Otherness by Danmarks Medie- og Journalisthøjskole

Cover photo by Ludovico Paiella © 2023 Photo 1 Students © 2023 Danish School of Media and Journalism Print: Ecograf Gruppen Printed in Aarhus, Denmark 2023 Special thanks to: Gitte Luk Søren Pagter Lars Bai To those who shared their stories, thank you for your trust and patience.

We’re ten different people Different names Different ages Different nationalities Different cultures But we all carry a camera and curiosity Otherness both sets us apart and brings us together You will find Ten different stories Ten interpretations of otherness Ten unique voices that deserve to be heard It’s a collection of otherness, just like us

08 THE FAULT IN OUR STARS Antonia Gigglberger

20 FROM MOTHERHOOD TO SELFHOOD

Célestine Decloedt

Rémy Vroonen

40 BETWEEN TWO WORLDS Kaye van Loon

50 HOLDING ON Eliška Krátká

62 HALF - TIME CONNECTION Daniel Almeida

‫ََه ْْل أ ََراك؟‬

Shrouk Ghonim

84 THE LOYAL HERO Sefa Eyol

96 CHOOSING YOUR OWN PATH Ben Bond Obiri Asamoah

106

FASCIST CARNIVAL

Ludovico Paiella

T H E FA U LT I N O U R S TA R S by Antonia Gigglberger

One night in the late 1950s, Hanne was put to bed by a nurse. Through a small window they were able to see the stars. The nurse introduced Hanne to Cassiopeia, a large constellation named after the vain and boastful queen in Greek mythology. She told Hanne that Cassiopeia would always take care of her. This sparked Hanne’s imagination, and she invented the Cassiopeia universe, that she would dream herself into. In Cassiopeia, everything was possible. Hanne would remove herself completely from the situation and was able to escape sometimes. There were a lot of bright and beautiful colours. Fairy tale characters were Hanne’s friends, Thumbelina, Elisa and the swans, and of course the Ugly Duckling. There were no stairs, everything was on an even level. Nobody was disabled. The children were playing all the time, and they were given wings in order to fly wherever they wanted. If the doctors weren’t nice to Hanne, she decided to serve them blodpølse, blood sausage. In Cassiopeia, she was in control. Here, she performed surgery on the doctors without anaesthetics. She was allowed to be messy, and to make a noise. To be a child. During the epidemic that hit Denmark in 195253, Hanne Klitgaard Larsen got infected with polio when she was only three and a half months old. After her first months in hospital, the doctors recommended to put her into a rehabilitation clinic. They told Hanne’s parents to not expect her to get older than the age of four. “And now I’m 71, and the doctor is dead,” Hanne says.

Hanne was put into Samfundet og Hjemmet for Vanføre (society and home for disabled people), a subdivision of Sær- and Åndssvageforsorgen (term used for the governmental care for people with disabilities from 1933-1980). She spent the following years in several governmental care institutions, with only short visits back home. The consequences of the infection resulted in Hanne’s body being paralyzed. A strict schedule of physical exercises was set in place, including violent experimental treatments and surgeries. Stepping into Hanne’s living room in her house just outside Aarhus feels like entering Cassiopeia. Bright blue sofa, sparks of pink and red pop out of the flowery paintings. Toys, dolls and decorative birds battle for attention. Hanne’s carer, Maja, explains that Hanne just finished writing an article for the BPA-Bladet, a magazine for people with disabilities who receive care at home, like Hanne does. The air smells of coffee, and on the sofa 17-year-old Emeline, Hanne’s cat, is purring in her sleep. Hanne is concerned about the current situation, as there is less and less money for the disabled sector. This may result in more handicapped people having to move into care homes.

A the age of 10 Hanne performed surgery on her doll Lene and cut her head open. Her outfit is made by Hanne herself. She decided to make a hat for her to cover the wound.

Hanne's parents were only allowed to visit once a week. When the children cried after their parents had left, they weren’t allowed to visit the following week.

Although much has improved in the disability care, she highlights in her article the urgent need to learn from the past, so we won’t need another apology in the future. She refers to the official apology given by the Danish government in September 2023, to people with disabilities who have previously been placed in governmental care institutions and have been subjected to severe maltreatment. Hanne chose to speak up at this event for all affected parties. Because many people who have been through similar experiences have strong feelings of shame and find it hard to put themselves forward.

Hanne’s family was asked for consent on surgeries being performed on her, but there was a general lack of information in terms of medical treatment. Her parents were hoping for an improved quality of life for Hanne. They trusted the doctors. But Hanne, like all the children in the institutions, did not know what was happening to her. She remembers vividly a 5-year-old girl in the bed next to her, who had just undergone surgery. The doctors had lifted her duvet, and Hanne and the girl both saw that one of the girl’s legs had been removed. They both started screaming. Ever since, Hanne was scared every time she woke up from anaesthetics that she would be missing one leg or one arm.

17-year-old Hanne just after starting at Egmont Højskolen. She’s still wearing the corset to straighten her back.

“The first time in my life that I was seen as a human being, was when I started visiting Egmont Højskolen”, says Hanne. She was given many responsibilities, and a whole new array of possibilities opened up with doing other things in her life than just being taken care of. Hanne realized that she was more than her disability, that she was creative and intelligent. At the same time though, she experienced a total culture shock, as her previous scars were still healing.

It was at Egmont that she screwed open her iron corset, which she had been wearing day and night for ten years. She and her boyfriend went to a craft room and found a screwdriver. It was a very heavy corset. The doctors had told her that she would die if she took it off, as she wouldn’t be able to breathe. But she took it off anyway. And didn’t die. She was also given an electric wheelchair, which allowed her to move around more freely. Often, she wouldn’t show up to lessons for days because there was a whole world yet to discover.

“It’s not about you wanting life, it’s about life wanting you”

Hanne is laughing when she plays video clips from the 1980s, in which she and her friends from the theatre group Aarhus Krykensemble (the crutch cast) are performing. Hanne’s laughter is warm and infectious. In their experimental plays they talked very explicitly about disabilities, being on the thin line between very humorous and pushing boundaries, exposing their disabled bodies and asking people to have a closer look, to not look away. ‘Make love to a disabled person, and you can reduce it on your tax report’ was one of their titles. After training as a social worker and taking care of handicapped children in her job, Hanne developed a keen interest in children, psychology and pedagogy. She realized she wanted to focus on educating people through public speaking and writing books and became engaged in politics and activism for the disabled. Additionally, she later trained to become an art therapist.

It is raining outside. Hanne is browsing through her bookshelf, her ventilator making its familiar rhythmic sounds - she is trying to find one of Martinus’ works, collectively known as The Third Testament. Martinus was a Danish mystic, whose cohesive world picture made a big impression on Hanne. It shows that all living beings evolve continuously towards higher forms of life. Everything is ultimately good, even though we might not be able to see it when something painful happens. To gain the perspective of suffering being a great opportunity was very helpful for Hanne. It allowed her to find meaning in her disability and supported her in moving on from the past. “If you think there’s only to life what you can see, that’s a straight way to loneliness”, she says with a meaningful smile.

Next to having been in therapy for twenty years, Hanne found inspiration in the Austrian psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor Victor Frankl’s Logotherapy. It’s based on the premise that if you’re able to attribute meaning to something that happens to you, you’re able to survive it. During his time in the concentration camps, he discovered what hope means for someone experiencing the worst conditions. “If I had chosen to blame others for my unhappiness, that would have resulted in another disability”, Hanne says. It doesn’t mean that she never gets angry, or never cries. But it’s about acknowledging your emotions, and then move on.

“Because I’m horny for life”, she says, laughing out loud. This is also what Hanne wants to emphasize in her fourth book, her autobiography Kick The Door Open And Draw Life In. To not only see the sad parts of the story, but be able to grow from it. And that sometimes imagination, spirituality, creativity and a cheerful mind can help you overcome the most difficult circumstances. And lead to a good life. As she was already capable of as a small child in the hospital bed, imagining her Cassiopeia universe where she, and nobody else, was in control.

First initiated by the Ministry of Social Affairs in 2020, an investigation by an independent research group proved that people placed under Sær- and Åndssvageforsorgen in the period from 1933-1980 have been subjected to severe maltreatment and abuse. Thousands of children and adults were exposed to governmental failure, including violence, psychological and sexual abuse, forced sterilizations as well as grave mistakes in medical treatments. In 1980, the parliament decentralized the special care sector and handed over the responsibility to local authorities. After the investigation was finished and the report was published in 2022, the Minister of Social Affairs, Pernille Rosenkrantz-Theil, at an event held in Horsens on September 11th 2023, finally gave an official apology in the name of the government to those who had previously been placed in state-run facilities.

