Resilience

RESILIENCE

RESILIENCE

©Photojournalists

©Danish School of Media and Journalism

Cover photo by Florine Schmid

Intro text by Julija Stankevičiūtė

Printed in Denmark in 2024

A heartfelt thank you to Søren Pagter, Gitte Luk, Lars Bai of DMJX and to everyone who trusted us with their stories.

They couldn’t be told without you.

There are journeys to be completed on bloody feet. We clench our teeth and take one step after the other. And as we walk this road, we know we are not alone.

We fight our mind, for it does not control us. We speak into the world, loud enough for it to listen. We expose the magic we have in our hearts and the love that we bare. And we find hope along the way to keep us going.

To spring back into place, that‘s resillience. And like the weeds that grow out of concrete, our spring blooms through universal compassion. An understanding that we are more connected than apart, more loved than we imagine, more capable than we think. And then we take another step forward.

On the road of compassion, simplicity and hope

They are searching for everything, anything really.

To the people who walked with me, thank you.

by Ana Fernanda Torres Olvera

I put on my walking shoes and my backpack, take a deep breath and walk out the door. 114 kilometres lie ahead of me. The morning is cold, the pavement damp from the rain that has fallen overnight, and the streets appear to be empty. But then I spot the first yellow arrow and as I get nearer the streets suddenly come alive. They are now full of souvenir shops and small cafes where pilgrims are having breakfast. The smell of coffee fills the air, and chatter echoes on the narrow street.

Pilgrims have walked Camino de Santiago since the 9th century. The origins of this walk tell the story of Saint James the Apostle; it is believed that his remains are buried in the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, attracting many pilgrims to the site. Throughout the year different routes have been created, all converging and meeting in Santiago de Compostela. To this day, people still walk this route, and I can’t help but wonder how many different stories, backgrounds and motives lie before me. That’s why I’m here.

Sitting on the sidelines of the dirt road, a girl by the name of Kalliopi Luzzati finds herself with a longing gaze and a tired smile. A small, light backpack sits open next to her but perhaps she carries the heavy backpack on the inside. I met her at a cafe a few kilometers back and we agreed to walk together as she shares her story with me. At the age of 21, she has been through a lot, becoming numb to feelings. As a former soldier in the Israeli army, she underwent six months of heavy training where they taught her how to shoot a gun and how to be okay with her own suffering. She explains this as if trying to make sense of what she has been through. People keep walking by, but she remains sitting on the sideline, thinking of everything.

After contemplating life for a bit more, she takes a few breaths and stands up, shaking off the dirt that has stuck to her pants. She then, determined, continues her path, like she always does. As she walks, she can feel the raindrops on her skin and the blisters on her feet, she feels the wind through her hair, the freedom of the Camino and the joy of the

Kalliopi Luzzati, 21, Israel

people she meets. Something she has not been able to do for a while. It did not come easy, she had to start therapy sessions right after she left the military three months ago.

We walk together, sharing the space we are in and a couple of reflections here and there. As we cross a bridge that goes over a small river passing through the woods, I dare to ask her ¨But why are you walking?”, a question that sparks the rawest of conversations on the Camino, one that forces hearts to open to one another and show their most vulnerable state. Without thinking twice, she tells me that she is trying to learn that she doesn’t have to do everything, she has the right to listen to her needs and wants.

“For example, I don’t have to do 20 kilometres a day, I can just do 10 and decide that’s enough,” she says, and I nod, a silence falling upon us. What was once a flat path suddenly turns into one full of hills. “I finish too many things at the cost of my wellbeing,” Kalliopi says, almost out of breath.

The day feels heavier now, and time passes slower, people keep rushing past us as we try our best to keep up. Our legs are burning, my left foot starts to cramp up and I can feel shooting pains with every step that I take. After a few minutes I look around and we are all alone, walking with no one behind, no one in front of us. Somewhat frustrated I pull out my phone from the pocket of my black rain jacket and I begin searching how many kilometres are ahead of us. In between all this I forget that we are walking through beautiful scenery. We pass by a fenced field with mostly brown cows, and to our right we spot the next café, Taberna Mercado da Serra.

At the entrance of the taverna sits an elderly lady on a bench, eyes closed as she soaks in the fleeting sunshine and inhales the fresh air, taking some moments for herself to unwind and relax. Coffee cup in one hand and the other placed carefully on the empty spot next to her, Mandy patiently waits for her husband, David, who is still browsing inside. We approach her, amazed by her peacefulness.

Soon enough we learn that they have been together since the age of 16 and I can’t help myself but ask, ¨Why are you walking?”, to which she responds that their love for nature and desire to keep learning more about each other is what inspires them. They biked through Belgium and France for three months at the age of 17, just after they met, and decided to embark on this journey together to celebrate their 60 years of age. With people rushing by, determined to get as many kilometres in as little time as possible, Mandy remains still, unbothered and finding peace in her own pace of life. She knows that she, too, as everyone else, will reach the goal. Mandy takes a sip of her coffee as Kalliopi and I prepare to continue at our own pace. We say our goodbyes, exchange a “buen camino” and continue our journey inspired by her, fully present in the moment.

I notice Kalliopi standing stronger as she walks, slowly finding the freedom she longs for. The last stretch of the road to Portomarín is tough, strong currents of wind bending and breaking the umbrella Kalliopi’s holding while trying to cover herself from the rain as she crosses the last bridge. Slowly we arrive and she decides to stay behind to relax and maybe get a massage. Buen camino, Kalliopi.

Suddenly that phrase holds more meaning, and as I wave goodbye it dawns on me that it is simply just life. You will meet people and walk through life together, but not all are meant to stay with you forever, the only thing you can do is wish them good as you part ways and cherish the moments shared. Maybe life will bring you back together.

I continue my walk the next day, connecting with incredible people along the way. My feet grow tired with time and my back feels heavier, but my heart is a little fuller. Rain falls again, this time stronger than the previous day, yet the joy and love all around is more tangible than ever. Pilgrims proceed in damp clothes, muddy shoes and kindred spirits.

After a few hours of walking on tired feet and with hungry stomachs we approach what appears to be a small bar on the side of the road. A sign of a muchneeded rest. Sighs of relief leave everyone´s mouths as we set the heavy backpacks down and place our walking poles up against the wall. An elderly couple stands outside the white walled bar getting ready to resume their walk, ponchos still on. As the wife is trying to reach something in her backpack her husband walks around her, stepping into the grass and bending down to help her reach her blue water bottle. He struggles a bit with the poncho and the messy backpack while she patiently waits. Scenes like this are all around, friends and strangers helping each other to the best of their abilities. Offering each other a hand, a band aid or lending an ear.

