Kim
Benjamin
Leist
I was born on the 14th of April 1978 in Düsseldorf, Germany. My father was not present. Raised by my mother, a shy, very loving, and sincere woman, I grew up in modest circumstances (for a privileged white boy in Western Germany) but well protected, you could say. Besides the affection and love that my mother gave me throughout her life, I am grateful to her above all for one thing; she never gave me a bad image of my father. She simply told me the truth. She described him as a complex, energetic, charming, loving person with an engaging, not always easy character and a good and strong heart. I must say, it was always normal to me that my father did not live with us. At least, it was not an issue for me for a long time, not even for those around me.
My mother died a few years ago, after suffering from Parkinson’s disease, for some time in a hospital in Düsseldorf, Kaiserswerth. Until the last day, she had not lost the ability to feel joy and love. I have always loved my mother, but I have also often wished that she had not been quite so tender and modest. Only later, during her illness, I realized how strong my mother was in reality and how much it takes not to lose your essence in a world that often acts very roughly and takes little consideration.
I did not meet my father until 2015 in Iruma-Shi, Japan, where he still lives. That was about three years after I tracked down my half-brother in Scotland. I would say it was just natural and pure curiosity when I was in my twenties, the first time I actively searched for my father, that must have been about 2002. I wanted to know who fathered me together with my mother and what I have or what I do not have in common with him. In addition, I felt that his decision to leave my mother, me, and later also his family in Scotland behind burdened him very much. And I had a deep need to tell him that, as far as I am concerned, I understand him and everything is fine as it is.
April 2012, we agreed to spend at least two days searching for my father. Everyone was excited about this mission, and I admittedly, a little excited. There were four of us in total. Since I still had air miles leftover from my training days as a photographer and not much money, I booked another later flight to Edinburgh, Scotland. So my friends were already waiting for me. We went straight to the car rental agency and bypassed Charleston, a small village northwest of Edinburgh. I had some photos, the names of my father, half-siblings, their mother, and an old address, where they have lived all together, before and after he has spent years looking for work around Germany and Europe. From my research in 2002, I knew that neither he nor the other family members still lived there, but it was my only clue since I had been unable to find out anything else at the time.
In Charleston, we didn’t get anywhere far, we were at the right place (the address was not very clear), but nobody knew anything about the whereabouts of my father and his Scottish family. An officer dressed in jeans and a check shirt at the local police station advised us to drive to the nearby county seat to check the town hall to see if any family member had registered as a voter. At Perth City Hall, we spent what felt like an eternity looking through cardboard voter lists to see if we could spot a name. Unfortunately, the lists were sorted by street name and not by family name. A friend discovered, finally, the name of my brother’s mother.
Now I was excited for real, did she know about me? Will she be friendly to me, or the opposite? The first time I didn’t say first that I was looking for my father, I gave his name, and only after that, I explained that he was my father. Eileen was so wonderful to me; she invited me in and told me that my brother also lived in the city and asked if she should call him. They had not been in contact with my father for ten years. At that moment, it was not even a big disappointment. I had a brother, now for real. At the time, my friends were waiting in the car. And I guess my brother almost fell off his chair when his mother called him in his office because, unlike me, he didn’t know that he had a brother in Germany.
We arranged to meet later at his home. My friends and I had dinner and then went to meet my brother and his family. Exactly six and a half hours after I landed in Edinburgh, we were sitting in the flesh in my brother’s living room, me on an armchair across from him and the other three on the couch. After only a few moments, it was clear that blood is indeed thicker than water. An indescribable moment that lasted for days and never quite faded. In 2015 in Japan, I was able to feel and experience the whole thing again when I met my father for the first time.
I did my apprenticeship with Rüdiger Nehmzow (born 1966 in Ansbach, died 2019 in Düsseldorf). I have seen much of the world and learned a lot at his side, for which I am still grateful today. After the apprenticeship, I stayed for several more years, accompanied him as an assistant on countless trips, and supported him in his office in Düsseldorf. That was a very formative time, and Rüdiger was one of the most important people in my life.
I am now 43 years old, have graduated from high school, have cried, have laughed, have celebrated, and have fallen in love. The latter was 17 years ago now. Darja was dancing in a sequined top and tight jeans on the dance floor of the Harpune, a former club in Düsseldorf. And I, fortunately, did not miss her. A good friend gave me another hint; I approached her and still love her very much today. We do not have children.
