Berlin – Sergej has brought a black notebook with him, a calendar in which he makes notes. After all, a lot has happened in his life. “A lot of bad things, but also good things,” says the 31-year-old. The bad came with the drugs, cocaine, heroin, which is one of the reasons why he uses the calendar. “To remind me,” says Sergei. “It is the fault of all the material that I am so bogged down.”
The counseling room in which he has just sat down and which is located in the outpatient clinic for integrated drug help (AID) on Kochstrasse stands for the good in his life. Sergej comes here to Kreuzberg every day to take his medication, which makes him independent of the substance and viable. “If I can’t come back here, it would be a disaster.”
The disaster is near. On December 31st, the lease between the Berlin emergency service provider and the Malteser Foundation ends. Since the termination nine months ago, AID has been looking for accommodation, calling brokers and only receiving rejections. At the latest when they declare that they are taking care of heroin addicts medically and psychologically, trying to lead them back to a stable life.
Berlin’s addiction officers did what they could, say ambulance staff. However, it was not in the power of Christine Köhler-Azara to procure a property. There was no signal from Health Senator Dilek Kalayci (SPD). Your colleague in the social department, Elke Breitenbach (left), is now opening up a perspective: Accommodation made of containers at the Anhalter Bahnhof. Limited in time until a workable solution can be found that is affordable. The ambulance is financed by the state. The treatments are paid for by the health insurance company, the AOK.
Addiction help could be found at the Anhalter Bahnhof
Sergej would also come to the Anhalt Railway Station. He needs the ambulance, not only because of the medication, but also because of the psychological care. Almost all of the 350 or so patients who are cared for on Kochstrasse not far from Checkpoint Charlie are mentally ill. Mostly the battered soul led to addiction. Sergei had a difficult childhood. “I was abused,” he says.
He became really addicted in prison and initially took Subutex, a drug substitute. Back in freedom, a compatriot brought him to the needle. Sergej is a late repatriate, born in Kazakhstan. Four years ago the mother died, shortly afterwards the brother, the addiction intensified, money became scarce. “I needed 40 or 50 euros a day for fabric,” says Sergej. Addicts often slide into the crime of acquisitions.
Sergei ransacked the account he shared with his girlfriend. He lied, lied, lied. “Like a raven.” Thanks to the friend, the turning point came. With her he went to the ambulance. Sergej flips through the calendar: “On November 15, 2018.” It will be an anniversary soon.
First, Sergei was examined. “We always take a drug history, but also a completely normal anamnesis, a check-up like at the family doctor,” says Annika Willoh, who is on duty in the ambulance that morning. She is wearing a blue tunic and is standing in her boss’ treatment room. The Kochstrasse underground station can be seen through the large windows. The boss is not there, giving training. Another doctor is part of the team. Eight social workers work here. “We don’t just do substitution,” says Willoh.
Often the patients suffer from an infection through the use of contaminated syringes, HIV or hepatitis C. This is everyday life in the ambulance. And just working on the trauma. Willoh says: “You need an appropriate room for therapeutic discussions.” Containers cannot offer that, but in the meantime the doctor would be delighted if at least this emergency solution came about. Time is running out.
More than 6000 heroin addicts are cared for in Berlin
That is why they will demonstrate this Monday at the intersection of Kochstrasse and Friedrichstrasse and block traffic for five minutes. The posters have been painted and are ready. “This is our house,” it says on one. It is the largest house of its kind in Berlin. There are other outpatient clinics in Neukölln, Friedrichshain and Lichtenberg. Some general practitioners also look after addicts. The need is great. More than 6000 heroin addicts are cared for in Berlin.
Patients even come to Kochstrasse from Brandenburg, “because there are bottlenecks in addiction support there,” says Willoh. You come by underground, take the S-Bahn to Anhalter Bahnhof. Just like the homeless among the heroin addicts. Schöneberg is close, the red light district. The ambulance has been an institution for addicts at the checkpoint for 20 years, but Nothilfe Berlin would accept any other location. He should be easily accessible. And big enough, around 300 square meters, to fit all of the treatment and consultation rooms. And of course the room in which the medicines are dispensed. The one in Kreuzberg is reminiscent of a bank counter from the seventies. Two women stand behind glass panes. Computers tell them the preparation and dosage for the patient.
Sergei was here earlier too. Now he says hello to Annika Willoh. He confided in her with his childhood trauma, abuse. “It worked better with a woman,” he says. It took a while for it to open. Sergej says: “Until they cracked me.” Now he wants to be the one who cracks someone in politics and achieves something on the overheated housing market. He will be demonstrating on Monday. He has already done a lot, telephoned a lot, talked to district politicians who were willing to listen to him, just no premises. This can be provided by Berliner Immobilienmanagement GmbH (BIM), which manages the state’s own portfolio of properties. Talks are ongoing.
Sergej himself has a roof over his head. “Assisted living.” That’s where he’s going again, calendar in hand, his reminder for the future. 2022 is written on it.
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