Solange Paillot, 80, Oliver Paillot, 85, Alain Paillot, 87, France

The days pass and the magic of each day remains in my mind. In the blink of an eye it is now the last day of the Camino. Still sleepy, I look out the window as I slip on my muddy and still wet walking shoes and observe that it has not yet started to rain. I hurry out the door and soon enough I run into some of the friends I’ve made along the way. We continue together, slower than the previous days, trying to savour each step and prolong the end as much as we can. As we leave the town of O Pedrouzo, the paved roads and the heavy traffic and reach the woods once more, we spot an elderly group walking right in front of us. My walking companions, excitedly, run to greet them and not long after they introduce me to them.

As we slow our pace to walk along with them, I learn their names, Alain Paillot, Solange Paillot and Olivier Paillot, three siblings from France. In broken Spanish, slightly better English and a little bit of French we somehow manage to connect. We keep conversing, the smell of wet dirt present as we walk around the puddled areas of the road, our shoes still becoming dirtier if that is even possible. I am amazed when Solange mentions that they have been walking from Ponferrada, Spain and that each year for the last nine years they walk around 150 kilometers. ¨How old are you?” I ask, still a little speechless. “I am 87” Alain responds in his shaky voice. “My sister is 80 and my brother is 85.” I stare, as I admire them silently, the only noise is that of the chirping birds and the cracking sounds of twigs

and leaves under our feet. They are proof that you can do what you set your mind to. As we continue I observe the love and joy they share with each other and with others.

Rain comes, once more, and Alain and I stay behind as we put our ponchos back on. Our pace is now even slower than before as we try to understand each other, and I am secretly thankful to give my hurting foot a break.

“And why are you walking, Alain?” The words leave my mouth, almost as a routine but full of curiosity still.

“I walked with my siblings the first time, but then it wasn’t possible to join them anymore because I had to take care of my wife,” he says. “I lost my wife in September last year and then they invited me to join them again.” I express my condolences and we share an understanding look, both of us familiar with death and pain. Before we realize, we are out of the woods and now walking through a big open field full of wildflowers. Alain looks at me, a nostalgic look on his face as he says, “Every step I dedicate to my wife. She is an exceptional wife.” It becomes clear that he has still not adjusted to her being gone. Our steps and our hearts are in sync as we share the most human experience of them all, grief. We allow ourselves to feel it, as scary as it may be, and it is beautiful and gut wrenching all at once. As we reach a cafe full of people stamping their pilgrim passports and eating breakfast at the outside tables, the siblings and I part.

“I take you in my heart,” Alain whispers as he gifts me with a warm hug full of understanding. I hug the three of them.

“I take you all in my heart forever, buen camino,” I say as I walk away while we blow kisses at each other.

Their bravery sits with me as I make my way, not only theirs but the bravery of everyone I’ve met along the way. They walk every day, despite the rain, despite the hills and despite the pain. Many of them walk despite their injuries - broken arms, twisted ankles, blistered feet, messed up knees and heavy hearts. Some leave behind their broken shoes and others their fears and limitations. It is incredible to realize that sometimes the most amazing things lie beyond the initial fear and if we dare take a risk our whole lives can change.

The emotions today are amplified, perhaps because we all know the end is near. I catch up with my companions again and the six of us share this last day together, stopping in every cafe, cathedral and kilometres count sign we can find. As we leave the countryside and rejoin the city we realize we can´t run away from the goal anymore, but perhaps the journey was the goal the whole time.

Together we share the last steps and the bittersweet moment of victory, slowly we walk past a tunnel and into the plaza. We look at each other with tears in our eyes and joy in our hearts. To our left is the Cathedral of Santiago. We join all the pilgrims that have arrived before us in the centre of the plaza and just like many others around us, we hug each other tightly, both happy and sad that we have finally arrived. Some of us stay in Santiago for some days, some leave us behind.

The next day as two of us share a meal together in one of the tiny restaurants not too far from the cathedral, I look up from my plate and there she is, standing in the doorway. Kalliopi. My feet quickly lift me up from my chair and I run to hug her. Immediately tears well up in her eyes.

“What is going on? Are you okay?” I ask, concerned. “They have texted me. I have to go back to the military reserves,” she says. I can only hug her tighter.

At 7:30 pm the pilgrim mass service is hosted at the cathedral to which Kalliopi and I make our way at 6 pm. Yesterday the cathedral had been crowded and I did not want to miss it this time. We walk in, immediately overwhelmed by the beauty of it, tall ceilings, detailed paintings, gold pipe organs on either side of the hallway and an impressive gold altar with angel statues. The wooden benches are almost full already, but we manage to find a spot on one of them. I can feel the energy, the love and the faith, I can feel God all around.

“What will you do?” I whisper. “I don´t know, I will go back, and I will find out,” she whispers back, “The answer waits for me there.”

Kalliopi and I sit in silence until she asks me what the meaning of being a pilgrim is and why. I share my testimony and she listens just as I listened to her. Despite our differences, here we are, all of us. People from different backgrounds, nationalities and with different motives, all looking for compassion, simplicity and hope. That is the meaning. That is why I’m here, why we are all here.

OVERCOMING THE GHOSTS

by Yu-Jin Albrecht

Being a policeman was the job of his dreams, but harassment and threats led to a major breakdown. Now, Murat is fighting every day to get back to a life as normal as possible.

At 5:50 AM on a Tuesday morning in 2014, Murat Repla is changing into his uniform at the police station. At this hour, only two officers are on duty, as it is still the night shift, and the only noise comes from the radio, which will alert them if they are needed somewhere.

By 8:30 AM, the station is buzzing with activity. Some officers gather around, sipping coffee and discussing the previous day’s events, while others are already heading out on the missions assigned to them by the patrol. The atmosphere is light-hearted, a necessary counterbalance to the grim reality they often face.

Murat is particularly cheerful. Today, it is his turn with three of his colleagues to patrol Christiania, the self-proclaimed autonomous neighbourhood in Copenhagen, infamous for its open cannabis trade. This means that today he will get to write another report, which is his favourite part of the mission. He has always had one of the sharpest memories of the station.

The drive to Christiania is filled with jokes about the monthly poker nights. Murat emerged victorious the night before.

Upon arrival to Christiania, the mood shifts. While walking in the streets, some locals insult the police, some laugh at them and some just observe with a mix of curiosity and hostility. As usual, Murat stands out because of his distinct Turkish appearance. Throughout his fourteen years as a police officer, Murat has witnessed and experienced numerous threats. Whether it was due to his profession or his origin and even though he will never get used to it; he has learned to remain calm and distance himself from the harassment. Until it became personal. Too personal.

Some are now filming Murat and testing his limits. ”I know where you live Murat, I will kill you”, “it is so easy to recognize you, with your Arabic colour and your long nose, we all know you here, Murat.”

All this suddenly resonates in his head. How do they know all this about him?

