Frau Mutter Renate

“𝙳𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑.”

𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚑 𝙰𝚕‑𝙱𝚊𝚚𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚑 𝟸:𝟺𝟸

𝙻𝚒𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚎, 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢.

Beyond seven hills, somewhere between the azure of the Baltic Sea, and between Russia and Ukraine, there lies a small country in Eastern Europe—which is actually more of a middle European country (Europe = continent, Poland = country). Thank you to all my American friends for attending the Geography Masterclass with me. Long time ago—perhaps not that long, really, for my grandmother was born in 1938 and, say, 2014, there lived a woman. There wasn’t a princess waiting for a prince to rescue her with a horse and a superiority complex. No, there was simply a woman who survived her time, her wars, and the absurdities of paperwork and fate.

This lady, upon reaching the age of eighteen, decided she would marry. She chose a fair-haired, blue-eyed man, with whom she bore two children: a son and a daughter. One might think a father would notice both, yet the daughter—my mother—was apparently never seen by him. Perhaps he never even knew she existed. And I tell you, it was deliberate; her father could, quite literally, believe whatever he wished. No DNA test necessary.

Returning to our story, the woman fled her first marriage, divorced, and moved to the seaside—thankfully, Poland does have a sea. She placed her daughter for adoption, and soon, she met a man ten years her junior. They married, yet fate, and the ineffable machinery of Polish bureaucracy, had other plans. Some discrepancy in the papers meant the man was, perhaps, underage at the time of the wedding. Three years later, the marriage was solemnised anew, this time in the capital, Warsaw. Whether children came of this union is unknown, and perhaps, some mysteries are best left unsolved.

She did not care what people thought of her. She did what she wanted. And even back then, that was revolutionary. In a bitterly Catholic country like Poland, my grandmother—well, let’s just say she was not viewed favourably. Among all the young women who scurried to church, my grandmother was free. She made the decision for herself: to be free. I recall that struggle within myself from the age of fifteen. I had bad luck with men. At first, I encountered men in their forties and fifties. Then I moved to Germany, and men in their fifties and sixties began to show me intense interest. One man even brought clothes from his daughter on a date and asked me to put them on. I was utterly devastated. I found his request outrageous. He was surprised that I found it revolting, that I was “too sterile” for him. He even declared me too sterile for Germany. In that moment, I might have had to agree with him. I began getting tattoos. You should know that in Poland, one could get a tattoo with parental consent at sixteen—or even fifteen, though I am not entirely sure. I do not wish to mislead you. In Germany, it is strictly from the age of eighteen. So I started with tattoos. Yet it did little to deter the men. Due to my forty-kilogram, 1.60-metre figure, many men assumed I was much younger and insisted I call them “Daddy” in bed. And me? I swear, had I believed in Jesus, I could have entered a convent immediately. One day, I decided to undergo breast augmentation. And how joyous I was, as all the older men finally backed off. But then another problem emerged. I began attracting notoriously young lads—milkboys, far too young for me. Despite everything, I managed to build a rather interesting life for myself in Germany. I travelled across the country with friends and colleagues, and at one point, I had an older man almost as a best friend. We had nothing romantic between us, although every time he drank too much, he would make advances. And each time, I politely declined. Until one day, I said to him, “Michi, if you do not stop proposing to me, one day you will wake up married to me.” Amusingly, all his friends assumed we were already married. This man taught me a great deal, and I believe, in some ways, he “Germanised” me. He took me to Austria, explained so much to me, and perhaps that is why, today, I am more German than I ever could be Polish.