FROM MOTHERHOOD TO SELFHOOD A poster on the door has three big letters written on it. “MOM” is spelled out in the top right corner. The same woman is portrayed twice on the print. Her name is Juliana Appel and she is a Brazilian theatre actress who moved to Denmark seven years ago. We’re in Katapult, a small theater in the centre of Aarhus, where Juliana is going to tell and perform her experience with finding her own path.

by Célestine Decloedt

Two days before the first show the small theatre hall reeks of panic and anxiety. “There aren’t enough lights like I ordered,” Juliana says. Her hands are entangled in her hair, and a heavy sigh follows. Three women, squeezed together on a small platform, have their eyes fixed on a computer screen, checking if the projections and music are ready for the performance. To relieve stress, Juliana cracks some jokes and laughs, but immediately after, the thin lines on her forehead reappear. The women are preparing the control panels in Katapult. Juliana Appel is the only actress in the play. She’s with Ana Louiza, the director, and Eva, who made the projections that can be seen during the performance. It is Wednesday afternoon and at 16:30 they finally figure out the programmes.

A knock on the door announces a staff member of Katapult coming in. She suggests they try if the lighting is better in the big theatre room, since it won’t be used this weekend. It’s not. Juliana, pacing, starts making some calls, hoping to find some extra lights at the last minute. A few years ago, Juliana really wanted to become a mother. After all, a woman should be a mom before anything else. It was what she had always been taught and what she believed. So, at the age of 37, she and her partner embarked on the journey of bringing new life into their household, but parenthood stayed out of reach. Years filled with many attempts and various procedures all ended in disappointment, only it intensified every time.

With so much time to think about it, Juliana couldn’t help but question whether her desire to be a mom was her own heartfelt wish or simply a response to societal expectations. As if struck by fate, she then stumbled upon the autobiographical book ‘Motherhood’ by Canadian writer Sheila Heti. The novel was somewhat of an eye-opener. “After finishing it, it became clear to me that being a mom was not what I really wanted,” Juliana explains. She realized she was chasing dreams that were expected of her rather than her true feelings. Ana Louiza Ulsig is half Brazilian and half Danish. In 2017, she came to visit her mother in Denmark. Through a mutual friend who recognized her passion for acting and the parallel Brazilian

background, she met Juliana. Fast-forward four years, Ana Louiza decided to finally move back to her home country. The two women reunited with a simple request on Facebook, and the seed of a creative partnership was planted. From the very outset, Ana Louiza was going to be the director, and together, they started brainstorming about what they could do. When Juliana told her friend about her experience with the book she had read, they started following that up. The curiosity sparked, and they quickly decided to tell not the story from the book, but Juliana’s personal quest for life and motherhood. It was a long process, starting at the beginning of the pandemic and finishing last November with a performance at Dokk1 in Aarhus. They are now reviving the performance at Katapult.

One day before the premiere performance on Friday, it is time for a dress rehearsal. It is Juliana’s first time performing this particular play again after a year of it being put away in a box, and it is not for just any spectator. Besides the importance of the person sitting in the audience, it’s also the first time they are trying out the projections, music, and lights. Both Juliana and Ana Louiza are terribly nervous. The general lights are still on and Juliana is warming up her voice and her body. The sounds she makes echo in the room. On the second row, as the only person in the audience, sits Julia Varley. A venerable actress whose distinguished career has spanned over six decades, has come to watch the play and critique it. After the rehearsal, the creators sit down and wait for Julia Varley’s comments. The theatre, a few minutes ago alive with energy, now seems to hold its breath as a soundless tension fills the air. Ana Louiza fidgets with her fingers and doesn’t look up from them. Juliana, too, focuses her eyes mainly on the

ground or her own almost blank notebook in front of her, its pages lying about what’s going on inside her head. Julia talks about the costume being too personal, it not really meaning anything, and her English that isn’t good enough. “There’s not enough trouble in it”, Julia says, “Maybe you are over it, but the character isn’t yet, we need to see that.” Apart from nodding, a few affirming hums, and the occasional strained laugh, Juliana offers no response. A deafening silence envelops the room.

“My story doesn’t need to be the same as everyone else’s.”

“The journey of creating “MOM” was very healing for me”, Juliana says. Hearing the excited exclamations every time one of her friends announced their pregnancy used to make her feel a source of quiet despair. Thinking she was failing her duty as a woman and simply living her life incorrectly. “What is my deepest self-desire?”, she asks herself in the middle of the play, after realizing it may not be motherhood. “Travelling the world? Starting a community? Living in the mountains? Do I want to be an artist?” A long-standing tradition of motherhood had been faithfully passed down from generation to generation, with her mother, grandmother, and ancestors before them all embracing the path of bearing children. Deviating from the path that was easily laid out for her, she forged her own.

Sunday evening, and the last performance has just ended. Juliana’s face radiates relief when the lights turn on, and the room is filled with applause. At the back of the theatre, behind the control station, Ana Louiza, too, gets a smile on her face. In the vulnerability of shaping the performance, Juliana found strength, and in the appreciation afterwards, she found validation. As the applause continues, it’s clear to Juliana that their journey of creating “MOM” has not only been a profound source of healing for her but also a powerful and moving experience for the entire audience.

THE BLIND PAUL by Rémy Vroonen

Passion and resilience: Follow Paul's journey as he proves that it doesn’t take eyesight to see.

Imagine closing your eyes and then press on them using your fingers until everything is completely dark. Open them again and the only thing you can see is a psychedelic spiral, moving with neon flashlight colours. What do you hear, how do you feel, what do you smell? Welcome to the world of the blind. You lost your eyesight and are now one of the 7500 people with sight deficiency registered in Denmark. One of them is 73-year-old Paul Villadsen. Paul was born with ten percent eyesight, doctors have tried to save the small percentage of vision he had left, but they did not succeed. He became blind at the age of seventeen, the same year he decided to leave his native city, Aalborg, and move to Copenhagen, where he joined the Instituttet for Blinde og Svagsynede. (Institute for the blind and partially sighted) There he learned braille and how to adapt to his new life, so he could lead a somewhat “normal” one, despite his blindness.

“To me it is normal to be blind. I have never been able to see completely. I am Blind Paul,’’ He says. Paul lives with his dog Milo, who is also his famous dancing partner. They live in an apartment in Brabrand, 30 minutes away from the city centre. Milo knows where the bus stop is, the bakery, the supermarket, the fitness centre and of course the forest where he can run free. After walking up the stairs, to the fourth floor, he enters his small flat. In the corridor, there are four hangers on the wall with a specific item on each of them. On the first hanger is a backpack, followed by Milos’s harness and leash, and then the jackets. Everything needs to be organised, it’s important for him to build a routine. Paul ensures that he has control of everything, he enjoys it; this is his life. In the living room, which has four large windows, light falls through the trees and reflects on the white empty walls in the evening.

‘’In the end, the only one who can keep me alive, is me.’’ 32

However, Paul doesn’t notice how the sun enters the room and engulfs his grey hair making him look like an angel. He sits there highly concentrated, reading his braille vocal score while doing his exercises as a bass choir singer, smiling as he sings with passion. He practices for his concert on December 9 at the Fuglsangcentret in Frederica. He and his choir will perform ten songs. Some are in English, others in Danish like Silent Night and Når du ser et stjerneskud, which is the Danish version of When you wish upon a star from the Disney movie Pinocchio. On the right-hand side of the living room, there is a shelf, where in order from left to right, there is a vocal agenda, a braille typewriter, a braille address book, and a computer. Each item has its place, and he knows exactly where they are. There are two lamps in the living room, one standing close to the table, the other in the corner of the room, on a small shelf. Neither of them working; Paul doesn’t see the point. 35

Next to the corner table, there is a large, antique wooden clock that at some point stopped its lean at 9:45. After a couple of times at his house, I noticed how easily Paul moves around and how he knows where each item is. Most of us spend twice as long looking for our keys every day, sometimes, we can’t even find them. For Paul it’s all about keeping control. It’s 11:30 am, Thursday morning. Paul has just done an hour of fitness training and he is walking with Milo in the centre of Aarhus, the second largest city in Denmark. He needs to go shopping for a new pair of scissors.