Murat soon finds himself breaking up a fight, but he is quickly outnumbered and takes severe blows to his body. Eventually, his colleagues arrive, and they drive back to the police station. On the way, one detainee continues to threaten Murat, vowing to make his life a living hell.

As the workday concluded, Murat headed home to his charming house with a lovely garden in Amagerbro, Copenhagen. However, what should have been a five-minute drive took him an hour as he found himself completely disoriented. This marked a major change of Murat’s life.

A new personality

Ten years later, Murat Repla, now 43, is no longer a police officer.

After four years as a deployed military police officer and fourteen years as a police officer, Murat collapsed and had to redefine his whole life including the activities he used to do, the people he can be surrounded by, and above all, he had to recreate his personality. Forever, the trauma will linger and shape his daily existence as he is plagued by the same recurring nightmare almost every night. Reflecting on his past, Murat recognizes that the origins of this trauma likely trace back to his childhood, but being in the army and with the police certainly triggered it.

Murat’s mental state is hanging by a thread, but everything is under control. At least until the next crisis occurs. PTSD symptoms vary from person to person, but some symptoms remain common. For example, Murat often experiences the flashbacks, can’t get more than five hours of sleep, can’t stand discussions that remind him of past trauma, is constantly on edge and easily irritated, can’t focus on reading or be in a group discussion. When he feels a crisis emerging, he tries to avoid it as much as he can relying on the coping mechanisms he has learned over time, and which have proven effective for him.

The nightmares

It’s 6PM on a Tuesday night in 2024. The traditional Tuesday dinner for veterans is taking place at the Veteranhjem Midtjylland in Brabrand, Aarhus, and Murat finds himself sitting at the end of a table with a nice view to an enormous field. The dinner is going very well until the two men on his side of the table start talking very fast and very loud. Normally, he would dive into a crisis, but his doctor just introduced him to the tapping system. It’s an alternative treatment for physical pain and emotional distress that involves tapping your finger on specified sites while focusing on the issue. And surprisingly, it works for him. But still, he decides to leave since the two men keep talking in their loud voices.

Back home, Sidsel, his partner, is still up, reading on the couch. With a reassured smile on his face, he bends down to her and gives her a gentle hug. This year marks the ninth year of her moving in with him in Beder, a small town south of Aarhus. “Living with Murat makes my life so much nicer and easier. By looking at each other, we can tell if the other needs a rest or a hug or just wants to talk. You don’t need to explain. You just know”, says Sidsel. Bedtime is the worst time of the day because he knows what is going to happen: nightmares, cold sweats, and a soaked t-shirt. At 4 AM, Murat wakes up in tears, reliving the distressing scene of being harassed in a car. He can feel his heart beating fast. His thoughts are mixed. He is awake now, drenched in sweat. He takes off his t-shirt and moves to the couch in the living room, trying to dissociate that space from the distressing dream. He lies down and attempts to fall asleep again. The birds are already singing, and the sun is rising. He considers starting the day now, but he still feels his eyes burning and remembers that tomorrow will be a busy day. He will go to Silkeborg to pick up his oldest son, Aksel, from school and go on a trip with the metal detector. The pleasure of spending time in nature with his kid surpasses the irritating, unregular sound of the metal detector. Repeating his kids’ names in his head can help him relax. “Jakob, Aksel, Jakob, Aksel…”. This night isn’t so bad, after all, he thinks. Finally, he falls asleep for another two hours.

Living second by second

It’s 7 AM when Murat slowly wakes up. His tired eyes, marked by dark circles, are barely open. But soon, he is in the kitchen preparing his breakfast to try to shake off the images of his nightmare.

Mornings are tough, yet there is also a sense of relief knowing that the night is finally behind him. He finds solace in the familiar routine of enjoying a bowl of granola while observing through the kitchen window the bustling activity of people heading to work. While eating, he pauses. That strange feeling is back. He takes a deep breath and stares at his plate, pressing his hands onto his forehead. Sidsel just left for work.

“It’s okay, Murat.” he tells himself to try to relax. “You’ll soon see Aksel, and maybe before that, you can go for a walk with the neighbour’s dogs.” Murat likes to look at the family photos on the wall. There’s a picture of his parents, of Sidsel and another of his children and his ex-wife with whom he remains good friends. Above it, is the one of his unit during his deployment with the UN in Macedonia back in 1998, just before he was called to Kosovo in 1999. He loved his time in the army, with his comrades. At that time, he had many friends, dated a girl he met in a pub, and was active and outgoing.

“Despiteallhehasexperienced,though, Muratstayscaring,generousandhelpful. Andthisissomethingthatpeoplearoundhim havealwaysexpressedgratitudefor”, saysMartinJensen, oneof hisoldestfriends. “Oh,andIhavetoadmit,hehasalways kepthismorbidandfunnysenseof humour.”

In 2014, Murat was dismissed from the police force. From there, the process was long and tough, practically and mentally. It took more than half a year for the psychiatrist to find out that Murat suffered from PTSD, schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. Not depression. He had to go through the whole system, from his own doctor and psychiatrist to the municipality and the job centre who would assess him. Eventually, he was in such a bad state that he was forcibly committed to a psychiatric ward and started medication, which is still vital for him. At that time, all he had in his mind was to kill the criminals who had committed crimes or threatened him.

For some reason, his schizophrenia eventually burned out, and although he remains cautious, he no longer perceives danger everywhere or feels the need to inspect his car for bombs.

“Every day, I learn to know myself. I am always receptive to exploring new treatments for managing my mental health. Now that I have tried so many things, I know what works for me and what does not.

I always have those earplugs in my pocket, in case of crowded places for example. Every day is a struggle, but I try to accept myself more than the day before, even though sometimes I can’t control my brain, and suddenly I feel my whole body shaking,” says Murat.

As Murat continues to reflect on his experiences, the ringing of his phone disrupts his thoughts. It’s Kirsten, one of the three elderly women whom Murat frequently assists with daily tasks. His own plans for gardening will have to wait.

Arriving at Kirsten’s, a pot of coffee and some buns, hastily warmed up from the freezer, are already on the table. When Murat enters the house, music from

the 70’s is playing on the record player because she knows how much it reminds Murat of his good old times in the military. Murat places the groceries Kirsten requested into the fridge before settling down next to her. Kirsten’s place is quiet, warm and filled with the delightful aroma of cinnamon. The clock is ticking but the warm halo of light on his back feels so good. He will stay with Kirsten until 11.30 AM and then head back home to go for a walk with Saufo and Leo, the neighbour’s dogs. It will depend on his energy at the time, as for everything he plans. He doesn’t live day by day, but second by second.

