The Stories I Tell about Myself

We lunge back to those memories one day and begin to trace connections about our lives. We see the recurring themes and tropes, the narratives we tell ourselves about ourselves, the stories we tell others about ourselves. They become such an inherent part of us that the stories become a life unto themselves, till we can’t recognize the stories we tell about ourselves. We don’t realize until we have told it enough times and it hits us that we are saying the same thing over and over again, feeling the same emotions, pursuing different dreams with the same motives, that the doorways keep opening through the stories we cannot stop telling about ourselves. And our lives becomes projects that stretch across decades, processes of investigating more about the stories we tell about ourselves, the facts, the evidence, the theories. We seek to understand the stories so that we can understand ourselves, comprehend your humanity. Our purpose for living.

I have two stories that I tell about myself. The first is the story of my mother, the second the story of Kenya's 2007/2008 post-election violence. When I look back at my college career, how it began and ended, I see how the stories I tell about myself carried me through. In these stories my life became encapsulated in a way that I do not yet fully comprehend, that I only slowly discover as each year folds away.

When I tell of my mother I tell of the courage that she has taught me. You must remember that I grew up with my mother, so I took it for granted that women could do anything. I say that she taught us English by reading the Bible with us every morning. I tell of how I cried when she travelled to Kisumu - I was just a few months old and longed for the warmth of her bosom. I tell of how I am like her, because I can out-speak everyone but she’s the only one who can out-speak me. Mostly though, I say of how she ran away from being circumcised, how she gave up the traditions and mysteries and belonging that would come out of that because she yearned for something more, a future that she could not yet see, a dream beyond the valley she was born into.

When I speak of the post-election violence, I tell of the fracture of ethnic identities. The shapes of the violence feel like blocks in my head, a myriad colors that I do not fully understand, why I would hurt so much from something I never directly experienced, why I feel it to the core of my soul, why identity matters so much and I begin to notice the little ways that we set up boundaries between us and them, between me and you. It becomes a question that keeps me up at night, and when I write research papers in college, I draw from the shapes and colors and begin to explore the webs of meaning, the clouded confusion. I want to make it all black and white, to say, “This is the way you should live,” and yet the more I search the less I find. It becomes like water slipping through my hands.

We tell stories about ourselves because we are searching for meaning in our lives. And we recount them because we are seeking for purpose.

I have two stories that I tell about myself. But greatest story I want to tell about myself is the story about You, this unchanging love that I am still comprehending. This overwhelming sense that I cannot bear to fear for the future if the story will end the way it started. With You. When You formed me in my mother’s womb, when I will see You after I have finished telling the stories that I tell about myself. I want Your story to be the best story I could ever tell, the way that the ache in my heart dissolves because I have One in whom I can place my trust. I want to tell the story of how You loved us so much that You let Your Own Son redeem us, how He died a shameful death and even in that promised to never leave us alone. 

I want Your story to be my story.

An odic essay for my Father

I will buy you shirts and cologne and ties and cuffs over the years, walk with you into the sunset days. But I know that the best gift of I can give, is this, I hope. My offering of love in the art that you so encouraged me to take up. You have covered me in your prayers each day, I know, since my first breaths in half-caste skin and baby hair. You have called to check up on me each week. And even as I pursue my dreams, the ones I am too scared to even mouth, I am surrounded with comfort, because there's the beauty to having a father like you, someone who runs alongside me and makes sure that all the doors are open, all the paths stripped bare for my feet to graze, who believes in my unending strength to give life to those dreams, who forgives. I have never known a love like yours, and in the silence of my days, I pray that I don’t, so that the taste of your love will hover over me all my life, and I will sing today and everyday like Miriam did when they crossed the Red Sea. And I will call myself blessed. Because I know you, and I am yours. The man who loves God so wholly, so perfectly. When I curl into sleep I pray that I grow into your kind of faith, your stillness in the turbulence of life, your assurance that no matter what, God will provide. I remember praying once that God would make me fifty-years-old, your age then, when I first realized that your kind of faith was something I did not have. And on that day, more than anything, I wanted to be you. I can't wait to see you again, to be swept up in the embrace of your arms, to know how I am always home in your presence. In the man who has given me a Father's love, and more. I often write how I live my life through Mum's eyes and love, but I do so, I know, because she chose well, because I have this great foundation in you. You have made it possible for me to be me. And I call myself blessed because I am your daughter.

