The Mistake That Toppled the Berlin Wall

THE WALL WASN'T supposed to come down.

Günter Schabowski, a spokesperson for the East German Politburo, was tired. He hadn’t thoroughly read the travel regulation updates, handed to him shortly before his news conference. He didn’t know the document’s shifts in rhetoric, developed by leaders in the East German government, were simply an attempt to appease the swelling ranks of East Germans demanding reform. On Nov. 9, 1989, facing journalists’ cameras and notepads, Schabowski took questions for a forgettable almost-hour. Then someone asked about rumors the border may open.

Schabowski mumbled over his answer, confused. But a few of his words were clear: “Immediately ... right away.”

Reporters pounced. Breathless reports in West German media soon filtered over the wall through East Germans’ pirated signals. The Politburo had assured checkpoint guards that no changes had been made, but it was too late—a trickle of curious East Berliners quickly grew to massive crowds, yelling “Open the gate!” At a loss, and unable to get through to leadership for clarification or backup, the guards eventually gave in. Within hours, nearly 40 years of iron-fisted East-West divide was undone.

“One of the most momentous events of the past century was, in fact, an accident, a semicomical and bureaucratic mistake,” wrote historian M.E. Sarotte.

Berlin wears its history differently from any other European city—the result of careful, often-painful architectural choices to openly acknowledge its past (there is still graffiti in the Reichstag building from the Soviet forces who swept in as Nazism fell), while not celebrating it (Hitler’s “memorial” at his site of death is a plaque and a car park).

In the wake of Charlottesville and the debate in the U.S. about memorializing history, Berlin was held up as an example of a healthy way to “never forget” and never revere. When I was in Berlin in July, I saw Dunkirk in a theater with an enthusiastic, mostly young audience—interesting only for how utterly natural and unremarkable it felt. The next day I walked past the glass cupola topping the Reichstag, a symbol of democratic transparency and people’s watchful eye over their government. In many ways, the city indicates it has moved on.

But parts of the wall remain. At one spot, just beyond the replica of Coventry Cathedral’s Statue of Reconciliation, I peered through a slit on the Eastern side. Ahead of me stretched a grassy expanse—the “no man’s land”—and a guard tower. On the far wall were the scrawled words, “Our side never built a wall to keep its people in.”

The target of a wall’s control can change quickly. Few people believed the wall would be built—then, even while the East German government was building it, few knew it wouldn’t come with gates to freely pass through. Once up, few thought it would stay up long. For decades, those who risked their lives—and their dignity, freedom, and social standing—trying to escape were understood by some as foolhardy—tragic figures who risked everything for something patience or acquiescence could have solved.

READ: Dancing on the Grave of Division

But the wall came down, in part, because people believed the news and showed up. The Berlin Wall opened on Nov. 9, 1989—28 years after it was built, 27 years almost to the day before those threatening to build walls were voted in to lead our own U.S. government, and 28 years before Germany’s far-right party claimed 94 seats in the country’s parliament in this fall’s election.

It’s worth remembering, now, that while much destruction can come from human error, small mistakes can also sometimes course-correct for good. We’re entering Advent now, a season that teaches us, at the end of every year, how to pay attention for movements toward hope and transformation: “Watch, for you know not when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or in the morning; lest he come suddenly, and find you sleeping” (Mark 13:35-36).