Safe spaces

Driving back home, he can feel the tiredness setting in. He finds a nice place to park the car and takes a small nap. It’s close to the wood and to a field with horses and cows. This is perfect. He opens the right passenger window a bit, sets an alarm for thirty minutes, grabs his pillow and puts a blanket over his eyes. Easily, he falls asleep. The car has always been his safe place.

After a nap much longer than intended, he heads off to Silkeborg to pick up Aksel. Jakob, the 16-year-old, is still working, so he might join them later. The three of them have always shared a close bond, and like any activities they do together, time seems to fly by. As they want to have dinner with Sidsel, it’s time to head home. Within an hour with the metal detector, they found a bracelet and some coins. Aksel will keep the coins, while Murat will take the bracelet to dismantle it and use the beads to make new jewelry.

Upon arriving home, Sidsel has already started cooking, and Murat doesn’t hesitate to join her in the kitchen and lend a hand. Meanwhile, Jakob calls his brother to inform him that he won’t be able to come over tonight, but he promises to join them tomorrow instead.

During dinner, she smiles and looks at Murat. She knows how much he enjoys spending time with his kids. The food is good, omelet with vegetables and sausages. Murat enjoys cooking for his family.

“Sidsel and my kids are the reason I am still here. They saved my life,” says Murat.

As the dinner is coming to an end, a wave of fatigue suddenly hits Murat. They all see it, and while Murat makes his way to the couch to lie down, Aksel and Sidsel finish eating, their voices filled with excitement as they discuss the thrilling plan for Murat to go to Canada on holiday with Jakob and Aksel.

The sun is down. It’s 9.30 PM and Murat wakes up from his nap. They will now watch a Marvel-movie. They love to watch this together. After that, it will be bedtime and Murat knows what may come. But he had a good day, so hopefully, the nightmares will stay away tonight.

Looking For The Nepali Dream

by Aseem Banstola

Many Nepalese follow The Nepali Dream to move outside the country in search of a better life. The anecdote goes that every other guy you meet in Nepal be it in the streets, cafes, or teashops they have a visa stamp in their passport or most of them are either applying or otherwise planning to move outside of the country. Today more than 2.1 million Nepalese are spread all around the world to paint a better future. More than 6000 of them are unfolding their dreams in Denmark.

Rojina Syangbo, 29

“I want to find a proper job here,” says Rojina Syangbo, who has been working part-time in a restaurant in Aarhus for the past six months and it’s not where she wants to end up. Rojina did her master’s degree a year ago in Soil and Global Change from Aarhus University and has been living in Aarhus for the past two years. She lives near Den Gamle By in a rented room. Rojina’s working on her job application, goes to Danish language class and is taking a Data Analytics class. She is determined to find a job within her field so that she can make her parents proud. Like Rojina many young Nepalese move abroad as Nepal fails to address their growing aspirations. In her late twenties, her parents are also asking her to get married so that life will get easier for her. She doesn’t want to get married, though. At least not for now. Rojina believes a proper job will give her freedom and a better life, and her aim is to find the job of her dreams within in the next six months.

Kritika Pokhrel, 27

“I like to go for a walk these days, it keeps me alive,” says Kritika Pokhrel. She is living in Aarhus and is on a strict deadline to finish her master’s thesis by the middle of June. She used to be a good student in her undergrad studies in Nepal before coming to Belgium where she finished the first year of her master’s. Then she moved to Denmark last year. It has been hard for her in Europe, as she finds the education system based on software and technology much more advanced here. She couldn’t navigate the lectures and assignments and slowly her grades dropped.

“If I don’t get settled in Denmark, I will go back to Nepal,” she says. Kritika is sure that her life will be better in her own country. Back in Nepal she worked as a Learning and Capacity Development Advisor in VSO Nepal, a reputed NGO.

Surya Prajapati, 35

Surya Prajapati came to Denmark eight years ago to study structural engineering. After the devastating earthquake in Nepal in 2015, he worked on the reconstruction of houses and royal squares of Kathmandu. While working with a Danish organization in Nepal, he saw the faults in the country’s construction technology. Surya realized the need for him to upgrade his practice. The streets and architecture of Aarhus fascinate him, and he’s amazed by the Danish adaptation of modernity in old architecture. Surya works in Envidan, a Danish consulting engineering company, as a project engineer.

He was born in the ancient city of Bhaktapur and wants to go back and revive the ancient architecture there. “I want to work for my community where I was born, that’s the least I can give back,” he says.

Ruza Chauhan & Hemanta Thapa, 22

“We will fulfill our dream together,” says Ruza Chauhan, who married Hemanta last year after knowing her for five years. Ruza’s application for Australian visa was rejected, but they found out it was easy for a married couple to move to Aarhus, Denmark. They got the visa and moved here last September. Currently, Hemanta is studying Climate and Supply Engineering at VIA University Campus Horsens and to support his studies and their living, Ruza is working full time in a cleaning company. That’s still not enough to make a living, though.

“I had to ask for my last semester fee from my parents,” says Hemanta, who also works part-time in a Rema 1000 warehouse in Vejle.

As time goes by, they are adjusting to this new country. Ruza has discontinued her studies as her husband is studying. They can’t afford to study both of them at the same time. Once her husband finishes his studies and finds a job, Ruza plans to get training in hairdressing as she was working in a beauty parlour back in Nepal. As they got married at a young age, Ruza has confidence that together they can dream, have hope, and can overcome any circumstances in life. They haven’t figured out the future yet but they want to stay in Denmark for a while.

Prajent Shahi, 30

Prajent Shahi burned his hand while making breakfast in the morning and is feeling restless with severe pain. He’s studying business development at Aarhus University, Herning and has been living and working in Denmark for two years and three months with his wife Leena Rai. Prajent worked as a data specialist in Nepal for four years, but he didn’t see any growth as his aspirations started increasing. He chose Denmark, as it’s easy to come here as a married couple on a dependent visa compared to Australia, one of the major destinations for Nepali who want to study and work abroad. Also, the Danish welfare state attracted him. Here in Denmark, Shahi has worked in different places like restaurants, cleaning companies, catering firms,

and hotels. His wife works as a chef in a Danish Restaurant. Like other Nepali students, Prajent and his wife are challenged by the cost of living and studying. Prajent has to pay 54.000 Danish Kroner every semester. Also, he is concerned about his parents. “I am the only child in my family. Sometimes I feel guilty about leaving my parents alone,” Prajent says. He couldn’t be there when they needed it most.

Prajent and his wife haven’t decided yet how long they will stay in Denmark, but he dreams of starting an IT company some day in Nepal.

