Leo Yefetova is a German citizen, scholar, and Karaim activist. You can read more about her here, and today we are publishing an article by Yefetova on the characteristics of German public life.

For many who have never lived here, Europe (and Germany in particular) appears to be a paradise where human rights are a priority and are consistently upheld by everyone, always and everywhere. I often witness the admiration of those who have recently arrived from the post-Soviet space — Germany impresses them with its friendliness and attention to the views of all minorities and individuals. Everywhere around, there is a buzz of discussion and debate about politics, diversity, and inclusivity. But as someone who grew up in Germany, I know that indifference, rejection, and discrimination exist here as well. They just manifest in subtle and veiled ways. There’s a phenomenon called “tokenism.” A symbolic gesture — a “token” — is passed off as real action. “How can you accuse our company of racism and sexism? Look — we even have a woman of color on our billboard,” — and that’s absolutely true, except for the fact that the company’s other 500 employees are white men. In other words, your individuality is added to a list and mentioned at every convenient opportunity just to check a box.

In a politically tolerant society, it becomes mandatory for organizations and public figures to demonstrate and prove their tolerance. A few nice words at minimal cost — and the job is done. This is where the real difficulties begin for migrants who aren’t familiar with the intricacies of the German system.

In public life, it goes like this. An inexperienced, newly arrived activist is greeted as if they’ve been eagerly awaited for a long time: they’re showered with attention, charmed, and bombarded with promises. But, as with any toxic relationship, this mirage of smiles never turns into anything real. Years go by; your old acquaintances remain as kind and friendly as ever, but you’re still stuck in the same place. The turnout at protests hasn’t grown, no grants have materialized, and your community is still grappling with the same old problems. And this happens because the boxes have already been checked.

Sometimes, your waning interest can be reignited a little. For example, by renaming a Crimean Tatar cultural organization the “Center for the Indigenous Peoples of Crimea” — that is, one that also encompasses the cultures of the Karaims and Krymchaks. In a single line, without the participation of representatives from these ethnic groups, without any research. Hooray, they mentioned us and checked the box. For the archives and Instagram posts. The mission of diversity is accomplished. No one has moved forward. No one has learned anything about our culture or our problems. We’ve become just another token: no one will notice the trick, since Crimean Tatar and Karaim everyday cultures are very similar. The subtle racism of European audiences plays right into the hands of tokenists. After all, no one suspects that we could showcase so much more than coffee in a cezve: the first printing presses in Crimea, our economic and intellectual contributions to the development of Crimea and other Ukrainian regions. Medical dynasties that advanced medicine in Crimea. Writers and poets. Scientists and engineers. It’s unclear how Gasprinsky could have brought “Terciman” to life without Ilya Kazas — a Karaim educator who became the editor instead of the imposed Russian.

I am grateful that the Ukrainian and German public were introduced to the first Kave alphabet and “ey güzel Qırım.” But our historical contribution deserves much greater attention. The Soviet era inflicted enormous damage on Karaim demographics and history. Our small people are piecing together our cultural heritage bit by bit. Fortunately, we are not doing this alone — there are also active non-Karaims who carefully and thoughtfully assist with archival work and research. We are learning to collaborate with other indigenous peoples as well — first and foremost with the Crimean Tatars. Our close ties suffered during the Soviet era. As I carry out joint cultural projects, I notice how similar we are — and at the same time, how different. Much research has been written on the influence of religion on traditions — and this is precisely what distinguishes us from the Crimean Tatars. Even I, a more or less secular second-generation person, am well aware of how my ancestors’ religion has shaped my character. “There is no Karaim without the Torah,” and there is a great deal of truth in this: our self-designation reflects that we are “those who read.” My dad always said, “A person doesn’t need an intermediary to communicate with God.” Later, I realized that this reflects our doctrine. Centuries of closed kenases and bans on our holy sites during the Soviet era did not destroy our faith — they modified it. I grew up believing that I don’t need intermediaries to speak for myself, and I don’t want to be a token or a checkmark in someone’s fancy reports on diversity. And that’s the Karaim part of me.