The Hill That Wasn't Supposed to Be There
Atelier ManganelThere’s a place west of Berlin where the forest swallows you whole before spitting you out on top of a Cold War myth. Teufelsberg. Literally, “Devil’s Mountain.” But it’s not really a mountain. It’s a pile of rubble. Broken bricks, shattered walls, entire pieces of the city buried under trees and graffiti and fog.
On a cloudy day, it feels like a secret that didn’t survive translation. The walk up is quiet—the kind of quiet that makes you listen to your own breathing. It’s not scenic in the conventional sense. It’s messy. Overgrown. Still haunted by the sound of boots and signals bouncing off those white domes that once listened to everything and nothing.
This place doesn’t ask you to understand it. It just lets you stand on it. Berlin, built and rebuilt and buried and reborn.
You climb Teufelsberg and end up standing on top of history’s leftovers, looking out over a city that never quite settles.
I saw someone meditating there once, cross-legged in front of the tower ruins, headphones on, completely still. Next to them, someone else was tagging a wall with neon pink letters that spelled “NO FUTURE.” Same spot. Same silence. Totally different frequencies.
That’s what Teufelsberg is—it’s the contradiction. The noise under the quiet. The weight of things left unsaid. It’s not beautiful, but it’s real. And in Berlin, that’s usually the point.