Aashish Ghimire, 24

Aashish Ghimire’s rented room in the basement of a house close to the Botanical Garden in Aarhus has one bed, one table, two suitcases, and a few other things. His room has the vibes of someone who has been away from home and is trying to find a way in Denmark. Aashish moved to Denmark last September. He’s studying Economics and Business Administration at Aarhus University. As he looks outside his window with a glimpse of hope in his eyes, he says, “I have to pay the loan that my parents took up to send me to Denmark.” For an average Nepali middle-class person, it’s hard to afford education at a foreign university without borrowing money from family or a bank. Most Nepali students work as cleaners or in cafés and bars to support their

studies and living. Aashish also works in a Rema 1000 warehouse. And sometimes as a food delivery guy. It seems it has been difficult for him to manage study fees and make a living. He will finish his studies next summer, and after that he hopes to get a skilled job here. Aashish is convinced that his life will improve by then, “It can’t be hard always,” he says.

Sony Sah, 29

“It’s hard to integrate into the Danish society and family life,” Sony Sah says. She has been married to a Danish man for the past four years. She speaks fluent Danish and is familiar with the culture and society here, but she still feels left out. Sony is studying Molecular Biology at Aarhus University. She doesn’t have close friends in class. It’s lonely for her here even though she gets both love and support from her husband. But she feels safe and can exercise any amount of freedom in Denmark, which wasn’t possible back home. She and her husband want to go back to Nepal at some point. Her mother is alone back home and is getting old. Sony wants to spend time with her. Many Nepali share a similar kind of story. Leaving old parents back home. Also, Sony wants to work in the research field in Nepal after her studies. Her husband is fond of Nepal and its culture, and he is familiar with the country after working there some years ago, so they are planning in that direction.

WITH NATURE ON OUR SIDE

by Florine Schmid and Marie Ruwet

Àrneshreppur, Iceland`s least populated municipality, is home to just twelve residents. Located along a solitary road and spanning three valleys, this remote community battles daily in order to make their villages survive.

The snow is slowly melting on the heights, revealing the first hints of spring green and giving way to the timid flashes of sunshine behind the majestic mountains. The waterfalls, previously frozen by winter, are coming back to life, redrawing the scenery with their crystal-clear falls. Skùli Björn, 20 years old, is approaching the Westfjords, a region where the landscapes change with disconcerting rapidity. Here, everything is rawer and wilder, in stark contrast to the capital of Iceland he left a few hours ago.

Accustomed to the winding roads, Skùli drives with ease in the black four-by-four that his grandfather, Björn Torfason, lends him for these visits. The urgency of reaching his destination is palpable. It takes him five hours to drive from Reykjavik to the Westfjords, a journey he undertakes to visit his grandparents at their farm, ready for his summer break after finishing his final law exams at the university in Reykjavik.

The fresh mountain air, filled with the scent of damp earth and renewed vegetation, energises him. He remembers his grandmother’s tales about the hidden people and elves living in the rock formations he passes. The Melar farm can be seen in the distance, and silence is striking. All he can hear are birds singing and, perhaps, a mythical presence that seems to be following him.

Àrneshreppur is the least-populated municipality in Iceland, located in the Westfjords peninsula. There are around 50 people registered but only 12 of them live there the whole year around. Despite the remoteness the village holds an airport, a cafe, a bank, a post office and a little grocery shop. The village people are even discussing whether or not they want a scheduled powerplant in the area.

With 15 kilometres from the first dwelling to the last one, the village road literally ends with a public swimming pool where Skùli likes to spend his time after a long day of work.

Arriving at his grandparents, Skùli is very tired from the drive, and Badda Fossdal, his grandmother, serves him a proper meal to satisfy his hunger. The taste of his grandmother’s food, which he loves so much, makes him feel reborn. The grandchildren visit their grandparents once or twice a year, except for Skùli, who comes very often.

“My grandparents don’t really say it but I’m definitely their favourite one,” he says while looking at his grandpa who doesn’t understand English. Despite the exhaustion Skùli immediately takes off his city clothes and gets into the working overall and the rubber boots to check on the sheep in the barn next door.

In May, lambing season is in full swing. Björn, Badda and Skùli watch the ewes 24 hours a day, ready to intervene if one of them shows signs of giving birth. Up to ten lambs are born every day. In the event of an emergency, such as a caesarean section, a vet makes the difficult four-hour journey to Melar. In case a lamb does not survive, Björn adopts a traditional method: He takes a lamb from another ewe and covers it with the dead ewe’s biological fluid so that the bereaved one can adopt it. Skùli helped give birth to his first lamb at the age of eight. After the delivery, the smell of sheep stays on his skin for days.

One day, a lamb was born so small that it fit into his grandfather’s hand. They kept it in the house and nursed it, and it became Skùli’s best friend.

As a child, he dreamed of taking over the farm. He used to play in the mountains with weapons he made himself, discovering the mystical area with all its hidden beings. He doesn’t talk much about his emotions with his grandparents; there’s no room for that on the farm. Work comes first. They only rest to sleep, eat or watch television, preferably Eurovision Song Contest or a basketball match.

Skùli is getting hungry, he needs at least five oranges, he loves them and eats them like an animal. His grandma needs to go to do more grocery shopping when he is around. 15 minutes by car, she goes to the shop in the next fjord, which faces the harbour. Badda says hello to the fisherman, Elìas Kristinsson, before entering the shop where she meets Thomas, the Basque guy who manages the shop. He helps her all the time to remember what she forgot to buy. He does that with everybody., because he thinks he knows the villagers better than they know themselves.

The local grocery shop is a place where people meet, grab a coffee and exchange news. It’s the last shop in this area. Its open all summer and twice a week in winter. Thomas Elguezabal, 37 years old, has been running the shop for five years. He rebuilt it and put all his energy in it. He says it´s like a vampire that sucks the energy out of him and won´t let him go again.

Thomas was fed up with the hectic life in France, didn´t align with the politics and the whole system. After spending vacation in Iceland, he decided to move here. The desire to cut his old life, and the urge to be free, brought him to Àrneshreppur. This is where his heart belongs now. The nice weather is returning and this annoys him in a way, he learned to love the winter. The feeling of being stuck and cut off from the rest of the world makes his sense of time change.

Everyone is expertly grateful that Thomas took over the shop, which comes with an underlying pressure. Thomas feels a big responsibility to keep running the shop to maintain the community.

“The day this shop closes will be the end of the village,” he says. He came here to continue this legacy, coexisting with nature in extreme circumstances, and he feels as if there is something around taking care of him.

The mayor strides confidently into the shop and discusses with Badda about the community.

“The main reason why people are leaving the village

is that the government doesn´t think about the remote places. They have more urgent problems to solve than building a better road here,” says Eva Sigurbjörnsdóttir. She has been the mayor of Àrneshreppur for a couple of years already. Even though she would like to retire, they can’t find a successor. They closed the local school in 2018 because there were no children left. Nevertheless, Eva is still optimistic about the future of the community. There are more and more people who want to escape the city life in Reykjavik, and she thinks that now there are better possibilities to work remote. There will be soon a family with an eightyear-old daughter moving here, and she will attend online schooling. “We can have a bright future,” Eva says. Also, the powerplant could be an opportunity for young farmers to get a second job. This is still a delicate topic among the villagers, though.