Happy Father’s Day everyone!

My favorite songs about fathers: Luther Vandross, Dance with my father, and Steven Curtis Chapman, Cinderella

Want to read more about fathers? Click here :-) 

The Fear of Sin (A Nietzsche Essay)

Below is an essay I wrote about Friedrich Nietzsche as a first year student! 

Nietzsche is the guy who said God is dead..
http://www.artfuzz.com/most/PYR/PAS0169.jpg

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I repeat that sin, man’s self-desecration par excellence, was invented in order to make science, culture and every elevation and ennobling of man impossible; the priest rules through the invention of sin.(The Antichrist, 71)

In his diatribe against Christianity The Antichrist, Friedrich Nietzsche argues that the invention of “sin” has denied man the freedom to engage in intellectual pursuits. According to Nietzsche, potential scientists abscond further pursuit in science, for fear of infuriating the Christian authorities. Indeed, the Christian church persuaded 19th century Europeans to disregard the revolutionary ideas of Charles Darwin, whose theory of evolution the Christian church vehemently denied. The Church claimed that Creationism was the only possible explanation for man’s origins. Therefore, anyone who believed in Darwinism was charged with committing sin. Interestingly, the conflict between religion and science continues to plague mankind today. Christian scientists especially, continually face the daunting question: How far can I pursue scientific research before I sin?

Before we attempt to tackle this question, we must first know what Nietzsche says about the origin and the nature of sin. Nietzsche credits the Jews with the invention of sin. He states that the Israelites, plagued by troubles, felt that they must have wronged their God (41). Their troubles, they contended, were a punishment for sin. According to Nietzsche, Christianity has inherited this concept of sin. The Christian authorities, which consider themselves the mouthpiece of God, have developed a moral system that distinguishes right and wrong (42). Through this moral system, Nietzsche insists, Christian authorities wield power over society, undermining, above all, intellectual values. Moreover, since the Christian authorities possess God’s “power”, sinners need to submit to them in order to be forgiven (44). Therefore, Nietzsche argues, man cannot freely pursue science if he is constantly forced to conform to Christian ideals. 

Like the Church in the 19th Century, many of today’s Christian churches continue to influence the extent of scientific research, example being the stem cell research in the US. In 2006, President George Bush decided to limit federal funding for stem cell research on moral grounds[i]. These moral grounds, one can argue, were influenced by the Christian belief that life begins at conception. Therefore, President Bush’s decision is an example of a Christian reaction to advancement in science. 

This conflict of interest poses a dilemma for Christians who may be interested scientific research. Suddenly, any research they choose to engage in must take place within the boundaries of Christian beliefs. Some of today’s Christians may decide to take a Christian approach to their research—they engage in research as a way of discovering God’s creation. Such an approach, one can argue, allows them to use science as a way of getting closer to God. Only when the scientific discoveries begin to challenge one’s Christian belief system does a problem arise. Some may choose to abandon their Christian faith for science, whereas some may choose to focus on their Christian beliefs and forsake science. Additionally, some may simply choose to be indifferent by separating their love for science and their love for God. 

Despite these different approaches, the dilemma persists. Science continues to challenge many of the Christian belief systems, particularly when scientific evidence disproves a Christian belief. The only feasible response may be to question one’s own understanding of sin. Although this approach may prompt one to question the existing Christian authorities, an act that may not be readily welcome, one can ultimately choose a deeply personal approach to the question of sin. By engaging in this personal reflection, one may come across 2 Timothy 1.7(KJV): “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” A Christian scientist who reads this Bible verse understands that God does not support fear. Hence, the fear of sin is not a state that should exist in the Christian life. When one chooses to live a life devoid of fear, one understands that the Christian God’s main concern is love: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” (NIV John 13.34) Therefore, Christian scientists’ greatest hurdle ultimately should not be the fear of sin, but rather, the challenge to adequately reflect God’s love in the world through their research.


Reference: [i] Stout, David. “In First Veto, Bush blocks Stem Cell Bill”. Nytimes.com. New York Times, 19 July 2006. Web. 18 Nov 2010. 

Bibliography: Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Antichrist. Trans. H.L. Mencken. Tucson: See Sharp Press, 1999. Print. 