But back to the story. I wanted to move forward. The world was open. So I called one of my friends, and we flew to Spain. Spain was truly beautiful. I will always miss Bilbao and Zaragoza. But living there? No, thank you. I went on to Italy—until Europe, in general, began to call to me. I flew to Paris. At the border control, I was asked, “Ma’am, do you have a visa?” I stared at the officer, shocked. “Visa for what? I come from Poland. I only need my ID card.” “No, Ma’am, you must have a visa.” I asked Siri if Poland was still in Europe. I had already lived in Germany for five years; one might easily forget if their own country had left the European Union. Thankfully, it had not. While there, I met a man younger than me—far too young. I only realised the age difference after we had been intimate. It left me feeling terrible. I suffered from stomach cramps for two days. During the same trip, I met a Muslim man from Morocco who had grown up in France. I spent two wonderful days in Paris with him and his friend. The only issue was that we had some religious differences. Let’s leave it at that. I then flew back to Germany. Years passed, and, in the meantime, I endured multiple assaults. After the second, my life fell apart in ways that were almost… theatrical. As you may know, I briefly wrestled with alcohol, until I Found my way to Judaism. A Jewish friend, wisely—or perhaps mischievously—advised me not to think about converting until I had actually set foot in Israel. I had never left Europe alone before, and none of my acquaintances were willing to accompany me. So I deliberated for a long time whether this was a sensible move. Eventually, two friends came together and, for my birthday, gifted me a fully paid flight and hostel. At that point, excuses were no longer possible; I had to board the plane. And here begins the absurdity: anyone who has flown with eLAL will know it is not a company that fosters calm or dignity. The first words from a man at the Berlin check-in counter were, quite bluntly, “Ma’am, are you a prostitute?” I blinked, unsure if I had heard correctly. “Excuse me?”

He repeated, more insistent: “Ma’am, can I book you? Are you a prostitute?”

“No,” I replied, “I am a cleaning lady.” And indeed, that was my occupation at the time.

He stared at me incredulously. “Ma’am, I truly don’t believe you. I think you are a prostitute.”

I experienced a panic attack. Looking back, my first thought was: I no longer wish to undertake this trip. Even having paid for it, I was suddenly consumed by the absurdity of the situation. My questions, instead, were practical: “Am I accused of something? Do I require a lawyer?” I landed in Bodicek, sharing the flight with a Ukrainian girl, who admitted she had received similarly bizarre questions. Some relief washed over me; I was not alone in this lunacy. Years later, I learned never to fly with LAL—or from Berlin, for that matter. But that is a tale for another time.

On my fourth trip to Israel, a place that felt almost preternaturally like home, I travelled to Nazareth. There, I encountered a man: attractive, intelligent, astonishingly composed for his age. Fascination gripped me—until I discovered he was five years younger than I. Instantly, the intrigue dissolved into a peculiar maternal instinct. Should I cook for him? Assist with his homework? Attend to him, as one would a child too young to navigate the world alone? I could not help myself. The absurdity of it—this sudden, involuntary role reversal—was not lost on me. I, an adult woman, compelled to act as caretaker, mentor, almost surrogate mother, to someone who had merely captured my attention. And there I was, ensnared in this peculiar spectacle, my mind flitting between bewilderment and maternal compulsion. I pondered, truly, what was expected of me: should I cook for him, gently instruct him in the ways of arithmetic and civility, or simply sit, nodding wisely, as one does to a small child explaining the mysteries of the universe? Each thought struck me as absurd, yet undeniably compelling. It was as though the very air of Nazareth had conspired to cast me in a role most unbefitting my age and stature: a mother to a man, not the other way around.

And here lies the puzzle: how much of this instinct was genuinely mine, and how much was the insidious residue of generations of patriarchal conditioning? For centuries, in Poland and beyond, society has drummed into women that the older partner must be male, the younger female. To invert the script is to invite whispers, raised eyebrows, and, in many eyes, impropriety. A younger man paired with an older woman—why, that is simply not done. Yet here I was, faced with the absurdity of convention and my own unbidden inclinations. It seems that the world has its peculiar ways of reinforcing these lessons. Take, for example, my German acquaintance, Jörg—a man of such determined conviction that he believed the Führer himself had commanded the German people to propagate across the globe. With Michi and I, he made it abundantly clear: children must be sired, endlessly, across continents, preferably with well-Germanised women, not with the majority of Asia, where his own travels had taken him. And indeed, the number of children, spread across nations and women, became a comical yet grotesque tally, a living monument to conviction and absurdity. When gently reminded that responsibility ought to accompany such fervour, he simply smiled and said: “The Führer commanded it. It is my duty.” One could scarcely imagine a scene more absurd, yet it was all terribly, terribly real.