Thomas finish packing Badda’s groceries while Joanna Czartoryska, 36 years old, is passing by to deliver some letters from the post office. She started working in the village café as a summer job, when tourists dare to take the dangerous roads of the Westfjords and flock to the village. During the COVID-19 pandemic, she decided to stay for good.

Coming from a small village in Poland, she knew she’d end up somewhere isolated, although she hadn’t specifically planned on Iceland. Now she’s going to take up the post office position, which will occupy a small part of her days, while providing her with a more stable income.

When she’s not walking on the beach, collecting bird skulls and feathers, she’s creating her wood art on the first floor above Thomas’s shop. Even in winter, she never feels alone in her snow castle, as she puts it, it’s like a presence is always around. The two foreigners are the only people who live permanently at the harbour, enjoying the view from their balcony as they watch the fishermen come and go.

Many people think sone stone formations are trolls petrified by the sun.

the playground in front of the school has a view on the whole municipality, from the first to the last fjord.

At the Melar farm, Björn is on the sofa watching the sheep on his Mac computer, waiting for his wife to come back and cook a nice soup for him. In fact, the barns are equipped with surveillance cameras to find out when the sheep are ready to give birth.

Björn, aged 67, bought the farm with his wife, Badda, when he was 18 years old. Born in the village school, Björn grew up playing basketball with his friends. His father, the headteacher of the school, wanted him to become a farmer, a well-paid occupation at the time. It was his uncle who taught him the rudiments of farming, and Badda, who was born in a nearby village, quickly got introduced to the farm life as well.

The Melar farm is the fourth most recognised sheep farm in Iceland. Their flock is free from the scrapie, a fatal disease common to sheep. Their special genetic trait makes them very valuable. In the latest sheep magazine one can also find Melar’s sheep breed for sale. Sitting on the sofa, Björn flips through the magazine with a proud and happy look on his face.

What sets the Melars apart is their unshakeable attachment to the village. They have never left their home, have raised their five children here, and also hundreds of lambs.

Skùli is devouring a piece of lamb hip. When he is full, he passes it to his grandfather, whose large, thick hands, molded by years of farm work, take over. Through the window, he sees a big car with four old men inside, carrying a boat on a trailer. It´s Elìas Kristiansson, the fisherman, on his way to the harbour with his brothers. He waves at Skùli and his car disappears into the next fjord.

Elìas is like a migratory bird, he flies to southern places such as Dakar in autumn and comes back home in spring. Among 14 siblings he grew up in a remote farmhouse, where he still lives for some months a year. The only way to reach the farm is a two-day walk or three hours by boat. Despite the remoteness, Elìas never feels alone. He is connected to this place with a strong feeling that he can´t really describe. He confesses to the Asatrû, a Religion rooted in the old Norse mythology. “Not just our parents brought us up,” he says, “Nature did as well. The weather, the sea, walking for days after the sheep, hiking two days to school. We love nature and try to preserve it.”

When he was younger, he went to the School of Navigation in Reykjavik and studied the sea. For around 30 years he has been a captain on a big fishing boat travelling the world but nowadays, he is a retired fisherman. But he still goes fishing, and even when no one else can catch fish, he does. “Probably he thinks like a fish,” says his brother. Sometimes during the summer, he even sleeps and lives on his tiny messy fishing boat.

It’s going to rain soon, and Elìas hurries up to go fishing before the forecast changes. He ties his white long hair back and stops the engine in far from the coast. No need for him to wait, it seems like the fishes are jumping into the boat.

During summertime a big truck drives all the way to the end of the road, to buy the fish from him and other local fishermen. “One lives well as a fisherman, they pay good money for fresh fish,” he says. For a small boat like Elìas ´s, he can haul 1000 tons of fish per year.

The 1950s and 60s were the flourishing time of the Westfjords. The second World War was good fuel for Icelanders to modernise themselves. Because of the war, Iceland was a strategic place in the north Atlantic, and people moved to Reykjavik to work in the war industry. Things got more centralised from the capital. The Americans pushed economy, enabling the locals to start fishing from big boats and getting into the herring industry. The fishermen and farmers were trying to survive back then just as today.

The soil was poor and stony. It still is, but today the farmers have fertilizers to grow enough hay for the animals, and people have machines to help them. Nevertheless, the environment is still very poor on vegetation. Due to centralisation, farmers don’t earn that much money anymore and they must rely on a second job.

The Melar farm is a pillar of the Westfjords community, not only because of its age but also because of its commitment. The Melar farm organise events and barter with their neighbours. Anyone who drops by, even foreigners, are warmly welcomed.

In this isolated heaven, each inhabitant plays a crucial role. The departure of one villager is a big loss for the whole community. Together, they preserve a unique way of life, where solidarity and respect for tradition are the order of the day.

After a long day of work, Skùli finds peace relaxing in the warm water of the public swimming pool. Now, it’s time to head home. As he walks back to the farm, he mimics the call of the white foxes with a soft birdlike”kra kra kra kra.” These foxes frequently visit the area, sometimes even approaching the pool. Thirsty from his walk, he stops by the River of Heaven, a mysterious stream that seems to appear out of nowhere. When he returns to the farm, Elìas is there, bringing some fish he caught for Badda, who in return greets him with coffee and a delicate pie she baked.

When summer comes to an end, it will be time for the sheep to find their way home to the farm after spending the whole summer outside eating fresh grass and enjoying the sun day and night.

“No lamb in this world can dream of a better life,” says Skùli. The sheep harvest is a major event for the community and ends with a celebration where all the villagers come together. End of the season also means the end of Skùli’s stay in Àrneshreppur. He will always come back to his roots here, but he knows that he won’t take over the farm. The 12 people who stay on are looking forward to settling into their cocoons, prepared for the tough winter.

WE ARE STILL HERE

by Julija Stankevičiūtė

There is an unavoidable sense of threat on Oxford Street in Manchester, and the pro-Palestinian protesters worry how long they’ll be able to keep coming back. There are more than 20,000 registered Palestinians in the United Kingdom, and in big cities like Manchester, there are protests almost every day. Most of them have refugee visas with nowhere to go back to, and if they speak out about the UK’s role in Israel’s war with Palestine, they could be labelled as extremists and get deported. The government suggests labelling proPalestinian organisations as ‘terrorist’ and have them banned. Laws, such as the Public Order Bill, can shut down any protest that can be considered a nuisance or too noisy, and introduce more power to the police. As the UK’s freedom of speech is dwindling and Palestine is getting erased from maps, the Palestinians of Manchester find a way to empower their voices. Even if the country isn’t ready to listen.