I was born on the 14th of April 1978 in Düsseldorf, Germany. My father was not present. Raised by my mother, a shy, very loving, and sincere woman, I grew up in modest circumstances (for a privileged white boy in Western Germany) but well protected, you could say. Besides the affection and love that my mother gave me throughout her life, I am grateful to her above all for one thing; she never gave me a bad image of my father. She simply told me the truth. She described him as a complex, energetic, charming, loving person with an engaging, not always easy character and a good and strong heart. I must say, it was always normal to me that my father did not live with us. At least, it was not an issue for me for a long time, not even for those around me.
My mother died a few years ago, after suffering from Parkinson’s disease, for some time in a hospital in Düsseldorf, Kaiserswerth. Until the last day, she had not lost the ability to feel joy and love. I have always loved my mother, but I have also often wished that she had not been quite so tender and modest. Only later, during her illness, I realized how strong my mother was in reality and how much it takes not to lose your essence in a world that often acts very roughly and takes little consideration.
I did not meet my father until 2015 in Iruma-Shi, Japan, where he still lives. That was about three years after I tracked down my half-brother in Scotland. I would say it was just natural and pure curiosity when I was in my twenties, the first time I actively searched for my father, that must have been about 2002. I wanted to know who fathered me together with my mother and what I have or what I do not have in common with him. In addition, I felt that his decision to leave my mother, me, and later also his family in Scotland behind burdened him very much. And I had a deep need to tell him that, as far as I am concerned, I understand him and everything is fine as it is.
April 2012, we agreed to spend at least two days searching for my father. Everyone was excited about this mission, and I admittedly, a little excited. There were four of us in total. Since I still had air miles leftover from my training days as a photographer and not much money, I booked another later flight to Edinburgh, Scotland. So my friends were already waiting for me. We went straight to the car rental agency and bypassed Charleston, a small village northwest of Edinburgh. I had some photos, the names of my father, half-siblings, their mother, and an old address, where they have lived all together, before and after he has spent years looking for work around Germany and Europe. From my research in 2002, I knew that neither he nor the other family members still lived there, but it was my only clue since I had been unable to find out anything else at the time.
In Charleston, we didn’t get anywhere far, we were at the right place (the address was not very clear), but nobody knew anything about the whereabouts of my father and his Scottish family. An officer dressed in jeans and a check shirt at the local police station advised us to drive to the nearby county seat to check the town hall to see if any family member had registered as a voter. At Perth City Hall, we spent what felt like an eternity looking through cardboard voter lists to see if we could spot a name. Unfortunately, the lists were sorted by street name and not by family name. A friend discovered, finally, the name of my brother’s mother.
Now I was excited for real, did she know about me? Will she be friendly to me, or the opposite? The first time I didn’t say first that I was looking for my father, I gave his name, and only after that, I explained that he was my father. Eileen was so wonderful to me; she invited me in and told me that my brother also lived in the city and asked if she should call him. They had not been in contact with my father for ten years. At that moment, it was not even a big disappointment. I had a brother, now for real. At the time, my friends were waiting in the car. And I guess my brother almost fell off his chair when his mother called him in his office because, unlike me, he didn’t know that he had a brother in Germany.
We arranged to meet later at his home. My friends and I had dinner and then went to meet my brother and his family. Exactly six and a half hours after I landed in Edinburgh, we were sitting in the flesh in my brother’s living room, me on an armchair across from him and the other three on the couch. After only a few moments, it was clear that blood is indeed thicker than water. An indescribable moment that lasted for days and never quite faded. In 2015 in Japan, I was able to feel and experience the whole thing again when I met my father for the first time.
I did my apprenticeship with Rüdiger Nehmzow (born 1966 in Ansbach, died 2019 in Düsseldorf). I have seen much of the world and learned a lot at his side, for which I am still grateful today. After the apprenticeship, I stayed for several more years, accompanied him as an assistant on countless trips, and supported him in his office in Düsseldorf. That was a very formative time, and Rüdiger was one of the most important people in my life.
I am now 43 years old, have graduated from high school, have cried, have laughed, have celebrated, and have fallen in love. The latter was 17 years ago now. Darja was dancing in a sequined top and tight jeans on the dance floor of the Harpune, a former club in Düsseldorf. And I, fortunately, did not miss her. A good friend gave me another hint; I approached her and still love her very much today. We do not have children.