Meanwhile, the social world—TikTok, Instagram, the contemporary agora—cheers the reversal of the old laws. Older women are now celebrated for taking younger men as partners, for asserting that happiness knows no chronology. But for me, the question persists: is this truly liberation, or merely another narrative, another carefully woven lie of the patriarchal loom? What is truth, and what is taught, when even the holiest texts—the Koran, the Bible, the Torah—proclaim the virtue of honesty, yet are themselves penned predominantly by men, the inheritors and perpetuators of patriarchal design? Thus I ponder, and the absurdity continues to unfurl: older women, younger men, the lessons of history, the dictates of law, the whispers of morality. And somewhere between these hills, the azure sea, and the convoluted passages of human expectation, I try to find my own truth, one not adulterated by falsehoods, nor obscured by the dictates of others.

I tried to figure it out. First, I asked myself: what of all I believed — is truth, and what is myth?

Let us begin with the old fable, taught in hushed tones and grandiloquent texts: men are hunters, women are gatherers. For decades — well, since the 1960s, scientists have shown this is, at best, a fairy tale, at worst, a convenient justification for patriarchal nonsense. Yet the myth persists, whispered from classrooms to textbooks, from fathers to sons: men are the protectors, men must be dominant, men have no “biological clock.”

Ah, but here comes reality to the ball. Biology laughs at such arrogance. Women do, indeed, have a clock — eggs age, fertility wanes, the hourglass runs. But men? Men also face decline. Sperm quality diminishes with age. DNA fragmentation increases. Fertility is not eternal. Studies confirm it — men over forty experience measurable drops in reproductive potential. (Aging, 2017; PMC, 2019).

Now, here’s the twist: patriarchal culture, in its infinite wisdom, dresses this biological truth up in absurdity. Men, believing they are forever potent, project this “no-clock” illusion onto women. And then — with wide-eyed confidence — they explain their obsession with younger girls: they are supposedly more innocent, malleable, easier to impress, easier to forgive their mistakes, and most conveniently, better able to tolerate a man’s laziness, clumsiness, or arrogance.

This is where the absurdity becomes theatrical: men claim the moral high ground for preferring youth, while ignoring that biology has already set the rules. Women age, yes. But so do men. And the “experience gap” men crave? Often it is less about wisdom and more about convenience: a young partner, pliable, impressionable, forgiving, and — ironically — biologically optimal, at least for sperm production.

One wonders, does the insistence that an older woman should never dally with a younger man—she must be the sensible one, the responsible one, the keeper of decorum—constitute the sole myth handed down by patriarchy? Is this the singular inheritance of a long line of societal decree? Alas, no. The patriarchal ledger is far more crowded, stocked with countless absurdities masquerading as natural law. Yet this particular fable—older woman, younger man, balance of responsibility—is perhaps the most glaring, the most theatrically enforced: she must be measured, rational, prudent; he, by contrast, may stumble, falter, and yet claim the liberties of youth. And so, while we might chuckle at this odd prescription, the shadow of expectation lingers, whispering, “You must be the wiser, the steadier, the one who restrains impulse.” One could almost imagine the sheer exertion required to live under such an edict, like tiptoeing across a floor of china while carrying the weight of generations. Grotesque, yes, yet undeniably real. So I started digging, because, as you and my friends know, I rather enjoy delving into things I barely understand. And the first myth of the beloved patriarchal system that appeared was this: a woman should be submissive to the man, because he is the provider. The patriarchy, reinforced by the Christian Church, upheld this idea with such insistence—she must be pure, quiet, complete in love and gratitude towards the man, who, naturally, is the provider, the saviour. And if you ask the priests why, they show you the Bible, and might also explain that the man was the hunter, while the woman… she was the gatherer.