The Holy Bible. International Bible Society. Colorado Springs: International Bible Society, 1996. Print. New International Version.
Holy Bible. American Bible Society. New York: American Bible Society. Print. King James Version.

Bursting My Bubble

 I wrote this essay as a personal statement for a job application as a writing tutor. I got the job, but my bubbles still burst. Here's my take on learning uncomfortable, disturbing things about life. I can only thank God that He's always on the throne.

When acting in a play in high school, a friend once approached me and declared, "Miriam, you live in a bubble, and one day, it's going to burst." In the past few years, I have kept reflecting on her words, wondering how they could have had some unforeseen meaning in my life today. Indeed, I wish my college application had asked me to write about how I reflect on my friend’s statement. Each day, I see her words coming to pass. The little bubbles of my life continually burst, forcing me to face a world that does not always conform to my ideals, or grant me the same comfort I had while living in my bubble.

To begin with, my life before Dartmouth did not fully prepare me for independence. I lived a very sheltered life in Kenya. When I was in high school, my family visited me during the allocated school visits, unlike other families that were either not able to do so, or lived too far away to make the journey. However, coming to study in America changed this entire setup. Living miles away from home, I have had to live without the comforts that an education in Kenya would have accorded me. Interestingly, this displacement allows me to fully empathize with the students from my high school, whose parents never visited them during the school visits. Because I study in a foreign country, my parents cannot easily come visit me during the parents' day weekend, or during any other time in the school calendar. Like my peers from high school, I can now understand how the feeling of "missing out" can sometimes dampen one’s spirit.

Apart from repositioning my thinking with regard to empathy, bursting my bubble has made me see that the world isn’t as simple as I had once chartered it out to be. As I was preparing for my final year of high school, Barack Obama was elected as the United States president. His election catapulted him into heroic status in Kenya, and I regarded him as evidence that race no longer mattered in America. His election convinced me that the world would become a marginally better place. Armed with this attitude, I matriculated at Dartmouth. Nevertheless, in almost two years, I have learned that this is not the glossy story I had painted it out to be. Sadly, the world remains a bleak place.

At the heart of this bleakness is the image of Africans in the minds of many Westerners. By coming to the US, I have had to confront this image, realizing in the process that developed nations do not always have the interests of developing nations at heart. In my classes, my heart breaks every so often, when I hear assumptions about Africans perpetuated, or African people treated without dignity. As the author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie once pointed out, all that most people know, is the single story of Africa—that of a starving warring continent. Indeed, I sometimes feel like scrambling for cover when my peers look at me, and wonder if my family had something to eat, or if a professor gently says, “I hope your family is fine. I hear there's a famine in Kenya.” Their concern does not anger me, but the status quo does. Living in my bubble, I had thought that the world was perfect; that we were all friends united in love. Stepping out of my bubble has had its consequences: I now know that the world excels far more preserving inequalities.

At Dartmouth, my friends often joke that I'm the last to know about everything that takes place on this campus. Indeed, I didn’t know about the infamous hazing incident until a friend brought it up. While Dartmouth students are often accused of living in the Dartmouth bubble, I stand far more accused. I live in a bubble within a bubble. Nevertheless, my bubbles burst with each new experience that reifies my friend’s words. If I had to rewrite my college application, I would concede that the naiveté of living in my bubble hardly made me a critical thinker, or the leader that Dartmouth set out to mold. Instead, with the benefit of hindsight, I would write how my bubble has burst so far, and how I strive to live in and impact a world that does not conform to my ideals.

Still smiling. My soul clings to You. Your right hand supports me (Psalm 63:8)

Why Jesus is the Answer

The question of identity and acceptance torments many people. In my class this fall, I am learning about the Turkish community in Germany, and the general problems that immigrants face while trying to intergrate into the host community. Their challenges mirror the hardships that second-generation African-Americans and second-generation Asians experience when they emigrate to America. It’s the same dilemma that President Obama faced, leading him to author his now famous memoir Dreams from My Father.

In learning about these immigrant issues, I vowed that I would not allow my children to grow up in a foreign country. Since God has given me Kenya, then they must grow up in Kenya, speak Kenyan, ultimately forge a Kenyan identity. I did not see this any other way around. The last thing I wanted was to have my kids growing up unaccepted in a foreign community. But then, something happened.

