The Nomad is a series of stories, fascinations, encounters, observations, experiences, joy of the moments by me, Ulrike Reinhard – all around my travels. Stay tuned!
Ulrike Reinhard is The Nomad 🙂
Where I Draw the Line: A Journey from NATO to the Streets of Tunis
It starts with a conversation in Munich in the summer of 2010. I’ve just returned from Kabul, Afghanistan, where I’m working on a mobile education project. The city is under heavy security, guarded by the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), with troops from 42 countries – including all 30 NATO members – on the ground. Moving around freely is impossible. Every step beyond the Oxfam campus, where I’m staying, has to be carefully planned in advance: where I sit in the car, which gate opens, my codename for the day … It’s all a bit much. But there’s no way around it. I can’t even walk next door to buy a Periki – a stuffed flatbread filled with potatoes, green onions, cilantro, and chili peppers, pan-fried until golden and crispy. I can only smell it. What a pity!
At the DLD_women conference in Munich I meet Stefanie Babst – then Head of Public Diplomacy at NATO – who had returned from a very different kind of an Afghanistan mission: The NATO engagement in the country. We sat down and talked. Not just formally, but openly. About Afghanistan. About women’s futures. About NATO. And about the upcoming NATO Summit in Chicago in 2012, chaired by President Obama.
We come from different worlds. I’ve always seen NATO as rigid, hierarchical, elitist and cut off from the people in countries NATO operates in. But Stefanie is different: curious, candid, willing to question the institution from within. That openness sparks something in me. And my international network of activists and scholars sparks something in her. She invites me to NATO Headquarters in Brussels for a deeper exchange – and eventually, to help develop something new for the summit in Chicago.
we_NATO
That spark becomes we_NATO – a pretty bold attempt to open NATO up to real dialogue, to bring in diverse outside voices – from activists to digital pioneers – and to create space for open conversations around complex issues like the Arab Spring, Afghanistan, smart defense, and NATO’s evolving role in the world.
My role is to design communication formats that move away from NATO’s traditional top-down style and instead reflect the spirit of network culture – built on peer exchange, shared learning, and genuine dialogue. I propose a concept built around interactive formats: live video dialogues, open for an online audience, authentic stories from the field, critical external voices – not PR, but participation. I tap into my global network, curate contributors, and train the internal NATO team. Stefanie fully backs the vision.
But soon after the launch we_NATO, NATO’s traditional machinery kicks in. The top-down culture, the slow approval chains, the fear of open dialogue – they begin to choke the project. The space we create is quickly stifled by the institution’s existing power structures.
The breaking point comes when a video I produce – featuring an Afghan woman who risks her life every day to educate girls in her village – is replaced by a glossy corporate reel of NATO generals shaking hands with quasi-woman-actors. On International Women’s Day, 2012. That moment crosses a line – my line. A quiet but crucial boundary in my inner compass. It’s the point where compromise stops being practical and starts becoming betrayal. Not of NATO, not even of the project – but of the people I set out to represent, and of myself. When the real voice of a woman risking her life for education is replaced by staged smiles and sanitized optics, something fundamental breaks. And that’s where I draw the line. Because some values aren’t negotiable – especially not for the sake of appearances.
Watch my interview with Stefanie Babst about we_NATO
My Exit And The Aftermath – Reality Sets In
In the days that follow, I revisit the video I had produced. I replay the woman’s words, watch her face. I can see the weight she carries – of gathering these girls in secret, teaching them in the basement of her home, always under the shadow of being discovered. I see the depth of her love, her fierce determination to give these children a better future. She’s not doing it for recognition or support from NATO or any government agency. She’s ‘just’ a woman who feels she has to act. It’s instinctive. It’s unshakably human. And above all, it’s deeply true. To publish this video would have been a sincere attempt to reach beyond NATO’s walls and show recognition. But it doesn’t fit the NATO narrative … I know, without a shred of doubt, that I have to make this cut. It’s the only right choice.
Yet the repercussions hit me hard.
My online peers in the Arab community are watching we_NATO closely. And they realize that not much in NATO’s communication has changed. Some activists in my network accuse me of failing to deliver on the promises I had made — that we_NATO would reveal a ‘new’ side of NATO. Others say I’ve sold my soul to the enemy. They don’t recognize that I stepped away; I’m not sure if it was willful ignorance or if they simply didn’t want to accept that I had quit the project. For them, NATO had done exactly what they always expected NATO would do. And that only deepened the already burning resentment toward NATO and its Western allies, who for decades have propped up repressive Arab regimes.
Because of my reputation in the network, the activists had been willing — for once — to engage, to speak up, to be heard. But the window slammed shut. The chance was gone. Killed. In no time. A toxic mix of frustration and fury began to brew.
In March 2012 – just after I resigned from my NATO contract – I fly to Tunis to attend a conference. Ben Ali was ousted, the country was struggling to liberate itself from tyranny, and just next door in Libya, NATO had intervened to protect civilians from the forces of Libyan leader Muammar Qaddafi. The local people didn’t ask NATO to do so. It was seen as another attempt to gain power and oppress the locals, not to help. So tensions are flying high. In the lead-up to the conference, I had long conversations with the organizers. “I’ll skip my speech,” I tell them. “Let’s just open the floor for questions; I am sure there are many. And maybe it’s an opportunity to explain what has really happened with we_NATO.”
