Original subtitles

Dear Tanimola.

Dear Tanimola. Saudade...

"Forget about saudade and carry on!"

That's what my Dad always says when I'm missing home.

His name is Anivaldo,

but everyone calls him by his nickname:

Ni.

Dear Tanimola, Saudade...

Saudade is a Portuguese word.

Strange isn't it?

Maybe those lines written in German aren't really your thing,

but who knows?

My Mum always says:

"Você tem saudade só quando você ama."

"Saudade only afflicts those who love ."

I'm going to paint here.

But it's tough.

It has turned out really nice, though!

My Mum's name is Ilca.

She's been married to my Dad for 55 years.

They have five children, four of them live in Germany.

My brother and I had a good time, when we came to Berlin,

But it was also quite tough.

It had only been eight years since German reunification.

We made friends in squats,

went to basement parties

and Russian discos.

Besides learning the language, we also had to figure out

how to heat our apartment with damp coal.

Today, we live in Munich.

Which food item has an entire museum dedicated to it in Munich?

Which food item has an entire museum dedicated to it in Munich? Beer, bread or potato?

Beer, bread or potato?

Bread?

The potato Museum opened in 1996.

It is the only one of its kind in the world

devoted exclusively to the potato in art and art history.

How old is the oldest functioning pub in Munich?

Older than 125 years?

Older than 368 years?

Older than 565 years?

A, B or C?

B!

Older than 368 years?

Yes!

It was founded in 1440.

So, older than 556 years.

Exactly, that's what I said.

No, you said B.

I said C.

Bah. Rejected. You're going to be deported soon.

You've failed to integrate.

When I emigrated, there was a really optimistic atmosphere in Brazil.

The country's democracy was only 13 years old.

But my parents didn't trust the sense of euphoria;

they encouraged us to go abroad.

Twenty years later, my country is under threat from fascism.

It's caught up in a war of ideology

between right and left,

poor

and rich.

The area I grew up in is now a gentrified part of town in Porto Alegre.

Previously home to dairy farmers and working class families

it's now full of luxury houses.

There are high walls,

security guards,

watch dogs.

Children no longer play in the street, like I used to.

The house I was born in is still there.

Right in the middle of this transformed area.

I made some rice pudding.

I'll take it with me.

Of course, it's delicious.

Did you just make it?

Yes, it's still nice and warm.

Then bring me some, please!

Dear Tanimola.

Eu tenho saudade de um tempo.

I miss a particular period of time.

I miss the scent of the plants.

That's arruda.

herb-of-grace.

It helps to ward off evil spirits.

I planted this one after my mother suffered a stroke.

It was meant to protect her and my father.

Look, this is how you have to do it each time.

Otherwise, it'll pull here and break there.

Learn from me while I'm still alive.

My mother was completely paralysed on her right side.

I left everything behind in Germany to be there for her.

Over time, she was able to walk again.

Maybe arruda also helped.

It turned out quite nice, don't you think?

It's fun, right?

Living between two worlds

is the compromise my siblings and I found in order to help our parents.

That's saudade.

You are physically present

while your mind is somewhere else.

Check it out, what a cute guy!

Where?

She's lying!

Carla, that time I got lost... Did you tell Denize?

Cassia wanted to buy chicken.

It was winter.

Then a couple noticed that I was really cold.

They took me to their place.

And you couldn't speak any German?

No, the only thing I could say was: "Fischlabor".

Was it a restaurant?

A pub where we worked as cleaners.

Would you come to Germany again?

Yes, I would.

I'm not so sure.

It has been worth it. We continued our studies, we have a job but...

I think I'd have managed to do the same back at home.

And now I keep thinking of our parents, who are getting older...

We could just go back now.

But it's not easy to just go back, Cassia.

It is true, we didn't prepare ourselves for it.

Nobody does, because when we are young,

you don't think about growing older.

Dear Tanimola,

would you have emigrated even if you knew what Saudade brings?

Longing isn't the right word for it.

It's more than that.

Saudade is a feeling that grows in our heart.

For example: Saudade for a family warmth.

Saudade is to...

I'm not sure how to explain it...

It is emotionally draining?

Yes, absolutely. It's really emotional.

That's why it's a bad thing.

For many people, it's a bad thing.

But others don't mind it.

And you?

I don't mind it.

It's good for me.

I recently read this sentence:

"Saudade makes time stand still."

Saudade doesn't make time stand still.

It just renews time.