His senses are heightened today because it is very windy. Milo, too, is disorientated. He can barely hear, because the sound of the wind is muddled in with the sounds of cars, bikes, buses, delivery men and buggies. In a fragmented second of distraction, he could easily walk into a traffic sign or a clothing rack and hit his head again, in the exact same spot that he did yesterday. But it’s not a big deal if you are adept at the “One bruise a day keeps troubles away’’-philosophy, as Paul puts it. Still navigating through the traffic, he dances with ease with his guide dog, escaping all the obstacles thrown in his way.

‘’I don’t think about things being difficult. It’s because I don’t have a lot of negatives thoughts, what you should do you should do’’ 37

‘’What are they all searching for in the sky, all these blind people? ‘’ Charles Baudelaire wrote about blind people in Les Fleurs du Mal in 1861, and his message is that there is nothing to expect from heaven and there is no consolation either. “Blind Paul” believes the same. Blind people are often seen as weak, disabled, and different. In his everyday life, Paul is very active. Besides singing in the choir, he has many other passions, including playing cards, yoga and TRX fitness. He plays bridge once a week at the Dansk Blind Institute and also online via Zoom. The blind people have a Dropbox group with 30 people. When one of them wants to play he or she drops a message, and they organise an online tournament with eight rounds per call. Sometimes they do this up to four times in a week.

Twice a week Paul has his fitness training. He enters the fitness room on the third floor of the Danish Blind Institute. First, he opens the windows to get some fresh air, then he sets up his soft exercise mattress which is aligned with the wall, he knows the exact spot. He hangs his TRX suspension trainer and conducts a session with multiple exercises using his body weight. One time hanging face up, another time facing the floor, doing his exercises carefully with attention to the movement. Doing these exercises are crucial. It prevents him from falling and he learns how to react if he does. Paul believes that movement is a key element to life. He has always been this way. A moment of pure joy for Paul is when he is skiing. He describes it as feeling the most freedom ever. Between cards, yoga, sailing and skiing, Paul has found ways to feel joy and to be at peace with his blindness. He is able to see in a way we never could.

BETWEEN TWO WORLDS by Kaye van Loon Kiththan has a Danish passport, was born in Denmark and grew up there. But still he doesn’t feel like he completely fits in. His Sri Lankan Tamil roots make him look different, but he also has some different values.

Kiththan Subakaran has often struggled with being part of two worlds. In both of these worlds there are reasons he doesn’t fit in. A ‘typical Dane’ is white, blond and has blue eyes. But Kiththan is the opposite. His skin and hair is black and his eyes are brown. But in Sri Lanka he looks like a tourist. “I tried to get the local prices while travelling there, I dressed up and spoke Tamil. But they could all tell that I’m a tourist, I don’t exactly know why.” When Kiththan’s mother was 18 years old, she moved to Denmark with her mother. The people from Sri Lanka told her she shouldn’t be alone, she should get married. So they arranged a few dates, and Kiththan’s father was one of them. He had fled from the civil war in Sri Lanka. They met multiple times and liked each other, so they decided to get married. Kiththan is 22 years old and has an older brother, a younger sister and little twin brothers. They were all born in Denmark and have had Danish passports since birth. But by blood they aren’t Danish. In second grade Kiththan’s teacher would ask the kids what they did in the weekend. All his Danish classmates would talk about seeing their grandparents or going out to eat with family members. Kiththan would make up stories because they wouldn’t do such things. They don’t have any family in Denmark. “That’s one thing that made me feel very different and that I had to lie about to match the exciting lives of the white kids.” Kiththan is a very bright person, he has humour and likes to make people laugh. He also has a more serious side. He wants to tell people about his roots and likes to have conversations about culture and history. His family has Sri Lankan Tamil roots. Besides his parents, Kiththan and his older brother are the only ones in their family speaking the Tamil language. His younger siblings can only understand the basics. Kiththan’s grandmother taught him the letters, and from Kollywood films he learned how to pronounce the words. He is the only one of their family interested in their heritage. And he also went to a Tamil school in Herning every Sunday for a few years, where he learned about the culture, language and history.

Kiththan’s younger sister was the one who started a change in their family, because she doesn’t think it’s important to keep in touch with their Tamil culture. She says she is just Danish. She doesn’t want to learn the language, watch the films or eat with her fingers. Their mother decided, too, that she would eat with cutlery because it’s more hygienic. Kiththan’s little brothers don’t want to eat the traditional Tamil food, so their mom makes something else for them. Sometimes they have to eat traditional food, though, because it’s very nutritious. Tamil food is mostly served with rice and multiple curries. Made from meat, lentils, vegetables or fruits, and with a lot of spices. The smells are strong, warm and exotic. The food is so spicy that not a lot of people can handle this. When Kiththan is cooking in the kitchen in his dorm in Aarhus he uses a lot of spices, too, and his dormmates ask jokingly, “Are you going to smoke us out again?”

The praying room at Kiththan’s parents house. In the middle there is a picture of the Mother Mary, the rest of the room is filled with pictures of Hindu gods.

The kitchen at Kiththan’s parents house is filled with the rich smell of traditional Tamil food. Some Danish side dishes are prepared for Kiththan’s little brothers.

The twin brothers are going to Tamil school on Sundays, for just a few hours. But they go there more for fun than for learning, Kiththan says. He sometimes gets sad that they are not as much in touch with their heritage as he is. But he feels that it’s important to let his brothers grow up without him trying to force ideas upon them. Sometimes he wishes they knew how nice it can be to be a part of two worlds. He also understands that when immigrants are in a country for a longer time, their values change and some disappear completely. Kiththan doesn’t think that is very important for immigrants to keep every value they have from their country, but he thinks that it is a shame if some of the values disappear. Like the hospitality of Tamils or the diversity in the spices they use. Kiththan is very happy he got the freedom from his parents to grow in a way that suits him. When Kiththan was in primary school, he had a conflict with a classmate. His parents were very mad about that. But they were angrier about the fact that he messed up at school, and that this could change the teacher’s view on him.

Education and career are very important in Tamil culture. Kiththan appreciates this part of his culture, it’s one of the reasons he is so motivated in school. Being hospitable and polite are also some of his favorite Tamil values. Kiththan sometimes feels that Danish people are not very polite to their teachers, and he would like it to be different, although he admits that he is not very good at being polite towards them either. On the other hand, he appreciates the part of the Danish culture where you can make choices for yourself regarding education. He wanted to go to efterskole, which is a form of boarding school unique to Denmark. His parents said he couldn’t. They saw it as a place you send your kid to only if they have problems or need extra help. They said it would embarrass the family. Kiththan wanted to go for fun and maturing, that’s why the Danes to it. He insisted and eventually convinced his parents. “I think that I’m different from both Danish and Tamil people. I just think differently and that allowed me to explore stuff that others at my age and in my situation didn’t do.” Taking one or two gap years is normal in Denmark, but Sri Lankan Tamils think your life only starts after education. You should be done with your education as soon as possible so you can start working. Kiththan says he again chose the Danish way, he made a decision based on logical thinking. Instead of caring too much about what other people might think, what Tamils tend to do. He thinks that in Sri Lanka they have this culture because they are poor and don’t have the resources to travel and enjoy life like Danish people at such a young age. Kiththan thought about studying psychology or being a teacher. He says he is very analytic. When he identifies a problem, he comes up with solutions. When visiting the university in Aarhus, his friend wanted to take a look at the law school, so Kiththan went along, and they made a practice case there. While solving it, Kiththan could feel the thrill in his entire body. He was 100% engaged and that doesn’t happen very often. He is sometimes intrigued by the law school. Although he almost never gets discriminated, he sometimes feels like

the odd one out. In his university school pictures he is very easily spotted. Most classmates are female, and everyone is white. It’s frowned upon to drink or party. Tamils believe it will prevent you from being successful in school and career. People who drink are seen as undisciplined. But being in Denmark their standards changed. In Danish culture is very normal to drink and party. So when Kiththan is with his Danish friends he does contribute to that. He wants to enjoy his life. Law is a not an easy study and he has to work hard. He thinks he deserves to blow off some steam in his free time. Sri Lankan Tamils are mostly Hindu, and Kiththan grew up with this religion. They have a praying room at home, the walls are painted orange and there are pictures of the gods on the wall. Hindu is a very accepting religion, so one time when Kiththan got home, there was a picture of mother Mary in there. His mother said she is a nice woman and for that reason she put it up. In the mornings when his mother prayed, she would take the vipoothi, the white ash Hindu’s put on while praying, and put it on Kiththan’s forehead. When they got to school for drop-off she would quickly wipe it off. She was scared people would judge him or be racist, because she had sometimes experienced that. When he got older, Kiththan realized that he didn’t agree with all the religious values. He decided to not believe in a god anymore and became an atheist. It wasn’t one thing that made him stop believing, but the caste system is a big part of it. This system is thousands of years old and categorizes people based on career. However, this category is determined at birth, and you can’t change it. Entire bloodlines are forced to have a predetermined identity based on their ancestors’ field of jobs. The job you have determines in what caste you belong. But Kiththan doesn’t think it will be like that much longer. “We are in this transition phase where the system is going to be eradicated, my generation will be the end of it,” Kiththan says.

