I recently met someone from East Germany. Halfway through our conversation, I asked her:
“Why does German sound so… hard? Are Germans really that stubborn?”
She paused, then laughed. “No, not really. We don’t think we are.”
The funny thing was— the way she said it, the rhythm, the structure, the precision— everything about it felt very German.
Not rude. Not cold. Just direct. Linear. Facts are facts. Rules are rules. No soft wrapping needed.
And she didn’t even notice it.
She went on to explain some German systems: how marrying a German requires over ten months of government observation; how you can’t just get married at a random stall without a proper roof; how every step needs approval, documentation, confirmation.
She said it casually, like reminding someone to lock the door before leaving.
Part of me wanted to roll my eyes. In many cultures, this would sound unbearable.
But strangely, I wasn’t annoyed. I realized something instead:
They’re not unromantic. They just prioritize stability before romance.
Around the same time, the Bondi Beach shooting was still heavy in the air. And I couldn’t shake a quiet thought—
Sometimes it’s not about acceptance. It’s about responsibility.
Clear water added to clear water changes nothing. But one drop of dirty water can cloud the entire pot.
This isn’t about good versus evil. It’s about limits. Every society has a capacity— a concentration it can hold.
Language works the same way. The “hardness” of German is the residue of rules, boundaries, and accountability compressed over time.
She doesn’t feel rigid, just like we don’t feel “too loose.”
Language simply carries the habits of a civilization in between its words— waiting for someone else to hear it, and taste it.
