A profound historical legacy, an idyllic downtown, and an inefficient public hospital–Nuremberg has a lot to offer.
I’ll focus on the final aspect of this trifecta, and leave the rest for breathless guidebooks. Coming to Germany, I thought little of its healthcare system. I had heard good things, and didn’t expect to need it. But when an ear-ache went from “I’m probably just tired” to “maybe I need a doctor,” I found myself approaching a gray building in central Nuremberg that housed one of the city’s main hospitals. I went in, walked through several corridors looking for someone who spoke English, and emerged in another linoleum hallway, unsuccessful. Along the way, I picked up some German: urologie, ophtalmologie, kardiologie. The cognates might have helped me navigate a chronic disease. But for a simple earache? I was on my own.
I found someone who spoke English and kindly offered to help me find the right people. We arrived at an office, where my visit produced almost 15 pages of paperwork. Another hallway, another waiting room. I sat. And waited. Thirty minutes in, a nurse came and took me to an examination room. Finally, I thought. I had an interview scheduled for later in the afternoon, and I was looking forward to getting the problem resolved.
But I had to wait a bit more. The hospital wing seemed to only have one doctor for a number of patients. No problem, I first thought. It wouldn’t be too long I assumed, and I could find something to do. An hour went by. I studied a diagram of the ear hanging on the wall. Now, I can confidently assert my multilingual knowledge of the mittel-ohr (middle ear) and its workings–a skill I hope I never need, and one that is a bit difficult to capitalize on when the rest of my German is “hello,” “thank you,” and “cardiologist” (a phrase from earlier that afternoon). When I’d mastered the intricacies of German medical vocabulary, I began to grow concerned. “Where was the doctor?” I asked a nurse. He had no idea.
After two hours of waiting, she appeared. Asking if I spoke English or Spanish, I opted for Spanish, and she told me about her background as a Honduran medic now working in Germany. Within five minutes, we finished the appointment. I was perfectly fine, if a little exasperated at the three hours I had spent.
While the situation for me was largely only frustrating, and ultimately very easily resolved, it highlighted the institutional barriers many non-German speakers face. In an interview later that day, I was told there are often few translators for some languages, leaving many asylum seekers in Germany reliant on an individual person for asylum interpretation, translation at the doctor, and assistance with daily life. If that individual has any biases against them, particularly in the case of LGBTQ+ asylum seekers, basic necessities can become all the more difficult to navigate. We are used to our first language being readily at our disposal. To have this not be the case reminded me of the importance of translation in the migration process–an issue often under-discussed in policymaking surrounding refugees.
At the same time, my doctor’s experience as a Honduran migrant underscored the duality of status in Germany. The country has spent the past few years working to recruit skilled workers to end scarcities in areas like the medical sector, however, many migrants report poor treatment and immense racism, dissuading others from moving to the state. I think about the wing of the hospital, single-handedly served on a Sunday afternoon by one migrant doctor. Immigrants are critical to Germany. What will happen if their value isn’t widely recognized?
The rest of the day was more enjoyable, spent interviewing an LGBTQ+ asylum activist and exploring Nuremberg. Unfortunately, the doctor’s visit prevented me from attending some of our scheduled programming. But this earache and empty hospital also taught me lots about the state of migration in a changing country.