Kiththan at the university with two girls from his study group, Anne and Stine, working on assignments together.

Kiththan recieving the pottu at the temple, to put on his forehead. Even though he doesn’t participate in the praying rituals.

Almost all of Kiththan’s close Danish friends are Christian, and most of his Tamil friends are Hindu. Kiththan was an atheist. Going to Danish schools didn’t change his beliefs at the time. But they did teach him a lot about Christianity. He always felt that if there was a religion worth following, it should be Christianity. Around a year ago he felt like he matured more and realized that he still believes there is a god. He still didn’t agree with all the Hindu beliefs. He found that Christianity is very forgiving without expecting anything in return. It leaves you more freedom and allows you to be accepted. He really appreciates that. On an industrial site on the outskirts Herning there is a big building. From outside you wouldn’t expect what you’ll encounter inside. Loud music, women in sarees, beautiful and colorful decorations. It’s the Tamil Hindu temple where Kiththan used to go occasionally as a kid. Now only for the festival they organize once a year. He enjoys seeing his Tamil friends and have traditional food. He goes there for the culture, not to pray. He also doesn’t like to go to the Christian church. Kiththan feels religion is a private thing. He only talks about religion with his friends from the gymnasium, but they don’t talk about it that much. They also just want to be boys and have fun. “It’s actually quite nice to be part of two worlds, it has some benefits. You can pick and choose between values.”

Kiththan and his friends from gymnasium on a Saturday game night, singing a prayer before dinner.

HOLDING ON by Eliška Krátká

They had been taking care of their mentally disabled daughter for years. Then they lost their son. But my grandparents did not allow these hardships to tear them apart. Instead, their bond strengthened.

Ivana, Zuzana and Jakub at the cottage.

My aunt, Ivana, was born in 1964 in Prague, Czechoslovakia. Being the first baby, she was loved unconditionally by her parents, my grandparents Jana and Zdeněk. Ivana’s father had to do military training at the time, so he couldn’t spend much time with her during the first year of her life. But the distance didn’t spoil the joy for them. Now, they are looking at old family photos together on a mint green sofa by a wall full of drawings and paintings. Only the old pendulum clock and their sweet giggling is interrupting the silence in the living room in their flat in Prague. Having blond hair and bright blue eyes, Ivanka, as her parents call her, was such a cute baby. “She was also quite calm and wasn’t crying much,” remembers Jana, my grandmother. But after only a few months, life of the Opatrný family changed.

A defective batch of Soviet vaccine shot combined with complicated breech delivery resulted in Ivana getting fevers, inflammation of the meninges, epilepsy, and irreversible mental retardation. She had been suffering from one seizure after another and every time the little girl suffered one, she forgot what she had already learnt – as did some of the other children who had vaccine shots from the same batch. Having a disabled child in a communist-ruled country was difficult. There were no centres for disabled people to begin with. What is more, the regime overlooked them completely. “Being different wasn’t tolerated. Society isolated you and was trying to hide you away,” explains my grandfather with bitterness in his voice. Even family friends who liked them, did not know how to approach them. “Sometimes, when we were down, I thought, ‘If I and Ivana disappeared from this world, Jana would be able to live a happy life,’ but being a brave coward, I couldn’t leave her in this alone.” Instead, he immersed himself in writing poetry, one of his reliefs during that period. Despite the hard times they decided to have another child. In 1968, Jana gave birth to their son, Jakub. When Ivana started attending school, Zdeněk had to walk her there every morning. And every afternoon after school, Jana would spend around four hours tutoring her. Soon, this demanding way of life called for some time off. But having a disabled child made it impossible for the family to visit any recreation centres, so they used to spend holidays at their friends’ place in the countryside. At one point, their brother-in-law wanted to sell his cottage and they were trying to help him find a buyer. But one evening, something occured to Jana: “We’re so stupid! We’ve been offering the cottage to other people, when actually – we need it. Why don’t we buy it ourselves?” And they did. At that time, Jana was pregnant yet again. This time with my mother, Zuzana, who was born a week before Christmas Eve, 1974. After that, the family spent every holiday in the cottage, but because both

grandparents had only three weeks of vacation available every year, they had to take turns there. “I remember little Jakub running around the cottage with his teddy bear showing him our new place,” smiles grandmother. Today, the teddy bear is stuffed into a closet because “it doesn’t look nice anymore”. The cottage also turned out to be a big mental health boost. It was important for them to do physical work and see tangible results. The first decade they spent renovating the cottage, since it used to be a homestead. For example, they changed a shed into a cozy room with a fireplace. They also had to repair the roof and change the windows and some beams. “The cottage has been keeping us alive. It’s been a release for us,” my grandmother looks through a window at the neat garden that used to be an enclosure for poultry. Raising a disabled child requires a lot of patience, care, and love. “Sometimes you want to kill her, but she’s got a sense of humor, she can be kind and loving,” smiles grandfather, “You live with a different human being. It’s hard, but it’s beautiful as well.” For example, she always remembers your birthday and senses when something is wrong with you. “She’s like a loyal friend. Even though you wouldn’t expect that from someone like her,” adds my mother, “She also taught me how to be empathetic and that I should not underestimate ‘ordinary’ people,” she smiles. For 30 years, Ivana lived with her parents. Regime and society changed, and various centres for disabled people were established, so at the beginning of the nineties she moved to a centre for disabled people, where she stayed from Monday to Friday. And Jana and Zdeněk took up their normal lives again. They had been enjoying time with their grandchildren – Jakub’s two daughters, Markéta and Veronika, and Zuzana’s daughter – me. Grandfather would always take us to a museum, and we would help grandma bake our favorite red currant crumble cake. Until June 2003.

Zuzana and Ivana

Overgrown in the wild rosebush, you smell of roses and keep hurting… Overgrown in the wild rosebush, you lure the pilgrim at night’s ambush, confused in the darkness, he falls for your trap. Too dark for him to know, that your petal wrap, has laces so sharp, that make you bleed. For the body, for the soul I’ll hurt my hands, anytime you need... The branches open up, you too do bleed, we will die of the smell, both… Are you asleep? The wild rosebush; Šípek; written by Zdeněk Opatrný, translated by Lucie Špetová

Being a progressive teacher, passionate about the freshly established democratic republic, in a small town, where a lot of people retained their communist manners, Jakub started having issues at work and was diagnosed with depression. His relationship with his wife also grew colder, and he started dating a former student. His marriage was breaking up and on his 35th birthday, they were about to appear at the last court hearing about their divorce. But Jakub never came. Blinded by depression, he had decided to end his life. The whole family was in shock. “We remember almost nothing from the three years after that,” says grandfather quietly. “But I clearly remember my way back home from the crematory. The weather was beautiful, and I was waiting at a tram stop. With him in my satchel,” his fingers are desperately rubbing a small cup of coffee. Zdeněk also lost his passion for writing poems. And

it took two years before my grandmother was able to smile or feel at least a bit happy again. “I felt like a snowman and time was frozen,” she remembers. It was a period of never-ending sorrow, insomnia, and another reason for society to look down on them. “You lose a lot of friends again, because they find it weird, or they feel so sorry for you that they’re not able to find the right way to talk about it,” contemplates Zdeněk while holding Jana’s hand. Coping with losing a child requires a lot of time. But eventually, their trusted cottage helped them again. So did regular walks in nature with friends and spent time with us, their grandchildren. Grandfather even started writing poems again, this time they were funny, and he was writing them for us. We all loved them and still remember them today.