I attend this amazing little church in Berlin called Christliche Glaubensgemeinde, Berlin (CGG-Berlin). The congregation is international, representing all continents in one small crowd. I love this little place, not just for the Word of God that I receive, but also for the kind of community they have forged. Yes, they have their different cultures, different ideas, but they all share and celebrate one thing—Jesus Christ. And the pastor was very vocal about it, saying how the church loves and celebrates its diversity. And indeed, I have honestly never seen anything as beautiful as the spirit of love and acceptance that flourishes in this church.

I am truly thankful to God for having been at this church at such a time like this. My experience there has reminded me why Jesus must be the answer to the question of identity. When we come together in the Christian faith, we embrace our identities as sons of God. We are co-heirs with Christ, we are part of the Kingdom. It doesn’t matter who we are, or where we come from. Our identities fade in the light of the ultimate identity—that of being seekers of the kingdom, of being men and women after God’s own heart.

When we embrace this identity, we can be more patient with those struggling to understand themselves in a foreign land. If we are struggling with identity, then we will know where to turn to. So ultimately, it won't really matter who we are or where we come from. What matters is that Jesus lives in our hearts. And that is the identity that will really matter at the end of our lives.

Just Remember The Child

One of my favorite books, a fiction novel called The Shack, attempts to address the problem of suffering through a Christian point of view. In asking me to read the book, my mother hoped that I would learn how to deal with any future suffering or challenges that I may undergo. In the novel, the protagonist Mack is plunged into a “Great Sadness” after a serial killer abducts and murders his daughter, Missy. He remains an emotional wreck until God personally intervenes in his life. In reading The Brothers Karamazov and Immortality, just as in reading The Shack, I have come to appreciate the importance of God in shaping my understanding of suffering, and the meaning of a life-well-lived.

For most of my life, I never thought much about suffering. In fact, I tend not to philosophize much about anything. Whenever I would see a starving child on television, I would not ask God why he allowed the child to suffer. Instead, I would ask him to hasten my “growing up”, so that I could have enough resources to feed the child. Now I know that things will not be any easier when I finally “grow up”. Someone somewhere may always suffer, and my resources may not always be enough. Still, I must learn to confront suffering with the treasure that I have within me. Some people will choose to question the suffering in the world, yet refrain from answering it. Some, like Lize in The Brothers Karamazov, will construct their own suffering. Others, like Laura in Immortality, will think that their suffering exceeds the suffering of other people. For most of us, suffering will define our lives. Indeed, I am now convinced that my response to the suffering in my world will determine whether I will have lived my life well.

In my conversations with God concerning the starving child on TV, I never saw the need to question him. After reading and talking about suffering, I can see the reason for questioning him, but I still don’t see the need to. Although both Milan Kundera and Fyodor Dostoyevsky may hold different views from me, they seem to come up with alternatives to questioning God—cocooning oneself, challenging the world, and active love. Although I believe that all these approaches suit different people in different seasons of life, I still consider God an important part of my equation. What will matter at the end of my life is not how I questioned God, but how I chose to respond to the suffering in my world.

On 17th January of this year, a childhood friend of mine passed away. Interestingly, her death mirrors the Job story. Although she was a wonderful human being who loved God dearly, she still passed on. I remember calling my high school teacher on the day I received the news. “You won’t get much out of questioning God”, he advised me, “in fact, he may give you an answer that you don’t want to hear.” In thinking back on my teacher’s words, I have come to understand the wisdom in them. Suffering, in its many different forms, will always be with us. We may not get much out of questioning the world, God or ourselves. Indeed, I still find philosophizing a futile endeavor for me. Luckily, Kundera and Dostoyevsky have philosophized on my behalf. In so doing, they have helped to shape my death. Like Dostoyevsky, I want to practice active love until I die. Like Kundera, I want people to forget me after I die. Unlike both authors, however, I want people to remember a different kind of legacy from my life—I only want people to remember to feed the child I will have left behind.

Reading My Face

When I was younger, people often commented that I always seemed to be happy because I was ever smiling. What they failed to realize, however, was that my upper incisors were protruding and thus I would, more often than not, have my mouth in a fixed smile. Nevertheless, my face did not give any misconceptions. On most days I am filled with unexplainable joy, or I let my mind wander to a distant happy memory that involuntarily makes my lips curl into a smile.