But we already know this is nonsense. Lately, since the 1960s, we have realised that rights are equal, and everyone contributes what they do best. And, in fact, the reality was often quite the opposite: women are lighter, more flexible, and able to move silently, often better suited to the task of hunting than a lumbering man. So, what need has a woman for protection? Because if the man, according to the Catholic Church, is the protector and provider… well, and we no longer live in houses that require guarding, then it suggests that perhaps we are still missing some predators, does it not? So, I started digging into predators these days. And here’s the first inconvenient truth: when you type “predator” into Google, the very first thing you get is predatory male behaviour. Perhaps that’s an algorithmic coincidence—or perhaps it’s simply my Google, which would be rather ironic, considering I’ve spent far too much time on TikTok and other digital back alleys researching male behaviour.  And that’s how I stumbled upon a man called Andrew Tate, or something along those lines, along with a handful of German rappers we’ve already dissected in earlier blog pieces. So, I did the unthinkable and watched a few of his videos—so you don’t have to. What became painfully obvious is that the men we would, in feminist jargon, classify as predators, tend to describe themselves proudly as alpha. So let’s actually investigate what an alpha is. An alpha can be a short electric pulse—an alpha wave— harmless as long as it doesn’t interfere with your nervous system. In another context, alpha refers to the earliest prototype of a software programme: unstable, unfinished, prone to corrupting everything it touches. And frankly, that description fits a certain breed of narcissistic men rather perfectly. They are fine—as long as they stay well away from you. But once they gain access to your nervous system, metaphorically speaking, you’re finished. But then comes the second layer of absurdity: these men don’t just call themselves alpha—they call themselves wolves. And here, my dear, one must genuinely question how on earth they managed to obtain a secondary school certificate in biology. Because wolves do not function like that. The male is not the leader. He does not dominate the pack with some heroic, cinematic swagger. In reality, wolves operate on a structure where the weakest, sickest, or oldest animals lead the group, precisely because their pace sets the tempo—and because if they were to die, the rest of the pack would still have a chance to survive. Which, in any ordinary human interpretation, is exactly the opposite of what these self‑proclaimed “alphas’’ want you to believe about themselves, isn’t it? Moving from wolves to elephants, the absurdities continue. Elephants are often cited as matriarchal—fascinating creatures where the oldest female leads the herd. Not a male, not a self-proclaimed alpha male with a shredded Instagram physique, but a wise, experienced matriarch. Decisions, survival, even conflict resolution—it all passes through her. Yet, somehow, the patriarchy wants us to admire the male, to believe that dominance equals competence. Absolute nonsense. Elephants show us clearly that wisdom and leadership are not determined by who can roar loudest or flex hardest; it’s about experience, empathy, and long-term memory—qualities that, inconveniently, men with delusions of alpha grandeur rarely possess. Now, if we jump to the lion, another favourite of “alpha male” mythology, the reality is equally underwhelming for the ego. Yes, male lions defend territory, but they do so mostly because the females—the lionesses—do the real hunting. They strategise, they coordinate, they feed the pride. The male simply enjoys the spoils, claiming credit while nature does the heavy lifting elsewhere. Yet human culture takes this as gospel: men are hunters, women are gatherers, men lead, women submit. How utterly laughable. And what about our children, the next generation, absorbing these myths? The patriarchal narrative insists that girls must be gentle, boys must be strong, girls must wait, boys may conquer. Horror films? Not for the daughters. Violent video games? Forbidden. Fantasy novels? Limited to princesses in distress. But the boys? Anything goes. This isn’t protection—it’s early indoctrination. It teaches children, often subtly and cruelly, that fear, control, and obedience are female virtues, while risk, aggression, and dominance are male rights. Meanwhile, we hand them the Bible, or some half-forgotten fable, and pretend this is education. And here’s the kicker: even the old “biological clock” myth falls apart under scrutiny. Women are not the only ones with declining fertility. Men’s reproductive potential decreases too, with age, sperm quality, and genetic integrity. Yet the myth persists that men are eternally potent, while women must hurry or perish. This lies at the root of many alpha male fantasies: younger women, malleable partners, and the illusion of immortality through reproduction. So, if we strip it down, what does this teach us? It’s not just about age gaps, younger men, or older women. It’s about a systematic programming, a Beta code installed by generations of patriarchal stories, myths, and selective “truths” that frame male desire as natural, female caution as obligatory, and all else as rebellion. And yes, my friends, that includes the Andrew Tates of the world. They fancy themselves alpha. In reality, they are prototype programs—unfinished, unstable, dangerous only if allowed near your nervous system. And society keeps handing them the keys. So, let’s glance at elephants, shall we? Not the only matriarchal exemplars in nature, but a rather compelling start. Now, let’s move to humans. When a colossal corporation hits a crisis, who do they call? A woman. Politics? Same story. And it isn’t theory anymore—look at, for instance, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf in Liberia, who steadied her country after years of civil war, or Sahle-Work Zewde in Ethiopia, guiding through turbulent times with a quiet but unshakable hand. The “emotional” women, as tradition would have us believe, end up running the show, holding the system together while so-called leaders prance about, performing the theatre of power. Why is this? Because women build networks. We support each other emotionally. We are used to responsibility. Girls are often tasked early, at ten, twelve, fourteen, with learning cooking, cleaning, managing households, taking care of younger siblings—sometimes sexualised by the world long before they are emotionally ready. Boys? Still playing, still gaming, responsibility trickling down to them like syrup on a cold morning. Socialisation is staggered, uneven. While girls are trained in accountability, boys are sheltered from it. And so, when the storm hits, who is actually prepared? Women. We step in, not out of desire for glory, but out of ingrained habit, empathy, and practice. Men—supposedly the natural leaders—often falter under the weight of responsibility, whereas women thrive. We organise, connect, anticipate, and act, while the patriarchal narrative continues to insist that the “emotional, unstable” sex should step aside for the rational, heroic male. Ha! Reality laughs at such absurdity.