Attack. Apprehension. No Anger.
When I arrive in Tunis, a friend picks me up from the airport. We walk across a plaza toward the venue, the sound of distant traffic blending with snippets of conversation around us. Spring is in the air, and the sun is warming our backs as we walk. We are discussing the situation and possible outcomes of my talk. Suddenly, two men rush at us from the side. I barely register the glint of knives before chaos erupts. One attacker lunges at me, stabbing my upper arm. My friend steps in, fighting them off as best he can. He yells for help, but the damage is done. By the time others pull the attackers away, blood covers the pavement like a battlefield.
In the hospital later, I sit by my friend’s bed, his face pale. He has lost his leg. My chest is tightened with guilt and gratitude. “I don’t even know what to say,” I whisper, tears in my eyes. He manages a weak smile. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, his voice dry. “But let’s be clear – I lost my leg defending NATO!” Despite the pain, his humor cuts through the moment’s weight, and I can’t help but smile. We are lucky to be alive.
The attackers are detained, and the conference is canceled. The next morning, I insist on leaving the hospital to return to Germany for further treatment. But before I go, I want to talk to the attackers, and I pull out all the stops to make it happen.
The prison visit is cathartic. Separated by a glass wall, we face each other in silence. The two men avoid my gaze at first, their eyes flicking to the floor. Finally, I speak. Though feeling shaky inside, I force my voice to remain steady. “I’m not here to accuse you,” I say. “I need to understand why this happened.” I talk for a while – though I couldn’t tell you what I said. I just keep talking. The words spill out on their own. It’s as if something deeper has taken the wheel.
They look up, startled. Slowly, the tension eases. I press my palms to the glass, and after a moment, they do the same. Tears well in their eyes, and I feel the warmth of their hands through the barrier. At that moment, my fear and apprehension vanished. I feel at peace. That is the moment I was hoping for – I wanted to leave Tunis in peace. And I was able to. It is my way of therapy to overcome this shocking event at the square.
We talk frankly, free of anger or accusations. They explain their hatred of NATO and its allies, and their frustration with decades of Western support for Arab dictators. “To us,” one of them says, “you are the enemy. A traitor. An easy target.”
I nod, absorbing their words. “I see where you’re coming from,” I say. “But I hope you can see why I did what I did, too.”
I can’t undo their trial or the ten-year sentences, but I can submit a request for clemency. It’s the least I can do, and it feels like the right thing. So, I did it. I’ve forgiven them – it’s a huge step for me.
One of them was released from prison during Covid and now leads a family life with a small child in Tunis. The other tragically took his own life during the first year of his sentence.
12 Years Later
The sun beats down as I step off the plane in Tunis in the summer of 2024. The familiar warmth of the Mediterranean air wrapping around me. It’s been years since the attack, but the memories always come flooding back when I return. This time, it’s not just the past I’m carrying. Tucked into my bag is a digital copy of Stefanie’s new book, Blind Spots.
I sit in a café near the old Medina, the air thick with the smell of spices and strong coffee, scrolling through pages on my tablet. Stefanie doesn’t hold back. “NATO is strategically challenged,” she writes. “It’s failing to adapt to the changing nature of global conflicts, stuck in a loop of institutional inertia.” Her words land hard – especially for anyone who’s seen the inside of that machine.
As I read, I can’t help but draw a direct line to my own experience with we_NATO. Her analysis mirrors what I saw, what I felt, what I finally walked away from. And somehow, it feels right to be reading this here – right at the spot where I was once attacked. There’s something grounding about it. Like the universe is handing me a quiet confirmation: I wasn’t wrong. NATO isn’t ready to change. And I was right to draw the line.
In that moment, I feel a flicker of reassurance – something steadying me for the difficult task ahead.
I’ve come to honor my friend – the one who saved my life that day in the plaza. He’s gone now, murdered in one of Assad’s prisons. They arrested him for helping locals in Syria build an online platform to make their voices heard. Before that, he’d done the same in Tunisia – always pushing, always amplifying voices that regimes wanted silenced. At his memorial service, the air is thick with grief. His family and friends gather in silence, their faces etched with pain. I stay back, letting them have their moment. When I finally approach his wife, she takes my hands in hers.
“He believed in something bigger,” she says, her voice trembling.
I nod, struggling to hold back tears. “He gave everything for it.”
Later that night, I sit alone in my hotel room, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but seeing nothing. The day crashes over me in waves – his face in the plaza, his voice, the chaos, the knives of the attackers – and now, the brutal finality of his death. He’s gone. Tortured. Silenced. For daring to help others speak.
The room feels heavier by the minute. My chest tightens. The air seems thinner. The memories of the attack blur into the grief of losing him, into the rage at a world that punishes integrity.
I whisper into the silence, as if someone might answer: “So many have died. And for what? For standing by their values? For refusing to stay silent?”
My voice cracks. There’s no answer. Only the weight of a question that refuses to let me go. I am asking myself: At what point does my commitment to my principles cease? When do I draw a line?
When I lose a job?
A friend? A relationship?
When my family is at risk?
When my life is on the line?
Honestly, I don’t know.
I’ve given up jobs, lost friends, and ended relationships. I’ve never knowingly endangered my family, but have I exposed them to risks? Probably.
Would I give up my life for my values?
The answer doesn’t come easily. Probably not. I am not a hero.