As I gradually stepped into the adult world, I discovered new facial expressions. In this world, my smile fizzled into a frown, which I thought signified wisdom and knowledge. I cringed when embarrassed, trembled when anxious, furrowed my eyebrows when uncertain, and even had a distant look when I first fell in love. As is with the advent of age, I came to discover my true colors. The mask of my face became my ally in guarding my privacy and my true feelings.

No one can see the sad girl who sometimes hides behind the veil of joy and wisdom. Indeed no one can imagine that I have anxieties about my future life or that I am terrified of disappointing my parents. Even more important, no one realizes that I harbor a great hope and trust that all things eventually work out for the good. Luckily, my face affords me this luxury, which I hold dearly.

In spite of this evolution, my mask does not always hold true to its calling. Once during dinner at Collis Café, one of the cooks remarked, “You are always smiling!” I didn’t realize until then how effective my face had been in giving him a glimpse of my personality. In just a little bit over two and a half weeks, a total stranger knows that I am easy-going and for the most part a happy person.





My smile, it turns out, takes precedence over the anxieties and insecurities, which, I am certain, will phase out with time. Despite discovering new masks and even undergoing orthodontic treatment, the smile of my childhood endures on to portray the most important things about me.

Living Like Jonathan

Jonathan said to David, “Go in peace, for we have sworn friendship with each other in the name of the LORD, saying, ‘The LORD is witness between you and me, and between your descendants and my descendants forever.’” Then David left, and Jonathan went back to the town. 1 Samuel 20:42

Every child with a Christian upbringing grows up listening to the story of David. According to the Bible, David was a feeble young man, who God used to accomplish great tasks. David was the youngest of his brothers, yet he killed a lion and single-handedly led to the victory of the Israelites in battle by killing Goliath. Israel was at the time being attacked by the Philistine nation, which had a mighty weapon-the giant Goliath. Every man in the army was terrified, but young David confronted the giant and saved Israel. Interestingly, the story of David does not strike a chord in my heart, as does the story of Jonathan, his best friend. His story is one I honor and deeply cherish, right from the time I did colorings of him in Sunday school, to the time I delivered my first sermon about him.

Jonathan was the son of the king of Israel, Saul. He also happened to be the best friend of his father’s primary enemy-David. David’s defeat of Goliath catapulted him to super-stardom, overshadowing the king’s. Filled with contempt for the spotlight that was on David, Saul set out to kill him. Jonathan, who ‘loved David more than he loved himself’, warned him Saul’s plans, thereby saving David from death. A power struggle ensued in the following years, resulting in the death of Saul and his entire household. David was established as king of all Israel. He did however, remember his friend Jonathan, and sought to find out if any of his family was still alive. Mephibosheth, Jonathan’s cripple son, was the only remaining member of the family, but David felt so much compassion for him on account of his father, that he invited him to eat at the king’s table all the days of his life. He also gave back to him all the land and servants of his grandfather, Saul. This story of love and karma is in many ways a reflection of my grund.

I am a middle child and I suffer from undiagnosed middle child syndrome. Some years back when my mother addressed a get-well-soon card to my sister, who had just had surgery, she forgot to write my name. I had always felt so forgotten that I learnt to work hard in school and get very good grades, which I believed, would attract my parents’ attention. My not so brilliant idea worked perfectly for years, until I realized that being in the limelight is not everyone’s destiny. My syndrome had surreptitiously spilled into every facet of my life, driving me ever so passionately to what I believed to be the ideal existence- a David in my own world.

The story of Jonathan has provided a source of solace for me throughout my life, albeit unconsciously. Growing up with him slowly sobered me into reality. When I colored a drawing of him in Sunday school, I didn’t know I was coloring the image of a man, whose life would lead to a defining moment in my own life. When I delivered a sermon about his life in my high school chapel, I knew then, that my life was slowly coming full circle.

Jonathan had a choice. He could betray his friend David and become king himself. It was his birthright after all. Yet he chose to remain true to their friendship, and his generation was rewarded for this act of faithfulness. Some of us were not born to be the stars, but to support the stars; to be faithful to them and steer them towards their destiny. I have encountered many stars in my short life, and my competitive spirit has had a very hard time accepting that I needed to be Jonathan to them. My obsessive desire to be the first in every examination was, in view of this fact, simply a product of my inner struggle for attention. What I needed to understand though, was that I could focus on helping others improve academically, and, in this respect, become like Jonathan.