While I write this and, in parallel, try to get my lunch on the stove, one question keeps hitting the same nerve: why do we still buy into what patriarchy tells us? We act as if men inherently know what they’re talking about, while a quiet part of us already knows this certainty is built on sand. We fall for narcissistic men like moths to an alpha-light — stable in appearance, corrosive on contact. 

And here’s the real twist:

we don’t normalise women’s strategies for survival — we judge them.

Harshly. Reflexively. Almost gleefully.

We condemn women in prostitution, even though most are structurally disadvantaged.

We condemn women on OnlyFans, although they simply monetise a world that already objectifies them.

We condemn women who dress openly, as if their visibility invites social devaluation. A woman walking through the city in an outfit that resembles beachwear is not treated as confident — she is ignored by shop assistants, dismissed by strangers, treated as unserious. All of these judgments serve one function: keeping patriarchal myths intact.

Much like typical Polish citizens (and yes, the irony is rich), we treat anything non-traditional as the enemy — while forgetting that the Catholic Church has about as much to do with Polish identity as an elephant has with a wolf. Both move on four legs, but their worlds don’t overlap in any meaningful way. Yet we cling to the old mantras as if they were holy scripture:

pink is for girls, blue is for boys; the kitchen, dolls, and care work are for girls; cars, tools, and the adventurous world are for boys. Montessori schools try to dismantle these ancient binaries, but we guard them as though they were an asset in our personal equity portfolio. So yes, this is where PolkaGeist comes in — the German band — with their lines:

“Die Männer auf den Bänken sind genauso wie der Hund.

Der Schmutz steckt bis zum Deckel.

Die Moral liegt auf dem Grund.”

I use this because it perfectly reflects our absurd loyalty to male-invented narratives — long after we know they are lies. We still hand them down to our children. Later, those same children claim things like “all workers are male insects,” which is biologically inaccurate and sociologically embarrassing. We criticise femininity, we police female sexuality, because we’ve been conditioned to believe it’s our duty to maintain moral decorum. Yet in business we operate with zero sentimentality: we cut unprofitable product lines, audit performance, remove what doesn’t sell. We do the same with our wardrobes — we evaluate, we discard, we optimise. So why, exactly, don’t we apply the same logic to our beliefs? I’m not trying to be anything other than a decent human being. I’m not here to judge or condemn anyone. I genuinely try to meet people with respect — even though, lately, doing that with men (especially Polish men) feels like an Olympic discipline I never applied for. And while I navigate all this, I’m gathering information. I’m researching how I might eventually move to the place where I want to build my future — how I could live there as a Muslim woman without being pushed into converting to another religion just to exist peacefully. I’m not there yet, but the direction is clear. For now, that’s all I’ll say.

