin. Two state commissioners stand in front of him, their heads bowed. Niculescu Păun stands, waving his phone in the air, to ask the next question: "My son called the police four times during the night. Why did the police not respond a single time?"

Moments later, Armin Kurtović takes the floor, holding up a poster of his son Hamza's face: "Do you know how the police officer described his appearance in the autopsy report? Oriental-southern. That’s institutional racism if you ask me—describing him as an oriental." Aside from the term's racist connotations, Hamza Kurtović had blue eyes and blonde hair.  

This scene is one of many pivotal moments in "Das Deutsche Volk" ("The German People") by director Marcin Wierzchowski. On 19 February 2020, a right-wing terrorist murdered nine people in the city of Hanau, and Wierzchowski has been accompanying the victims' families ever since. His documentary, shot in black-and-white and premiered at the Berlinale Film Festival, sheds light on the institutional failures surrounding the attack.  

If not for Niculescu Păun, who discovered that his son, Vili Viorel, had tried to reach emergency services several times during the night, information about these institutional failures might never have been made public. If not for the victims' families, who reached out to the investigative collective Forensic Architecture (video below), there might never have been a detailed investigation revealing that the police had locked an emergency exit at one of the crime scenes.

Through this investigation, the victims' parents learned that their children might have survived had the emergency exit at the Arena Bar not been locked. Five years later, these families are still leading the fight for a full and transparent investigation. 

"The Pole with the camera"

Talking to Qantara, Wierzchowski explains that he wanted to focus primarily on the everyday realities of the aftermath. "I wanted to show what kind of impact such an attack has. What does it mean to be confronted with the bureaucracy, the paperwork? In Hanau, the families had no time for mourning, because they had to deal with everything themselves. They had to put the truth together themselves, piece by piece. This everyday reality, which also inflicted fresh wounds, is what I wanted to capture."

Wierzchowski drove to Hanau the day after the attack in 2020, when the city was in a state of both chaos and deep shock. How did he earn the trust of the victims' families, who allowed him to follow them for years, documenting their most intimate and vulnerable moments?  

"After about a week, the first funerals were taking place, so I went to observe. Whenever a coffin was brought in, the press immediately ran to get a closer look. I didn’t, because I thought to myself, this is the very last moment the families will have with their children, and they need it for themselves."

"I always kept my distance, and I think that stuck with the families. Then COVID came, and all the journalists left Hanau, but I stayed. Eventually, I became known as 'the Pole with the camera'. That’s how we built a relationship of trust."

For Wierzchowski, who lives and works in Frankfurt, the project was a very personal one. "I don’t own a German passport, I only have a Polish one. Which can be annoying, especially if you lose it—you have to go to the consulate in Cologne to apply for a new one. It would be easier to take on German citizenship. I’m not a nationalist or anything, what I am on paper doesn’t matter to me." But Wierzchowski doesn't see himself as part of the "German people" referenced in the title. 

"This has a lot to do with German-Polish background. My grandparents were deported and then used as forced labourers. My grandfather's sister was shot by the Nazis. So, I have family members who are Nazi victims. Treblinka, one of the largest extermination camps, is only 20 kilometres away from where my mother was born. I live in Germany now, and I don't see the country ever really discussing this part of their history. Everyone knows about Auschwitz of course, but the specifics of German-Polish history are not well known. This is why I would never say that I am German."

Themes of identity and belonging have played a vital role in the case of Hanau and its aftermath. Most of the victims were born and raised in Germany, yet they were targeted by a right-wing extremist who did not see them as German. In the aftermath, certain parts of the media also framed them as outsiders. 

Their relatives have faced the same struggle. Speaking to Qantara, Armin Kurtović highlights this absurdity: "I was born and raised here. I am a German citizen. But after the attack, they sent a commissioner for integration, someone responsible for migrant affairs and an interpreter to my house. Is my German that bad? Don’t you understand me when I speak to you?"

No support from the state

That these families can continue to function—let alone fight for the truth—under these circumstances is remarkable, especially without any support from the state. The most compelling moments in "Das Deutsche Volk" are scenes where the victims' family members directly confront various politicians from the state of Hesse. They never mince their words, openly calling out failures on the part of the authorities.  

This makes it all the more shocking toward the end of the film when the mayor of Hanau tells the mother of Sedat Gürbüz to "please be mindful" of her words. He takes issue with her saying "I hate Germany", arguing that Germany is full of thousands of people who support her and offer her solidarity and compassion. The fact that the mayor feels the need to lecture her in front of the other grieving relatives in the room speaks volumes. 

For Wierzchowski, these confrontations were invaluable, freeing him from reliance on a classic interview format. It allowed him to focus on the perspective of those affected. 

"All the family members had a lot they wanted to get off their chests, and I never felt the need to pose too many questions or address anything uncomfortable. The protagonists—the families—can see through what is happening around them. In their own way, they are real poets and can quickly humble politicians. It was my job to just listen and observe."

Armin Kurtović has strong words for the politicians set to lead the country after this month’s federal elections: "You know, Friedrich Merz from the CDU calls my children 'little pashas'. If you were to believe him, asylum seekers go to the dentist every week to get their teeth done. That's just the way he is. That's why he did what he did in the Bundestag recently with the help of the right-wing AfD. By the way, in Hesse, we still call the CDU the Stahlhelmfraktion (steel helmet faction)." 

For Kurtović, it’s crucial to emphasise: "Everything that has come to light about the attacks so far is not because of the authorities—it’s because of our efforts. This shouldn't be our responsibility; it should be the state's job. That is what the authorities are for. But I know they won't do anything, because what they uncover could incriminate them. It could incriminate their party colleagues. My biggest regret is that I can’t do more."

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