Learning to live like Jonathan monumentally transformed my outlook on life. Of course I know that I do not live in 1000BC, and I have no Mephibosheth, who will come after me to benefit from my input in others’ lives. I am nevertheless filled with pleasure and peace when I consider that I can be, in essence, a musical note in someone’s symphony of life. My presence, I hope, will make the performance of that symphony, all the more fulfilling for him or her.

Das Schweigen Brechen: Meinungen zum Selbstmord

Letztes Jahr beging einen jungen Somalier Selbstmord. Die Annahme lag nah, dass er wegen der Schwierigkeiten im Leben aus Viewpark Towers sprang. Dieses Trimester haben wir über eine Mutter, die sich getötet hat, gehört. Sie hat unter Armut gelitten, deswegen hätte sie ihr das Schulgeld für ihre Kinder nicht leisten können.

Infolge dieser Vorfällen, habe ich mich gefragt: Wie werden Leute so anstrengend bis sie sich umbringen? Ich vermute, dass ich die Antwort weiβ.

Ich leide an Depression. Einerseits bin ich glücklich, andererseits, traurig. Ich konnte nicht darauf vorbereiten. Ganz plötzlich errinere ich mich an alles, was in meinem Leben nicht stimmt. Ich quäle mich mit dem Gedanken an die Einschüchterung während meiner Kindheit. Eingedenk meiner Freunden, denen ich nicht vertrauen können hätte. Ich wird ganz allein. Niemand weiβ, wie ich etwa durchlebe. Depression ist eine schlimme Krankheit. Man wird sehr traurig, sehr anstrengend und hat kein Angst mehr vor dem Tod. Man konnte sich einfach töten, es fragt nur wann und wie.

Würden mehre Leute über Selbstmord sprechen! Keine Person steht einen Tag auf und sagt aus, dass sie sich umbringen wollte. Nur die geistig behinderte Leute geben solchen Gedanken Raum. Mir gehört zu dieser Gruppe.

Um sich das Leben zu nehmen, braucht man groβen Mut. Eine Person soll vollig überzeugt, dass ihres Lebens nicht mehr froh wird. In diesem Zustand konnte man dann das Leben ein Ende macht.

Trotz meiner Selbstmordgedanken, fürchte ich mich vor dem Tod. Ich bin ein Feigling, aber anhand meiner Feiglingkeit, bin ich noch am Leben.

Ich bin der Auffasung, dass alle Pflicht daran sind, wenn eine Person sich um die Ecke bringen. Jede Person hat eine Unterstützungsystem; nicht nur unsere Familie sondern auch die Menschen, die um uns sind. Obgleich wir für unsere Nachbarn sorgen sollten, denken wir nur an unsere Leben. Wir sind so blind dass wir nicht sehen können, woran Andere leiden. Nach dem Tod eine Person, errineren wir uns an ihr Leben. Wir stellen Fragen über ihr Leben. Da wir an die Frohlichkeit des Lebens glauben, beurteilen wir ihre Taten. In Wahrheit könnten wir ihr Leben nicht erfahren, ihr Pein erleben. Die Antwort liegt nicht an Beurteiligung. Wir sollten uns fragen ,Was hätte ich Verschiedens machen können? ‘ Sich zu blamieren ist nicht genug. Wir wissen den Grund ihrer Taten nicht. Eine gute Möglichkeit wäre, dass sie alle Hoffnungen hätten verlieren können. Ihr Leben war so leer, sie konnten sich nicht mehr entspannen, das Leben nicht mehr genieβen.


Also, wenn Sie von einem Selbstmord hören, statt plötzlich dem Schluβ zu kommen, fragen Sie sich ,Kenne ich jemanden, dem ich helfen kann?’ Wenn Sie niemand kennen, dann errineren Sie sich an Freundlichkeit. Erzählen Sie Ihrer Familie und Freunde von deiner Liebe! Seien Sie dankbar und empfänglich für sie! Sie wissen nicht, ob seine Wörter sie vor Selbstmord schützen werden!