VOICING THE ANGER

Kiays Khalil has a real Mancunian accent and speaks a bit through his nose. With his fair skin, light hair and blue eyes he easily passes as English.

“I’ve seen ginger blokes who are Palestinian, whiter than me,” he says, in a voice muffled by the engine of his car.”

It’s Al-Nakba commemoration day, referring to the Palestinian experience of dispossession and loss of their homeland in 1948. Kiays is driving to the Old Trafford football stadium. Together with a Pakistani pro-Palestinian activist, he will hand out leaflets with a petition to suspend Israel from FIFA, like they did to Russia at the start of the war in Ukraine. Before leaving the car, he gets his camera out of the trunk. “I’m from here and I still don’t think it’s safe to leave it.”

There’s a game on. Manchester United vs Newcastle United. A mass of football fans is heading towards the stadium. They’re moving among food and merch stalls, and a man with a magazine in his hand shouts: “Red news! United fanzine! Latest issue! Cash or card!”

Kiays and the Pakistani activist stop in the middle of the road and start handing out the pamphlets.

Kiays is a journalist. But he is also a Palestinian. Therefore, he is an activist, too, he says. It’s not always easy. Since October, he has felt betrayed by the media and disappointed by their coverage of the war. He believes that they were spreading lies, and he faced hatred because of it.

“I would get shouted at: You’re a baby killer! when walking with my keffiyeh (a traditional Middle East

scarf, ed). I was like, wow, is this the UK? Where I get abused for this lie that’s been pushed by journalists like me? In the headlines, Palestinians die, Israelis get killed. It had me questioning my career. And I took a major break to get away from it. But you can’t really escape it.”

Protest is all that Kiays has ever known, just as gunshots are all that his family in the West Bank has ever known. When he was little, his mum would take him to the Iraq war protests. He joins Sudanese protests, and he stands in solidarity with the medical workers’ protests or any other cause that he supports.

“It’s a way to show the public and the government that something needs to be done because their politics isn’t working in that situation. If you put enough public pressure on a situation there’s no escaping it. It’s kind of like how now you can’t go anywhere without seeing a Palestinian flag. And if you can’t escape it then you have to address it,” Kiays says.

Protesting for Palestine means something more, though. It‘s speaking out about a place he‘s been coming back to since his childhood and about the people he considers his own. Kiays is half British, half Palestinian. Growing up he used to experience racism for being mixed and was ashamed of his background. Now he considers himself Palestinian first. His British mother‘s effort kept the traditions alive in the family, and even though children of the family are all scattered away from home now, her Arabic-style breakfast still draws the family back together on some Sundays.

Ever since he was little, Kiays has had to explain to people what Palestine is.

“I’ve always had to explain why we’re not the bad guys, which is what we’ve been portrayed as by the media - the villains.” He has family in West Bank, Jenin, and they’re afraid. They feel unheard. They’re not letting their children play outside. It’s too dangerous with the shootings. Even so, they find ways to joke about it.

Kiays wishes he could go visit, but the risk is too big. So, he speaks out in protests and on social media.

“The government is trying to suppress that voice. They’re trying to criminalize protesting. They don’t want protests; they don’t want you to voice your anger,” he says.

It’s golden hour and the sun is finding its way through the clouds, while it starts to rain near the stadium. More and more people stop by to take a leaflet or to talk. In a crowd of chants and drunken banter, Kiays’ voice sounds determined, yet forgiving.

GENERATION OF CHANGE

Zahra Joudah’s voice is hoarse yet soft, and you can tell she is patient when she lifts Ayyoub off the ground for the 20th time. He and his brother Yassen are learning to roller skate, and the oldest son, Youssef, is kicking around a football with their dad, Fady Dahalan. It’s a sunny day in Alexandra Park, near Manchester University Campus. You wouldn’t think that anyone is carrying war in their hearts with weather like this. Zahra smiles when speaking about the pain she feels.

“The hardest part is the guilt. But I just try to keep myself busy,” she says. The family don’t go to the protests. Not because they’re worried about their safety – they would happily go. But their family in Palestine is scared for them, and they promise not to go, so as not to worry them.

Zahra and Fady moved to the UK in September 2022 from Saudi Arabia because Fady got an opportunity to work and finish his training in emergency medicine at the Manchester Royal Infirmary. At the moment, Zahra is in the process of registration for her dentist certificate. Work and keeping themselves busy is a way to cope. The family is here on Fady’s National Health Service specialist visa. If they lost their visas, they would be separated and would have nowhere to go. But they say they’re not scared and don’t think about it too much. They just don’t want to scare their family. Even far from home, their boys know their roots well. Zahra and Fady make sure of it.

“We spent a year looking for a map that has Palestine on it, to teach themabout their home country, and we had to get an old one. Palestine is erased from maps now,” recalls Zahra as they all sit in the shade. The sun has drawn many people outside, and the park is crowded. The children talk loudly about their home they’ve not had the chance to visit. Green, red, black, white – they name the colours of the Palestinian flag. That’s why Yassen picked a watermelon-shaped ice cream, a symbol of Palestine.

“Our mothers told us not to tell them anything about the war. They’re scared that if they bring it up in school, something bad will happen,” says Zahra.

But the boys know and blabber about the situation, as they explain the occupation in their own words. Going back home and bringing their children there is their dream. They hope to one day do it with a British nationality. For now, they teach the boys about their origin as much as they can.

Fady and Zahra have family in Gaza. They lost several of them in bombings. 12 of their family members died in the same building.

“No Palestinian hasn’t lost some member of their family since October. We are still expecting bad news from them all the time,” Zahra says. As they speak, it’s apparent that this is the new normal for them. Fady is sure that their people are strong enough to deal with this.

“It’s a mixture of emotions. You can say that they’re strong – and they are – but again, they’re human. They have souls and hearts. Their hearts are in pieces now. It has to stop at some point. Maybe not with our generation, but maybe with the next,” he says.

Ayyoub and Yassen fall and get up again. Fall and get up again. They have a lot of energy, and their cheerful voices scare away the birds. The voices marking the next generation.

Most of Rasha Saeed’s family died when an Israeli bomb hit their house in Gaza earlier this year. She cries, but her voice doesn’t break, and she speaks of the love she feels for the world. She tries to help herself by dancing, singing, meditating, running. She’s trying to learn Hebrew so she can communicate her feelings to the Israeli people with songs. She does everything she can because she has to stay strong for her children.

“I lost my family in this war. But if you ask me what hurts the most, it’s not the loss of my family. It’s the children and the mothers. The people who have nothing,” she says.