Jana with her grand grandson Jakub

For Jana, my grandmother, it was only this March that she felt she came to terms with what had happened – their second grand grandchild, named after his grandfather, was born. “Little Jakub closed this chapter for me,” Jana sighs. she also believes she will meet her son in heaven, even though she is not certain that there is an afterlife. But the idea makes her happier. According to my grandmother, it was my mother who suffered the most all her life. She had to help taking care of Ivana, and now she still needs to cope with losing her beloved brother. Until now, she is unable to even visit her brother’s grave. One of the hardest things for her has been dealing with the fact that at some point it will be her who will have to take care of the whole family.

“I thought we would get through that together. I still have to talk it out with him,” she laughs with a bit of anger in her voice. And Ivana? She misses Jakub and she talks about him quite often. On the other hand, we don’t really know much about how she precepts mortality. Despite being diagnosed with cancer in 2014 with a prediction of only three months left, she didn’t seem to be much aware of her own mortality. “Maybe that’s also why she managed to overcome it and is still here,” my mother thinks. According to the doctors it was a miracle that she survived. But for my grandparents that diagnosis meant another heartbreaking chapter. “I was talking to God – whom I don’t believe in – Why this? Wasn’t Jakub’s death enough?” Zdeněk’s voice cracks a bit.

Through the path a snail slides, his house swings from side to side. The autumn is warm, plums are ripe, just to squeeze, he might not hide with ease that he wasn’t just eating leaves… He would like his world to freeze, could radish be one of his remedies? Tipsy snail; Šípek; written by Zdeněk Opatrný, translated by Lucie Špetová

Young Ivana

“Only now, when I’m old, I feel guilty that we never found a way to each other. I need to have some physical contact with people I care about, at least sometimes. And Ivanka has never been a cuddly child. She has been driving me crazy, even throwing stuff at me, so the contact has faded away.” In the past year, though, my grandfather’s perception of their relationship has changed. He realized that despite all those conflicts, Ivana loves him and cares about him.

Now, Jana and Zdeněk visit Ivana at her place in another centre for disabled people, where she can stay the whole week. “Hold on, I need to show you something, Ivana,” Zdeněk stares to his phone. “I can hold on forever,” Ivana replies and as always, her unique humoristic undertone and poker face makes her mother laugh.

HALF

TIME

CONNECTION

by Daniel Almeida

RANDERS The big clock on the Randers bus terminal marks five minutes past two, the wind scrapes the cold through my fingers and only the buzz of two offduty drivers chatting reaches my ears. Suddenly, a distant engine noise surfaces, getting louder and louder. A blue bus parks in front of me, the doors open and a man starts unloading his belongings. “Bloody hell!” he shouts with a smile on his face. Robert was not expecting to see me here. A drizzle starts to pour as I am helping him get his bags, so we head to the indoor waiting room. A German flag is hanging from one of Robert’s bags. “I got it from the ground in the Sinsheim match,” he says. Football journalist and enthusiast Robert Clement’s journey to Denmark has been a long one. On October 24, the Welsh native started his adventure

by catching a bus from his hometown, Neath, to the Victoria coach station in London. Unsatisfied, he followed this nearly six-hour trip by taking another bus, this time with Paris in his sight. Arriving in Paris, Robert, once again, wasted no time and prepared himself to head to Sinsheim, Germany, his first official stop. The indoor waiting room at Randers Bus station is small and the walls have a balmy shade of yellow. There is about a dozen people with us, all seated in bright red chairs, scrolling through their phones. A sudden sound of excitement interrupts our conversation. Robert rushes to his bag, looking for something. As he pulls fliers, programmes, and other football merchandise out of multiple bags, Robert gets gradually more frustrated. It is not inside of his notebook, it doesn’t seem to be

forgotten on his overcoat’s pockets, not even hidden somewhere in his backpack. I notice a green bus approaching the station, Robert’s ride to Odense is departing in 10 minutes. His eyes light up as he finally finds his post card, there is a tone of excitement in his voice as he tells me about Julie, a past love of his that he is trying to reconnect with. After digging his mind for the right words, Robert finishes writing and hands me the letter, “Please post it for me”, he says.

old and new friends wherever he goes. The room is in silence, we both get up and quickly pick up all the bags, Robert’s bus is leaving in five minutes. As we rush to the platform, Robert leaves me a last message. “Oh we had some fun yesterday!”. I smile in agreement. The day before in Viborg, Robert had attended his second football game of this journey, and I was with him.

Robert’s route through love and family building has not been the traditional one. Although he was close to marrying once, Robert ended up not having this experience, neither has he had the chance of having kids. All this doesn’t, however, dwell on Robert’s mind, as he has always had a special capacity to create friendships, surrounding himself with both

VIBORG Claps, laughs and shouts surround me. On the pitch, two huge flags lay next to each other, Denmark on the left, Wales on the right. Robert has plastic strips on his hands and is fully concentrated on hanging a big Welsh flag on the stands. He has endured a long trip to be here and you can see the joy in his eyes. The stage is the Energi Viborg Arena, mainly the home of Viborg FF, but, tonight, it’s the Denmark Women’s National Team who look to shine. The stadium lights go dark and two rows of players come out of the tunnel. Robert is standing perched on the railing that separates the stand from the field. It’s time for the national anthems. Wales goes first, the only other group of Welsh supporters, sitting behind us, fills the arena with a thrilled singing of the “Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau”, Robert joins.

This is far from Robert’s first football match. Since 1948, when he was born, a football culture has been cultivated around him. His involvement in the sport was, however, strictly a hobby until he competed in a national cartoon competition commissioned by the Daily Mirror, where he was selected among thousands of other competitors. The prize was two tickets to the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich. At the event, robert had the opportunity to stand in the media booth at a football game, gaining a special fondness for the work being done up there. I feel a brief moment of collective anxious silence in the Viborg Arena when, suddenly, a symphony of euphoric sounds invades my ears and a platoon of delighted Danish supporters jumps and shouts. “GOAL by number 10, Amalie Vangsgaard”, the announcer says. The Welsh team is down by one, but Robert doesn’t look disappointed; he knows Wales is not the favourite and he is there to have fun no matter what.

Returned to Swansea, Robert felt the need to explore what he had felt that night in Munich in 1972. Luckily, the perfect opportunity was just around the corner, as he noticed that a local paper, The Neath Guardian, lacked football reports, especially when the home teams lost. Young Robert then decided to volunteer to do the reports consistently and hasn’t stopped since. Eventually, the Welshman started to get paid, bought a proper typewriter and even convinced a friend to be his photographer. From here, Robert’s involvement in football journalism would gradually grow, reporting for bigger teams, tougher competitions and more prestigious newspapers. This work never was, however, Robert’s main source of income, or even one he could rely on to put food on the table. Robert worked as a tax officer in the Swansea city council for all his active working life, using his earnings to fund his adventures through Europe when he had the time.

I notice the crowd around me in the Viborg arena getting excited, I look to the pitch and, right in front of me, a Danish Attacker prepares to shoot. There is split of a second of total quietness. “GOOAAALLL!” The stadium shouts in unison. Robert has his index finger pointed to the box, using it to follow a player. Both his posture and his face express an immense curiosity, he stays like this for some seconds, squinting his eyes, until he proudly tells me it was number 4 who scored, and rushes to the match sheet to find out her name. An old reporter habit, I suppose.

Even though Wales was now losing by 2, Robert keeps a positive energy around, waving and smiling to the players and having a good time. A strong whistle fills the stadium, the game Is over. The crowd moves closer to the pitch, waving at the players. Even though Wales did not win, Robert expresses satisfaction, the team managed to concede less goals than in the last outing against Denmark. He puts his flags and banners up, and he had fun.

Tomorrow, Robert will embark on a three-daylong bus trip, from Viborg to Randers, Randers to Odense, Odense to Hamburg, Hamburg to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to London, London to Cardiff and, finally, Cardiff to Neath. This amounts to over two thousand kilometres, seven different buses and three full days on the road. However, all of this doesn’t seem to bother him, “Life is a challenge!” he tells me, as he proceeds to pull out a pile of photographs. A polish hostel worker who received him kindly, his beloved Nigerian friend Vera, or the time he interviewed footballer Ben Davies, are some of the memories from his adventures around Europe that he keeps in his coat’s pockets everywhere he goes. Robert shows them to everyone who wishes to see them, he believes it’s a way to break the ice, making it easier to talk to people and connect. In a world where we tend to disregard the ones around us and completely immerse ourselves in the hypnotic glow of our phones, Robert shows the power of conversation. As Robert likes to say, “Time goes faster when you talk,” and that’s the motto he lives by, taking every chance he has, to try and connect with people and have some fun, be it in Swansea, or during a 3-daylong bus trip.

