Why 'Expat' and 'Immigrant' Reveal More Than Just a Label
She flatly remarks, "Kitchen is closed," her expression as blank as a dead car battery. Utter indifference. We're standing in a shop—Card only—that sells English-language books and serves a pasta-with-a-hole dish mostly eaten in some sprawling Anglophone metropolis. I don't give it a second thought. While H. wraps up whatever's left on the counter, I opt instead for a Späti beer—well, a late-night kiosk beer.
I live in Cologne but haven't been to Berlin in ages. The next evening, I'm perched at the bar with K. The music, the clatter of dishes, the babble of voices—it's all a shrill cacophony. I barely catch my friend ordering the house beer before I chime in, "Für mich auch." This time, a pair of eyes flash at me like hazard lights. Maximum annoyance. It takes me a split second to realize: I just ordered in the wrong language. "Uh, for me as well."
Days later, after more stops in this city of consumption, I meet H. and M. at a spot serving Singaporean and Malaysian food. I've been eagerly anticipating the Hainanese chicken for ages. In the end, it's nice—not quite delicious. The moment the last bite slides down, we're pointed toward the cash register. A rapid-fire exchange in English whizzes past—something about our time being up. We're a few minutes late.
Oof, what's crackin', Berlin? What's wrong with this city? Do I feel slighted because my mediocre English is being put to the test? Or because I find the casual, self-righteous international posturing a little too indulgent? I consider confiding in H. and M.—after all, they're old friends. But they left Cologne for Berlin years ago, dismissing their hometown as cozy but provincial, even small-minded. I hold back, afraid of betraying my own Cologne-parochial petulance. Maybe also because I've already started peppering my own speech with English words without thinking. Somehow, I'm part of the problem too. Not cool.
For 13 years, I've volunteered with people starting new lives in Cologne. Most fled their home countries, and when I meet them, their German is minimal—textbook phrases that remind me of my mother or grandparents in the late '80s. As we fix bikes together, I reflexively compliment their German, spouting clichés so hollow I want to slap my own mouth shut.
I don't need to spend much time with them to know they'll face an uphill battle, and language is the least of their worries. They'll be judged for how they look, their names, where they're from—measured by how "integrated" they are, labeled as good or bad migrants accordingly.
Cosmopolitans fancy themselves open-minded—but they're arrogant and ignorant
A slow, seething realization dawns: Language is the ability to express thoughts and emotions. So-called expats have the privilege of voluntarily limiting their means of communication because they don't have to. A little Spanish for that Mexico trip? ¡Sí, claro! German, because, well, they live in Germany? Please, no. These cosmopolitans aren't as broad-minded as they think. They're arrogant, ignorant, and—frankly—limited.
In the Humboldt Magazine, James Shikwati wrote about the loaded connotations of "expats and immigrants" and how colonial power structures still shape migration today. For Shikwati, one key to redressing this imbalance is "paying very close attention to the destructive power of representation."
Sure, I've ended up in Berlin spots where globalized lingo dominates, and griping about internationalism in the capital might make me seem thin-skinned. Still: To me, linguistic laziness isn't a sign of open-mindedness—it's a lazy excuse, a refusal to engage.