There are Lego blocks all over the floor of the living room. Rasha’s 7-year-old son, Hamza, has been putting together a very difficult boat. Block by block, he builds his own reality, while their dog, Heidi, looks after him. Rebuilding is a concept every Palestinian family knows very well. Rasha and her husband, Mohamed, moved the family to the UK from Saudi Arabia five years ago. They wanted a

better life for their children, and Rasha especially wanted them to be able to study what they dream of and to have better passports. Because the feeling of home has been stripped away from them, Rasha says. And after the Covid lockdown, they lost their residence card. They still don’t have one. They have no country to go back to, and they still don’t have a refugee visa. And Mohamed is afraid for the kids. They protest.

Their daughter Jumana is a public speaker and a Palestinian activist at her university. All five children go to protests frequently. They risk losing their degrees and their visas. But Rasha supports them. It’s important to vent your feelings, she thinks. And she herself always wears a keffiyeh when going out. But perhaps the biggest protest is her love. Breathe in. Breathe out. And just like that, breath after breath, Rasha helps Palestinian survivors recover from their traumas. She works as an online therapist for refugees from Gaza.

“It’s silly, the things I tell them, I know. But when you see a lot of blood and a lot of loss, you think that that’s the normal thing. And that’s why we try to focus on the love. It helps us survive. We try to focus on the good things they have. If you just have one child, if you still have your legs – that’s good,” Rasha explains.

She tries to teach her kids the same. To imagine the Palestine they wish they had. To focus on the dream. To create their own faith. Block by block. And she quotes the Qur’an: “…and it was due from us to aid those who believed.”

Hamza says he may be the first one to ever build a boat this difficult – it’s quite the task. He carefully picks out the correct blocks and chooses his colours with great dedication. Rasha remembers their first year here. Her daughter was 14 and they were talking about geography in school. And someone, pointing at the map, said, before there used to be Palestinians, now it’s just Israel. “And my daughter stands up and she says I’m from Palestine. I’m Palestinian. We are still here. She felt really sad about that. They are removing us from the map. And so, we go to protests to say that we’re here. You take my land, you take my nationality, but you cannot take me. And the world now knows.”

THE DRIFTER FINALLY FOUND HIS WAY HOME

by Walaa Yassien

Bo Gjermandsen has never been a steady family man. But late in life he has found a way to balance a stable relationship and his need for solitude.

One night, Bo Gjermandsen found himself in a leaky tent facing a heavy wind. There he was, all alone in his humble habitat trying to hide from the cold blows from the wind and the rest of the world. Bo came to Søvang Haveforening in 2018, carrying his heavy thoughts and his light tent and what brought him was yet another relationship that didn’t work out. He didn’t know at the time that he would meet a remarkable woman who imbued everyone around her with warmth and tenderness. That night was a defining moment in Bo’s life: Finding a genuine kind of love again that eased the burden of his past.

“There’s a deeper meaning in me meeting a woman like Helle,” Bo says. He is sitting on a shiny reddish sofa, his shirt matching it. Holding a cigarette blowing dense smoke and wearing these specular sunglasses. With his white stylish hair, he looks as if he owns the world. A distinguished appearance, easily spotted among many. Along with some of the neighbours, he is smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, which seems to be their daily routine.

Søvang Haveforening is situated on Sylbækvej, less than 30 minutes from the centre of Aarhus. It is illegal to live there all year, but some people do it anyway.

Bo became a minimalistic person when he was living in a small flat in the centre of Aarhus and didn’t feel that he needed all this earthly stuff anymore. He wanted to move out and Sylbækvej was the first place that came to mind due to all his hippie artistic friends who had lived there for more than 20 years. They knew each other from their youth and Bo stayed there in his tent for more than a year, meeting Helle Myken, an artist who had been living there for three years before Bo came along. For some reason Helle could not let Bo just sleep rough, so she offered him a sofa to sleep on as long as he wanted to stay. And then he never left.

For 25 years Bo made a living as a magician, a job that took him around most of Europe. With his tiny brown leather bag and his skillful fingers, he carried his passion and love for magic wherever he went. He had always thought of magic as a way to give people a nice experience and a good laugh. What he was worrying about, was people’s expectations and how these short moments of magic would affect them. “Performing magic in front of people has always made me yearn to inform them that things are not always what they appear to be.”

Bo’s way of living then was never to plan ahead but just go with the flow. He fell in love several times, but his lifestyle didn’t work what with having three kids with three different women. He tried to establish some kind of stability and a slow rhythm of life to watch them grow up and start school. But then he packed his backpack again. He knows that he could have done better, but he also knows that his inability to do so derives from his mother and her urge to belittle him.

Bo’s mom now suffers from dementia, and she doesn’t know who she is herself or who Bo is, for that matter. Despite the mild-mannered tone in which he refers to her, Bo’s thoughts about her are sometimes very rattling.

“She has been one of those voices that kept me down. She was in total control of me and still wants to be, dementia or not. My sister sees her once a week and my mother doesn’t know who she is, either, but my sister does it because there are voices in her head, too.”

Bo has been in situations where he had to apologize to his mother for merely existing. “I’ve done it twice verbally and I’ve done it in writing. I don’t know anybody else who must apologize to their parents for their existence, but I had to do that sometimes. “Bo didn’t want to get an education, but his mom always wanted to keep the image in her head of a successful boy instead of accepting what Bo was. “But how time changes weirdly. She is now like a little girl,” Bo says, taking a deep breath before he adds, “But she was good when she was goodI think.”

At first glance Bo appears to be the happy clappy hippie guy, who doesn’t care about anything. But really, he is so much more than that. Being with Helle has improved his life and taken away a lot of his struggle with the dark sides. And he tries to be a better person, a better father, a better human being. Now he just enjoys endless hours of sitting in the garden he shares with Helle, with a cup of coffee, rolling his cigarettes, and enjoying all the different plants and flowers around him. After having plenty of hours of self-time, today Bo is getting ready to have a different kind of quality time with Helle, and Tue, his youngest kid, to watch an open-air performance of Ragnarok, the most famous story from the Nordic mythology, at Moesgaard Museum in Aarhus.

Bo never misses dinner with Helle. With his unique sense of humor, making her laugh is always the best thing to do at the end of the day. The way their relationship developed changed a lot of things in him. He loves her very much and he is convinced he always will. But being on his own once in a while is still an important part of him, even if it is only eight meters away from Helle, in a small shed in her garden.

“I think the worst fear I have, is my shadow taking all the good things away,” Bo says. Therefore I have to be on my own once in a while. In my bubble.”

Ana Fernanda Torres Olvera @anafertorreso

Yu-Jin Albrecht @yualb.jpeg

Aseem Banstola @banstola07

Florine Schmid @florine_schmid

Marie Ruwet @marie_ruwet_

Julija Stankevičiūtė @julija.stankeviciute

Walaa Yassien @walaayassien

SPRING 2024