‫ََه ْْل أ ََراك؟‬ by Shrouk Ghonim

Many expatriate Palestinians don’t know their homeland. It only exists in photographs and in their imagination, their grandparents were displaced from their homes and their country, and they were not allowed to go back. That was when Al-Nakba happened. Al-Nakba is an Arabic word meaning catastrophe. It refers to the Palestinian experience of dispossession and loss of their homeland in 1948. Families were scattered in different countries; however, they still hold on to their heritage, passing down traditions and memories that connect them to their roots. Despite the challenges they face, there is a sense of hope that one day they will be able to fulfill their dream of returning to their country, to the figs, the olives and the scent of thyme.

‫بالل‬ Bilal asked his father, “why don’t we buy a house here? “ His father answered, “because it is not our land, it is not our country. What does our country look like? “ Everyone sinks into silence; the little boy closes his eyes to imagine what his country looks like and hopes to see it in real life, touch its ground and smell its breeze. Now Bilal Shaaban is 51 years old. He closes his eyes again. He sighs. He has never known what home tastes like. Bilal’s family is one of the families that were forced to leave Palestine during the Nakba. Ahmed Saeed Shaaban, Bilal’s father, lived in the city of Safed, which is 29 kilometres from the Lebanese border. When the family was about to leave in 1948, they thought they were going for a short time and would come back again after the war. “This was what we were promised from the Arab armies: Go until the war ends so that you will not be harmed, and then you will return,” Bilal says. Bilal’s family, like all other Palestinians, took the key to their houses with them. It made them feel secure and assured them that they would come back. Bilal’s

father was 24 years old at the time and worked as a pharmacist. Until he died at the age of 90, he kept the key with him. Without using it again or seeing his homeland of almond, olive and grape trees. The family was displaced to Lebanon and then settled in Syria. Bilal’s father refused to buy a house in Syria and remained renting despite their good financial condition. “He only wanted to buy a house in his country and the land of his ancestors”. Bilal says. When Bilal and his siblings grew up, each of them travelled to a different European country. Bilal ended up in Aarhus, Denmark, and inherited the key after his father’s death. Now he plays the same role as his father and tells his children about Palestine and the importance of the key. “It is a symbol for us as Palestinians in the diaspora that we hold on to our land and that we will return to our home one day”, he says.

‫مهيبة‬ In her lounge in Brabrand, Aarhus, Mahibba was sitting for hours in front of the TV. Following the news, she sees herself in each image of the victims of the war in Gaza. History repeats. That’s what happened to her grandparents about 75 years ago; that’s what happened to her about 41 years ago, she says. The weight of the past hangs heavily on her shoulders as she contemplates the cycle of violence and suffering. Each generation seems to bear witness to the same horrors. Mahibba was born in 1963 in a Palestinian refugee camp in Lebanon , where her family was displaced during the Nakba; she lived there until she was 25. While she was getting ready to have a new baby, the Israeli invasion of Lebanon took place in 1982. In a hospital that received the wounded and the killed, she gave birth to a new baby amid the sounds of shelling, destruction, and killing. She and her family survived the war, but what she saw is still haunting her.

“It was our bodies that survived, not our souls,” Mahibba says. Even after leaving the refugee camp and starting a new life in Denmark, the memories of the ongoing war affected her daily life. She grew up hearing her mother’s stories about Palestine as fairytales. “They lived with Jewish, Christian, and Muslim neighbours like brothers.” Mahibba always imagines Palestine as a glorious land with lemon, olive trees, and fragrant thyme growing on the hills in front of their house. “I spent half of my life in Lebanon and the other half in Denmark, but what I really want is to live and die in my homeland,” Mahibbah says.

‫مصطفى‬ From the first moment you walk into Mustafa Mohamed’s house in Aarhus, Denmark, you learn about his roots. There are winter jackets and a bike helmet in his front hall, but above it all the Palestinian flag is hanging on the wall. Mustafa is the same age as the Palestinian Nakba. He was born in the city of Suhmata in 1948, but when he was about a month old, the war began, and he and his family were displaced from their country. All the pictures that come from Palestine show destruction and war. But in his imagination, he still sees it fertile with its famous olive, fig and grape trees. In Aarhus Mustafa has tried to follow in the footsteps of his grandfathers and parents. In his garden, he planted the same types of plants that they used to have in Palestine: Grapes, Figs, and thyme, but the most important thing is that he gives each tree the name of his children and grandchildren. His father had done that in the past in their garden in Suhmata village in Palestine. Everything reminds him of Palestine. In a good and bad way. He sees his trees and feels the breeze of his homeland. He sees the news and remembers the repeated tragedy from 75 years ago.

He remembers when he lived in refugee camps in Baalbek, Lebanon, for thirteen years. With 45 people in the same room. Years ago, Mustafa decided to travel to Palestine to see his village and visit the place where he was born. He traveled with his Danish passport, but despite that, he faced problems at the airport because he is Palestinian. “I see foreigners entering my country easily, but I stand waiting for a long time to be allowed to visit,” Mustafa says. Mustafa felt a deep sense of loss and sadness as he stood in the ruins of his family home. “All I found were stones left over from the demolition of our house,“ he says. Despite the destruction, he found solace in the presence of the olive trees, a symbol of resilience and hope for him and his grandparents. As he walked through the village, memories flooded back to him, reminding him of the vibrant community that once thrived there.

‫منى‬ “How did I know about my home when I was young? When you grow up in a refugee camp, everything reminds you,” Mona Fahd says. Mona Fahd was born in a camp in Beirut, Lebanon. “We’ve experienced many challenges; I’ve been angry, but I kept quiet since as Palestinians we weren’t permitted to discuss politics “. Despite the painful reality, Mona was trying to escape with her imagination. She draws in her mind a sweet picture of her country. She listens to her grandmother’s stories, especially her love story with her grandfather. Mona moved from Lebanon to Denmark in 1991, and the first thing she decided to do was break the silence and talk about her country’s right to liberation and peace. She joined a political party and became a political activist. ”I found Danish people who were interested in and supportive of the Palestinian issue, which encouraged me to continue working,” Mona says.

Mona is no longer a member of this party, but she continues her social activity and tries to create strong bonds between the Palestinians in Aarhus, where she now lives, and to preserve the Palestinian heritage through clothing and food. Also, she organizes demonstrations denouncing the ongoing war in her country, Every Palestinian home here, according to Mona, has a piece of their homeland in it. “There’s a heritage revival in the simplest detail. This makes us stronger and connected to our home.”

‫فاطمة‬ Being third generation of Palestinians in Denmark, Fatima’s experience with Palestine is different. She did not live the suffering of the second generation, who experienced the refugee’s camp life. Yet she carries the same love for her homeland, the same longing. The same anger. Like other young people, Fatma, aged 16, knew about Palestine through her mother’s tales of the country that she would like to see, and wishes to live in. but she knows that she can’t, even if it is her own country. For a long time, Fatma pictured Palestine as some kind of paradise. But as she got older this image faded. At the age of 4, Fatma began to realize that her country was not in a normal situation. It was when she participated in the first demonstration in Denmark with her mother, to demand the freedom of their country.

Last summer Fatma travelled to Lebanon with a relative, and while she was on one of the mountains, her relative pointed out to her a nearby area and said, “Look over there. This is Palestine”. Fatma had mixed feelings about that, “My homeland is right in front of my eyes, but I cannot visit it. But despite all the pain, I believe that I will return one day.”

The loyal hero by Sefa Eyol

Dmytro quietly listens around with a grenade and a rifle in his hand. Everything is dark and the weather is very cold, and he prays to God to save him. A Russian sniper shot his friend Alexandra, who was a few meters away. It is the scariest day of his life. Alexandra lies next to him covered in blood and he is surrounded by Russian soldiers. After six hours, the rest of his team comes to rescue him.

Malchenko Dmytro Olegovych, a 32- year old professional soldier, served in the Ukrainian army between 2014 and 2023. He was sent to the Donetsk region with his team of 30 people when Russia invaded Ukraine on February 24, 2022. I met Dmytro, or Dima as he calls himself, for the first time in September, in a house where Ukrainian immigrants live in Aarhus, Denmark. He and his family had been sent to Aarhus by the Ukrainian Ministry of Health for the treatment of his leg. At first, he didn’t want to talk to me, but later, when he learned that I was working in Ukraine during the war, we met on common ground. We lit a cigarette and started telling each other about Ukraine and what we experienced there.

