Every open door, cracked window, or step outside is an invitation to a fresh perspective, a new start, and new connections. As nine photographers from different countries and various disciplines, we choose to explore the world through our lenses, capturing the lives of those brave enough to open up and allow us to experience their stories alongside them.
LATVIA’S YOUTH IS TRYING TO TAKE THE FUTURE INTO THEIR OWN HANDS
ZIFAN ZHANG
TRAVELLING SPERM
SAMMY JO MULLER
THE SCREAMING SILENCE OF SÁMI WOMAN
VICTOIRE BECQUART
TRUST ON THE COUCH, ONE AT A TIME NOAH SELE
“CHITRA”
ABUL HAYAT RAHADH
STEPPING INTO THE LIGHT
ELLEN WIKLUND
LESBOS IN ENDLESS LIMBO
ELLA SEEGER
GRIT FOR GOING GREEN
ARTHUR VENOT
HEALING HALFWAY HOME
CARA PENQUITE
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LATVIA’S YOUTH IS TRYING TO TAKE THE FUTURE INTO THEIR OWN HANDS
by Zifan Zhang
In today’s complex Latvian society, the young generation is actively reshaping the country’s future. They are addressing identity challenges in various ways, including bridging social divides stemming from the Soviet legacy, tackling the mental health crisis, advocating for gender equality, and engaging with national security concerns. By fostering religious dialogue, promoting historical education, providing psychological support, championing gender advocacy, and participating in political processes, they are building a more resilient social landscape amidst the tension between tradition and modernity.
Mareks, 22
Inside the former KGB headquarters, now a part of the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia, the air is heavy with the weight of history. Mareks Bērziņš, 22, finishes his tour guide speech in front of the execution room, his voice echoing in the chilling space.
“Freedom is not something to be taken for granted,” he emphasises, his gaze sweeping over the young visitors.
As a history student, Mareks believes that the Soviet era’s legacy, particularly the KGB’s activities, continues to influence Latvian society. He identifies a lingering mistrust of strangers as a potential remnant of that period. However, he also observes a growing openness and a willingness to confront the past from the Latvian population in general.
For Mareks, history is not merely a subject of study; it’s a tool for shaping the future. He believes that understanding the struggle for independence and the cost of freedom empowers young Latvians to value their liberty and align themselves with Europe. He actively promotes historical awareness and civic responsibility, stating,
“I think young people need to know the history of what we are so we don’t make the same mistakes as people in the past and that we actually need to stand up for our values and our freedom and, yeah, that we need to do something. Because if you let other people decide in your place, it’s not gonna be good for you.”
Vladimir, 24
The afternoon light, warm and diffused, streams through the high windows of the Riga Nativity of Christ Orthodox Cathedral, illuminating 24-year-old Vladimir Bazarov’s face. He closes his eyes for a moment, a flicker of unease crossing his features as he contemplates the divisions within his country. Vladimir, who has a permanent commitment, a prisyaga, to the church, reflects on his dedication. “I am here forever,” he says, a statement of his commitment to his community amidst societal challenges. Vladimir confronts the stark reality of Latvia’s social fabric, describing a nation marked by a profound division between those of Latvian heritage and a substantial Russian-speaking population, including Russians, Belarusians, Ukrainians, and even Russian-speaking Jews. He acknowledges that this
division, rooted in Latvia’s Soviet past, has created a sense of ‘otherness’ for many Russian speaking citizens. Vladimir’s own life reflects this tension.
“When I came to Russia, they often compared me to a Latvian and called me a fascist,” he recounts.
“Here, they consider me Russian and tell me to leave.” This personal experience fuels his determination to bridge these divides.
Despite these challenges, Vladimir actively works to foster understanding through his church work. He seeks to connect with people from all backgrounds, striving to create a more inclusive society. He acknowledges the difficulties, but his dedication to his faith and his community drives his actions, like participating in addressing social issues like alcoholism, which remains severe among young people in Latvia.