But time doesn't stand still.

In Germany I learned to love the weather.

The cold somehow reassures me.

But what I really miss is the taste of papayas.

They arrive in Germany from Brazil and are always green.

They never taste like they do at home.

But I eat them anyway:

Para matar a saudade.

To kill saudade.

As an teenager I wanted to capture everything with my camera.

Here is where the asphalt ended, and a sand path began.

I had a VW Beetle with wide wheels, I stepped on the gas...

My VW Beetle had wide wheels. It never got stuck in the sand.

The sand path led to the coast.

There was our small beach house.

During the summer holidays, it was paradise on earth.

I loved making up stories...

My parents loved being my actors.

Turn around again! Cross your feet!

What a cool guy you are!

Secretly I dreamed of becoming a filmmaker.

But I was to scared to voice my ambitions.

In Brazil you learn that very early on:

To kill your dreams before they can even take shape.

Years later in Germany

I discovered I could make films after all

When my father had a stroke one year after my mother,

he had to move into a nursing home.

Suddenly I was unable to sleep at night.

In Portuguese, we have this saying:

Morrer de Saudade.

To die of saudade.

Hello.

How are you, Mum?

I'm well. It's just my legs...

They take a long time to respond.

Are you taking your medication?

Yes.

Is your blood pressure okay?

I'm doing everything right.

Soon you'll have to take over and hold the fort.

And how is Dad?

Your Dad is fine, Denize. We're going to visit him this afternoon.

That's great, Mum.

I've not heard anything from him today. But I'm sure he's fine, just like yesterday.

Do they take good care of him?

Yes, they do.

I can't take care of him anymore.

If I could, he'd be here with me, but...

I know, Mum...

But is he really doing well?

He is not alone at night.

Okay.

He receives a wash every evening. They take care of him.

Okay?

That's how it is...

I can't ask for more.

Yes.

Where are you?

At home.

Mum, I haven't called you much recently.

Do you know why?

I have to organise so many things so that I can come home.

Don't worry about it.

And if I call too often, I get nervous.

It's too much for me, you know?

But I'm always thinking of you...

It's fine.

When I was young, my Dad told me that

Saudade was invented by the African gods

the Orishas.

To remind the people where they're from and who they are.

There was a time when our ancestors were enslaved.

They were forced to forget their loved ones, their home and their heritage.

I have this recurring dream:

I get in the tram in Munich

and just a few minutes later I arrive in my parents' place in Porto Alegre.

One, two, three, go!

May I?

Done, you can sit down.

These shoes are great.

They are great.

They keep my feet warm, you know?

I brought your hat, too.

Ah, you have my hat?

Do you know where we are?

What?

Do you know where we are?

If I know where we are?

Yes.

We're leaving the care home.

But don't ask me where we exactly are.

Are you doing your prayers, Dad?

Every day.

How nice.

How do you pray?

I say the Lord's Prayer.

Would you like to pray now?

I can do it.

Then let us pray.

In the meantime in Germany our family has grown.

But it's been ages since we all sat around the dinner table together.

There's always someone missing.

I was the one who always wanted to leave the country.

Were the tickets very expensive back then?

Yes, very. Almost as much as a new car.

Poor people didn't fly in those days.

When we asked travel agencies how much a flight to Berlin cost, they just said:

"It's too expensive for you."

Then Dad said: "I'm not asking you whether it's too expensive.

I just want to know how much it is."

When I arrived at the airport in Berlin, the family didn't even bother picking me up.

That's when my ordeal began.

I worked very hard.

I don't want this time back.

Denize, when are you going to Brazil?

On Wednesday.

So soon?

You've got to make an appointment with the cardiologist.

On the 16th, there's the appointment with the neurologist.

There is also the tax return.

He doesn't have to pay taxes anymore.

Okay.

Don't cry!

I have saudade.

Not because of Brazil,

but there are two people over there whom I love.

Mum,

do you like me to come back home?

Yes.

Do you think I can find a job here?

You can do it!

For me, the worst type of Saudade

is the deep longing for someone you love.

Saudade de uma pessoa amada.

This feeling comes always with the fear

you might never see the loved one again.

Dear Tanimola,

how can I return to a place

which no longer exists as it does in my memories?

Look, how Mini is jumping around!

I am longing for a future

that is unattainable.

Saudade...

Denize, who is this Tanimola you keep writing to?

Tanimola is a Youruba name

a Nigerian friend gave me.

It means:

Who knows the future?