When I arrived in Lviv by bus from Berlin for my first photography assingment there, it was the third week of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. I couldn’t sleep on my fırst night because of the sirens and because I was worried about what would happen the next day. When I arrived at the Orthodox church the next morning, the funeral of Ukrainian soldier Igor Stepanovych had started. Whenever I wanted to take a photo, my hands were shaking and my eyes were filled with tears. Now in Aarhus, in this small city, I don’t know if it is fate or coincidence, but I have the chance to tell the story of a hero with the same feelings and emotions.

On August 10, 2022, Dima was sent to the city of Izyum, where the Russians had gained the upper hand. He participated in the intense conflict that lasted for a week and many of his friends died as a result of these conflicts. “Sometimes I wonder why those who were always with me have passed away. I still wake up at night with nightmares and cry. “ Dima says. It’s August 19, 2022, and Nastya, Dima’s wife, is checking her phone. Again, again, and again. She hasn’t heard from her husband in the last nine days. She tries to not show her worries to her son. Finally a call. It’s a nurse at a hospital. They tell her that Dima was seriously injured after the Russian tank attack in this morning at 9am. With the help of his two close friends, he was evacuated from the conflict zone and underwent surgery at the hospital in Kharkiv. After two very difficult surgeries, his left leg was saved and the doctors told him that his leg would not be amputated. After a week in the hospital, he was evacuated to the hospital in Kiev after the Russians attacked the hospital with rockets. On his first day in Kiev, his family came to see him, and they met for the first time in a year.

Dima´s mother knew that her son needed better treatment. The facilities in Ukraine were inadequate, so she started writing letters to the Ukrainian Ministry of Health. Finally, Dima was sent to Aarhus for the treatment of his leg and is now here with his family because of the incredible efforts his mother made. Dima has received treatment twice a week since January. When he first arrived in Aarhus, he was in a wheelchair and unable to walk. I visited him in the hospital one day when he was being treated, and Dmytro’s doctor told me, “When he arrived, his leg was in a really bad condition. The bones in his kneecap are completely missing.” On the first day of the treatment, he could only open his leg 10 degrees. When the doctors checked at the end of the treatment today, this ratio was now 110 degrees. The treatment is very difficult, but it is definitely going well. He will be ready for surgery soon.”

After treatment we are sitting in the Aarhus University hospital garden, drinking coffee and waiting for the car to take him home. He tells me that a close friend of his was seriously injured and his arm was amputated, and that’s why his wife left him. ‘’ After the great pain and all the difficulties I went through, I was reunited with my family, and seeing them safe and being able to touch them keeps me alive. Many of my friends no longer have this option and I feel devastated when I think about it. ‘’

One stormy day, Makar is doing his homework in the living room. Nastya and Dima are preparing dinner in the kitchen. Makar is only 6 years old, but he is a child who has remained calm in the face of difficulties that many people cannot even imagine. His love for his father is Dima’s biggest motivation during this treatment process. ‘’I’m lucky because the Danish government helps me get treatment here. Everyone here is very nice and helps me in every way. But this is not our real home, sometimes it is too much to be here because the war is still going on in Ukraine and I can’t help anymore.” Dima says. Dima is waiting for his treatment to end and to return home to Ukraine. Most of all, he wants to go to the front again and do whatever he can for his family and his country. ‘’ Slava Ukraini! (Glory to Ukraine) ‘’ as he puts it.

With the beginning of the large-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine on February 24, 2022, a humanitarian crisis continues to unfold in Ukraine, as millions have been displaced and thousands killed during the conflict. As a result of heavy shelling and fighting, since October 2023, the UN has recorded 5.1 million people have been driven from their homes and are internally displaced and more than 6.2 million people have crossed into neighboring countries in Europe.

CHOOSING YOUR OWN PATH by Ben Bond Obiri Asamoah

Maia is determined to create her own future instead of following an already determined one.

It is a chilly afternoon at the dorm. Most dorm mates are probably still having lectures at school, but Maia Ginnerup Anderson, 25, loves to be by herself in the kitchen reading a book and sipping coffee. The coffee mug is her favourite because it has drawings of horses. Maia is studying to become a doctor. It has been four years now since she decided to study medicine at Aarhus University. She is left with about a year or two to complete, depending on whether she wants to take a research year in between studies or not. “I don’t feel like it’s a rush to be done. I like the possibility of studying when I want to and not having too many classes,” she says. She sometimes studies with her friends via Zoom. Her current semester involves having classes once a week at most. Her classes are recorded so she has the flexibility to watch them at home. However, she is looking forward to the spring

semester where she will spend eight weeks at the hospital and eight weeks doing research and a project assignment. When she is not studying at the dorm, she usually goes home to help her parents on the farm which is located at Hørslevbol west of Aarhus. It is just a twenty-minute drive from her dorm, Børglum Kollegiet, so even on rainy days when she just wants to be by herself to study, she loves to drive to the farm, sit by the window in her old room, enjoy a hot coffee while reading her books. She prefers the quiet life on the farm to staying in the city where there can be so much noise and so many distractions. As a farm that has been passed on from one generation to the other, it has become a major part of Maia’s life.

Her grandfather bought the it from his father and Maia’s father also bought it from her grandfather making the farm really important to their family. The farmland is about thirty-two hectares in all and they have horses and cattle, too. There is a long gravel road running between the fields leading to the farmhouse. The house and the stables are made of red bricks while the roofs are black, and there is a big garden with old trees and a riding ground. All around the farm are fields and paddocks for the horses. Maia mostly takes care of the horses because she and her sister have been into horse racing for a number of years now. Actually, her granddad used to be a horse-racer, too, and so did her mom. Maia and her sister have continued the journey of being horse racers. She started racing with Ponies around the age of twelve while her sister was about ten. They have both achieved great success and have won a lot of trophies and ribbons as horse racers. Sometimes they use these trophies and ribbons to decorate their rooms, especially the ones that they’re really proud of. On days when she is not racing, she stills loves to attend the racing events at Jydsk Væddeløbsbane with her dorm mates. Maia and her sister were born and raised on the farm. “It is my favourite place to be because it is home,” she says. As someone who has had horses since she was a kid, she has a lot of experience in handling and taking care of horses. Friends and family friends also bring their horses to the farm when they need to be taken care of. Taking care of horses implies both psychology and body language, which Maia has learned over the years. Horses are sweet and gentle creatures but can be dangerous if they are not properly trained and tamed.

In the old Danish culture, it would have been expected of Maia to take over the farm and even with the passion and love she has for the farm, one would assume the she would definitely want to buy and take over when it is her turn. But that is not the case. She does not want to continue with what her grandfather and father did. She obviously loves the farm and it has been part of her life since she was born, but she wants to fulfill her plan of becoming a doctor. Same as her sister, who is studying Chemical Engineering. The farm is quite old and requires a lot of dedication to keep it running. There are constant renovations and also it is a really expensive hobby. There are occasional veterinary check-ups and also dentist visits with the horses once a year. It easily adds up to about 100,000kr a year to be both a horse racer and a farm owner. Sometimes even more. These are all contributing factors to why Maia does not wish to take over the farm even though she loves it and dedicates a lot of time to it. But her main reason for not taking over is another one.

Top photo - Maia driving a tractor at the age of five with her sister.

Bottom photo - A view of the 32 hectares of land including the family farm.

100

101

“It is more that I want to try something different and not be bound to it. I can see myself on a farm, I am just not ready for it yet,” She says. It has been really important for her to achieve her personal dream of becoming a doctor, and her parents are very supportive of her decision. Her father will take care of the farm for as long as he can even if his children don’t take over. For him it is not mandatory for his children to continue the tradition of taking over the farm. He has friends who also help to manage and ensure the continuity of the place until he decides to sell it sometime in the future. His children are free to live their however they want to.

Top photo - Maia and her friends watching a horse-racing event at the Jydsk Væddeløbsbane.

Down photo - A fraction of the numerous trophies and ribbons Maia has won from horse-racing.

