Bangert Dreams and Visions

An Autobiographical Journey Across Five Continents
2. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-3-8192-8958-3
Verlag: BoD - Books on Demand
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 196 Seiten

"Dreams and Visions" is the autobiography of Dr. Kurt Bangert, theologian, poverty expert, public relations officer, and book author from Germany, who lived for extended years in Europe, America, Africa and Asia. The book recounts his numerous journeys to nearly 100 countries across five continents. Having already travelled around the world as a young man, his work as a development expert took him to countless cultures, from Malawi to Micronesia and from Mongolia to Papua New Guinea. He also shares his theological and ideological journey from a fundamentalist Christian to becoming a liberal theologian with an expertise on early Islam, on the social question and on the question of God.

Dr. theol. Kurt Bangert was born in Germany, studied theology in Tübingen, Marburg and the United States. He lived in the U.S., Burkina Faso, Malaysia, the Philippines and now again in Germany. For most of his professional life, he worked as an expert for development cooperation and public relations before becoming an author of numerous books and articles - on questions of poverty, theology, and comparative religion.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bangert, Kurt

Leseproben

Early Years

As a young boy, I had been a rather quiet soul—at least, that was how I saw myself. An introvert. A boy of few words. I had never been one to gather many friends around me. Prior to going to school, there had been one short friendship with a boy from the neighborhood, but he was never a close companion. In time, even his name faded from my memory.

At elementary school, solitude became my shadow. Yet solitude was not always a burden. Often, it felt like home. It wrapped around me like a familiar cloak, shielding me from the unspoken.

My parents were loving in their way—caring, dutiful—but they had never been taught the language of emotions, let alone their intrinsic value. In their household, feelings were unwelcome guests, acknowledged only to be dismissed. If my mother, my older brother Bernd, or I myself ever dared to speak of sorrow or unease, our father’s response was swift and resolute: “You don’t have to feel that way.” And so, we learned not to. Emotions were neither discussed nor examined; they were something to be avoided, ignored, erased. It was a legacy of the post-war times.

The war had ended not long before, but its shadow lingered. Our parents had emerged from its horrors, not unscathed but hardened. Our mother had lived through relentless bombardments, explosions tearing through the air, some perilously close. She had survived, outwardly untouched— lovely still, but quiet, timid. Our father had fought on both the French and Russian fronts, enduring the brutality of winters that swallowed men whole. (Image: Paul Bangert as Soldier)

In one bitter season, a Russian sharpshooter had nearly claimed his life. The bullet tore through one cheek and exited the other, shattering most of his lower teeth. He remembered thinking, with eerie admiration, “That was a perfect shot.” He was carried on a skeletal stretcher to a hospital, slipping between life and death, but he survived. And in the German army, survival meant submission—to duty, to command, to the unflinching suppression of fear. Emotion had no place in war. Nor, it seemed, in the home our father built afterward.

My father often spoke of his war years, his stories orbiting, again and again, around his time in Russia. The brutal winters, the endless marches, the near brushes with death. Leave was a rare luxury, and when granted, it never seemed enough. More than once, he overstayed his permitted days, choosing stolen moments of respite over duty—only to find himself imprisoned upon return.

Yet for all his service, he harbored no admiration for the man who had sent him to war. He despised Hitler—his ruthless militarism, his deceit, his intoxicating populism. To him, the Führer was a destroyer, not a savior. But our mother had seen a different side. To her, Hitler had been the leader who lifted Germany from the depths of the Great Depression, who had given the nation back its pride. In our household, the past was not just history—it was a fault line, running quietly beneath our lives.

My mother was a quiet soul with whom I deeply resonated. She was caring, loving, and self-sacrificing—often putting others before herself. Though at times emotional, her heart was always in the right place. A woman of deep faith, she remained steadfast in her religious values and lived them with quiet conviction. (Image: Else Bangert)

Both parents had endured harrowing times and, when the war finally ended, their greatest relief was simply being alive. They had married in the midst of the chaos, in 1942. My brother Bernd was born in early 1944; I saw the light of day in July 1946—a child of the fragile peace that followed the storm. (Image next page: Kurt and Bernd)

The post-war years were marked by hardship, by hunger, by an ever-present uncertainty about what the future might hold. Yet, compared to the war, they felt almost merciful. At least now, survival did not depend on the whim of bombs or the cruelty of the front. And with Hitler gone, there was a sense—perhaps fragile, but real—that things could only improve from now on.