And as I’m writing this — while trying not to burn my lunch — one question keeps circling back:

Why do we still believe what the patriarchy tells us? 

We cling to these inherited myths as if they were carved in stone. We act as though men always know what they’re talking about, even though somewhere deep down we already know the narrative is flawed. We fall for narcissistic men like for an alpha-light beam — simply because it looks stable from afar. We condemn women for prostitution, for OnlyFans, for choosing “undignified” survival strategies, or for dating younger men, all just to reassure ourselves that the old rules still matter. It’s the same mindset you see in stereotypical Polish behaviour: everything foreign is the enemy, everything familiar is holy — except people conveniently forget that the Catholic Church has about as much to do with Poland as an elephant does with a wolf. Sure, both walk on four legs, but their habitats and their quality of life have nothing in common. Yet we keep repeating these mantras as though repetition alone makes them true. So we cling to all the old binaries too:

Pink is obviously for girls, blue for boys.

Kitchens, dolls and responsibility for girls; cars and freedom for boys.

And while Montessori schools and modern educators try to break these patterns, most people guard them like family heirlooms no one even likes. This is exactly why I referenced the German band PolkaGeist. They once sang:

“Die Männer auf den Bänken sind genauso wie der Hund. Der Schmutz steckt bis zum Deckel. Die Moral liegt auf dem Grund.” It fits. Because we trust the stories men have told us — stories we now know are lies. And then we pass those same lies on to our children. You see it when kids insist that all “workers” among insects must be male. A cute thought, yes — but biologically nonsense. And yet the narrative persists. We judge women relentlessly. Women who survive through sex work. Women on OnlyFans.

Women who simply dress too boldly.

Women who walk through a city in summer clothes and are immediately dismissed by shop staff, treated as unserious, unworthy, unprofessional. We judge them because patriarchy taught us to — and we never challenged the software update. But here’s the truth: nobody chooses sex work or a get-on-events lifestyle freely and happily. It usually happens at the lowest point of a woman’s life — the point where she has cried until her face burned, where she lies on the floor and realises she cannot trust anyone to provide or protect. Not even the men who promised to. We see the consequences everywhere: in what happened to Isabelle Palicot in France, in the self-defence leggings a German woman designed because jogging became too dangerous, in the tools women carry to protect themselves — from anti-rape devices to emergency alarms.

The so-called “providers” are often the predators.

So I try not to judge. And honestly? I’ve always been genuinely happy for women who got what they wanted in life. But I’ll admit something, because being honest is part of growing up: sometimes I felt jealous. Not the traditional kind — not because another woman was more successful or more beautiful. No. I was jealous of the women who were left alone. The women who weren’t pretty enough for predatory men to target. These women built families. They married. They had children. They bought houses. They lived peacefully while I was dragged through hell by men who promised me love, stability, a future. I will never experience motherhood. I will never have that life. Not because I didn’t want it — but because the men who promised it broke me on the way. And even though I know now, with crystal clarity, that I don’t want children, the ache stays. A quiet, private ache. And yes, there’s a flicker of envy — but never about their achievements. I am genuinely happy for every woman who stands her ground, who raises her voice, who fights for herself and for others. But I’m also human. I cannot be perfect, even if I’m close.

And here’s the bottom line:

I’m not a man. I cannot even imagine being attracted to someone underage or drastically younger. I will never cross the “golden seven” — those seven years of acceptable age gap. My grandmother understood this long before I did. Maybe because she had no social media, or maybe because she was simply stronger. She lived the life so many influencers now preach as empowerment. She flipped the roles. She ignored every patriarchal rule. Psychologists judged her. Society judged her. But I cannot. She was braver than I will ever be.