104

105

Fascis Carniv

NAZI CARNIVAL by Ole Olesen

st val

ATUR SAM EXPEDITI CON REM HICIENI HICIUM LITIA NONSENIS DOLUM REPEL IN CON CULPA NONEMODIT UT IL INVENDEM ANT MOSTIS AM NEMPORE PREPRA QUIAM FUGIT, OD MOLUPTA SUNT EXPERIA TIUSCILLORIA QUASPED UT EXERITIUNTI CONSE VOLORRUM QUATE QUO TEMQUI CUS. OLOREPT ATESTIORE PE SIT UT QUE NIHILLUPTAS EST QUODIATEM ET DOLUPTAT AD QUAM EX EOSSI BEA VOLUPTI ORECTET.

By Ludovico Paiella

I saw swastikas engraved on mugs, shirts, scarves, caps, lighters and belts. I saw the Nazi eagle, the SS lightning bolts, Celtic crosses, Christian iconography, symbols of the Orthodox church and of varius controversial anticommunist paramilitary groups. I saw busts of Mussolini everywhere. I saw a family on a sunny Sunday outing all dressed in black, with their newborn donning the Fez. Later on, I clapped my hands at dinner to the Italian colonial hit “Facetta Nera” played on the accordion.   I spoke with an 8-year-old holocaust denier, with a denier who had visited the Auschwitz concentration camp six times, with a man dressed as an Orthodox priest, who I later discovered was not an Orthodox priest. And all this in a single day. Every October 28 the anniversary of the “March on Rome” in 1922 is celebrated in Predappio, a small town in central Italy. A few hundred of comrades, as they define themselves, meet in the square of Predappio, a small town of 6,000 thousand people, where Mussolini was born and is now buried, and they march towards the funeral crypt. On this day 100 years ago, Benito Mussolini together with his paramilitary group “Fasci da Combattimento” obtained total government power after having besieged all the centres of power and communication, and having “formally” besieged the capital. I decided to go there together with the “Pontinia” group. Pontinia is one of the founding cities of the Pontine Plain, an area of Italy that was previously a swamp. From all over the country, between 1920 and 1940 desperate people who lived

in huts and without services in a situation of poverty, arrived and found work and accommodation. Today it is the main agricultural centre of central Italy where there are dozens of inhabited centres.   All in rationalist style, many of them godforsaken.   A lot of people who live here remain linked to the cult of fascism and Mussolini by faith, memory and gratitude. After inquiring for a couple of days, I’m on the “Predappio 2023” What’s App group chat.   I know the organizer of the Tour. Giuseppe is just over 60 years old. Small business owner. When we meet, he shows me a photo of some Indian laborers, to whom he rents the house.   He’s almost tender, it seems like he’s talking to me about his dog.   “A few days after I let out the house to them, I saw them enter the house dirty (after working in the fields, ed.). I pointed to the garden and I told them,   ’Before entering the house you take a shower! otherwise you leave’,” He says and then he shows me photos with the same Indians that are hugging him, together in an audience with the Pope in Rome.

Top Two - “Fascio littorio” and a Celtic Cross in white goldaround the neck of a militant. Uniform of the Italian Air Force in the parade

Bottom photo - One of the demonstrators and his son: “It is important that my son learns history not only from school books”

108

109

112

He gives me a kitchen cutting board with a fascist symbol on it.   “There’s a lot of ignorance out there,” he tells me. I think he’s right. There is a lot of ignorance out there. Two days later, after midnight, I was on a very dilapidated bus heading towards Predappio. Seven hours of travel, 100 Euros, all-inclusive, lunch and breakfast, visit to the mausoleum, visit to the house where the Duce was born. My traveling companions are almost all elderly, their hands, their faces, and their teeth speak of a life of toil, earth, concrete. They speak in a very strong dialect. We arrive in the morning at 6, in order to be there as soon as Mussolini’s crypt opens. The city is deserted and no other groups have arrived yet. There is only the first group of policemen in plain clothes. Every year this type of event attracts not only militants who pay homage to “Il Duce” but also left-wing antagonists.    There is always an enormous deployment of forces on this day. We have a quick breakfast and head towards the cemetery, where the crypt is. Up until now, I haven’t seen any flags or symbols. Once we get to the cemetery, the men arrange themselves in a

group and take out their banners, a bit like ultras, a bit like a parish group.    The crypt is manned by a group of volunteers (military dress code, angry faces and starter glasses) and by the great-granddaughters of the Mussolini family. Kisses and handshakes with the group leader and we go down into the crypt, a few at a time. Since I have the camera, I can stay down all the time, they, one at a time, go down, take photos and go back up.    I am tense. On the one hand, it is a sacred place both from a religious and political point of view. Then, little by little, I am struck by the austerity of that moment for some of them. There is a grave silence.    Some stop to contemplate at the tomb. They are petrified in front of it. Others leave a dedication, others are sincerely emotional.This feeling disappears as soon as we return to the city.   Where the main parade starts, there is a huge merchandise shop. Mayor Giorgio Frassineti, who governed the town for ten years, says,    “Here in Predappio we are normal people, but we live inside a circus where three times a year (when these parades take place, ed.) democracy is suspended. But we are talking about three shops, which sell souvenirs,batons, swastikas.”    I see these shops mobbed, everyone comes out with souvenirs as if they were on a school trip. All products have a symbol in a way which recalls fascist iconography. In Italy apologia for fascism is, or would be, a crime; Using icons or glorifying the fascist regime, is considered uncompatible with democracy. And therefore they are, at least formally, illegal.

113

Again, Mayor Frassineti, “I’ve been trying to stop this stuff for years! but the fact that they earn money (due to a loophole in the law, ed.) means that it’s not a crime, and even those who are liable for the crime are never convicted”.    A few years ago, for example, a woman wearing a shirt with the world “Auscwitzland” on it, caused quite a stir but was then acquitted after a lot of media noise. From the buses where they are dressing up, the demonstrators gather. The parade begins, and the people line up like soldiers, almost a religious procession. Many elderly people, very few skinheads. Some are literally in military costume, navy raiders, young recruits, and so on.    The question of Predappio, beyond local tradition, arises a broader discussion on what needs to be done to historical places that recall dark historical times. So obviously, the now former mayor,Frassineti, also dealt with it, and talked about it in a documentary made by the Italian Swiss production company Road Tv, The Mayor, Me, Mussolini and the Museum. For years the mayor has been trying to transform the imposing palace of the “Casa del Fascio” of Predappio into a museum of fascism.    “The only way to stop this kind of demonstration is to see the issue in a historical perspective. Telling the story of Predappio belongs to fascism in such a way that once you leave the museum the last thing you want to do is buy a lighter with Mussolini’s drawing on it. Not doing so, means leaving history in the hands of legend,” he says. A legend that means that today I am here surrounded by people in black shirts. Alessandro Barbero, avowedly anti-fascist historian and popularizer, at a conference on fascism at Fondazione E. di Mirafiore puts it this way, “The phrase ‘Mussolini also did good things’, if it didn’t have political repercussions (in current politics, ed.), there would be no problem in saying

114

it. It’s obvious, imagine if someone who governed a country for twenty years didn’t do good things! He didn’t want to destroy the country, he wanted to make it great and a lot of good people believed it, a lot of our grandparents believed it.” Despite the deployment of numerous police forces, there is no tension, and no ripple in the tranquility of that cordon of people. Now and then some shy Roman greeting comes out, a laugh, almost out of joy. The parade has now arrived to the front of the cemetery again, prayers are read and some letters. We bid farewell to Benito Mussolini’s body,    “Camerata Benito Mussolini” and everyone in chorus “PRESENTE”.   A few more Roman greetings are heard here and there. Then the demonstration ends and we go to the tavern or home. Walking back, I see people taking off their clothes from the parade, as if it was some kind of performance, or as Mayor Frassineti,concludes in a Tintoria Podcast on Youtube,      “In the end, Predappio remains a carnival, a circus, and when I see these fascist hierarch clothes I think, ´This doesn’t scare me, this is an idiot!´”

ELIŠKA KRÁTKÁ

KAYE VAN LOON

CÉLESTINE DECLOEDT

RÉMY VROONEN

SEFA EYOL

LUDOVICO PAIELLA

BEN BOND OBIRI ASAMOAH

ANTONIA GIGGLBERGER

SHROUK GHONIM

DANIEL ALMEIDA

@eliska.kratka @cels_made @eyolsefa

@benbond_photographer @chrouq.ghonim

@kayevanloon

@remyvroonen

@wait_asecond21 @antoniaevamaria @despiertadan