Photographs from those early years tell the story without words. In the grainy black-and-white images, our parents appear gaunt, their faces drawn, their bodies thinned by years of deprivation. And yet, beside them, the two boys stand sturdy and well-fed. It was no accident. Our parents had made a silent, unwavering decision: Their children would not know hunger, not as they had. And so, while the boys ate their fill, mother and father scraped by on what little remained, wearing their sacrifices as quietly as they wore their tattered post-war clothes. (Image: Mother, Kurt, Father, Bernd)

My brother and I were, for the most part, well-behaved. But there was one incident—so vivid, so unforgettable—that it seared itself into our memories like an old scar.

It happened on a visit to a grandaunt’s rural home, somewhere on the outskirts of Mönchengladbach. The visit itself faded into obscurity, but this moment remained: While our parents lingered in conversation with the elderly woman, we both, weary from being patient listeners, wandered outside, eager to leave.

Near the house, we discovered a gaping, square hole in the ground, brimming with foul-smelling manure—a cesspool of rot and filth. Being about five years old at the time, I stood at its edge, staring into the bubbling muck, wrinkling my nose at the stench, when I sensed movement behind me. Turning, I met my brother Bernd’s smirking face, approaching me in silence.

I stepped aside, granting Bernd a clearer view of the pit. My brother peered in, curiosity replacing amusement as he studied the wretched mire. And then, with deliberate slowness, I took a step forward.

And pushed.

It was the gentlest of nudges, just enough to tip the balance.

Bernd toppled forward, flailing, but managed—just barely—to throw out his arms at the last moment, gripping the edges of the pit. The rest of him, however, was not so lucky. From the neck down, he was submerged in the thick, reeking sludge, only his shocked, spluttering face visible above the filth.

Hearing the commotion, our parents rushed outside to find Bernd, wide-eyed and sputtering, half-submerged in the murky filth. The farewell was forgotten; the visit, unintentionally prolonged. Clothes had to be washed, the shivering boy scrubbed clean, and then came the wait—for fabric to dry, for tempers to cool.

While Bernd endured the aftermath of his muddy ordeal, I found myself led away by my father, through the garden and out of sight. Father stopped, turned to me, and asked a simple question:

”Do you deserve punishment?”

Without hesitation, I admitted that I did.

A “good beating” followed. Corporal punishment was not only common in those days but considered a parental duty, a necessity for raising decent men. Father would often invoke scripture, citing Proverbs 13:24: “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him.”

A cane rested permanently atop the kitchen cabinet, always within reach, its mere presence a silent warning. Whether it was ever used on me, I cannot say with absolute certainty. More often than not, the threat was enough—a single wave of the cane, a sharp look, and mischief was abandoned.

My brother, however, was less fortunate. Bernd received his share of punishments, while I, quick-witted and nimble at times, found ways to slip free. I seemed to have a gift—one my father secretly admired. With a well-timed remark, a clever turn of phrase, I could make father laugh, and his laughter, more often than not, was my escape.

Perhaps that was why, despite everything, I remained father’s favorite.

Our parents were devout members of the conservative Seventh-day Adventist Church, a faith that set them apart in ways both subtle and profound. Unlike most people around us, who observed Sunday as the Lord’s Day, Adventists worshipped on Saturday—the Old Testament Sabbath. This distinction was more than a matter of scheduling; it was a conviction rooted in the belief that the Bible was the inerrant Word of God, to be interpreted literally and obeyed to the letter.

For Bernd and myself, this faith came at a cost. In those days, German schools still held classes on Saturdays, but our parents forbade us from attending. Instead, while our classmates sat at their desks, we were in church, listening to sermons, singing hymns, and marking ourselves as different. Our absence made us outsiders, setting us apart in a way that neither of us welcomed.

The practical consequences were just as burdensome. Each Monday, we returned to school having missed an entire day of lessons, forced to rely on classmates to relay assignments—an arrangement that was unreliable at best. Sometimes, the messages were incomplete; other times, they never arrived at all. And so, there were Mondays when we faced our teachers empty-handed, our unfinished homework a silent testimony to the faith that governed our lives.

Although a Catholic school stood just around the corner, our parents chose instead to send their boys to a Lutheran elementary school farther away. Each morning, we walked the mile-long journey, passing through streets still scarred by war. The bombings of September 1944 had left much of the area in ruins—houses reduced to rubble, blackened skeletons of buildings standing as silent witnesses to past devastation. But to me, this wasteland of shattered stone and ash...