Edgars, 20
On March 25th, amidst the solemn Commemoration of the Victims of the Communist Genocide in Riga, 20-year-old Edgars Kristaps stands tall, holding the Latvian flag as a youth leader. He and other Latvian politicians, escort the procession to the Freedom Monument in the city centre. Edgars is a youth politician with the conservative party, National Alliance, demonstrating the power of patriotism and his active role in shaping Latvia’s future. His personal history has profoundly shaped his political views.
Edgars grew up in a Russian-speaking community, making his Latvian identity distinct. His family’s experience of suppression under the Soviet regime, including his great-grandfather’s near-imprisonment in the Gulag labour camps, instilled in him a deep awareness of national identity from a young age. He actively became involved in politics as a young teenager and rose to lead a National Alliance youth organization, participating in marches and developing his patriotism.
Edgars’ concerns about Latvia’s security have been heightened by Russia’s aggression in Ukraine. In a bold act of defiance, he and his friends secretly painted the Soviet “victory” monument, a subject of ongoing debate, with the Ukrainian flag. He also faced prejudice in his professional life, being asked to speak Russian while working as a waiter, despite Latvian being the official language.
Edgars is passionate about engaging young people in politics and actively uses social media and academic platforms to spread his message. He balances his desire to strengthen Latvian identity with the need for inclusivity, recognizing the importance of avoiding division. His journey, including a debate on national television at the age of 17 with a Russian human rights activist (“it’s like political baptism”), demonstrates his active commitment to shaping Latvia’s future. Edgars’ dedication to his cause is evident when he speaks of his political organization as a “home” where he formed “really strong ties with my colleagues, with my friends.”
Laura, 27
Laura Jegorova, 27, dressed entirely in black, moves about her dining room, where the left wall is covered with her vibrant paintings. Though she hasn’t drawn in two years, her previous artistic expressions often explored intense human emotions and experiences, reflecting her sensitivity to deeper psychological states. “Art plays an important role in the development of young people in Latvia, as it helps shape their identity, critical thinking, and emotional intelligence.”
Today, she’s cooking a traditional Latvian soup, the rich aroma filling the air. A psychology student, her personal experiences deeply influence her perspective. Open and direct, she confronts the challenges of mental health by speaking candidly about her own journey, including struggles with depression and bipolar disorder.
These experiences have shaped Laura’s understanding of the connection between psychological well-being and daily life. She recognises that mental health is a significant concern for young Latvians, who have increased access to information and are more aware of these issues.
Laura is driven by a desire to help others, channelling her personal struggles into a commitment to create a more supportive society. She aspires to use her psychology studies to support young people facing mental health challenges, ensuring they feel understood and valued.
Diana, 19
Inside her vibrant home, 19-year-old Diana Grasmane sips a pink drink, matching her pink outfit and makeup. A large fish tank bubbles softly in the background, contrasting with her collection of towering high heels. Diana is a transgender activist who embodies the spirit of change. She actively confronts societal norms, and challenges the idea of a world “constructed around one type of person.”
Diana’s journey is marked by resilience and a commitment to self-discovery. She navigates a complex social landscape, fueled by the growing visibility of queer and transgender people in media, even amidst transphobic disinformation.
Community is vital for Diana, providing essential support and a sense of belonging. Despite anxieties about personal safety and the rise of global conservatism, she refuses to be silenced. She speaks publicly at various events and platforms to advocate for transgender rights and visibility. She views her existence as a visible transgender woman as a “radical political act” and advocates for kindness, respect and understanding. Diana’s powerful assertion of her challenges and hopes for the future is clear, “My very own existence. because it is so political, so just existing and not killing myself is already making a change. What I’m trying to do is show them that we are all people and all people deserve kindness and respect. Those are my core values, my golden rules: kindness and respect”.
20 TRAVELLING SPERM
by Sammy Jo Muller
Sperm is something you wouldn’t expect there to be too little of, yet the Netherlands faces a shortage. Despite having nearly nine million men, the country cannot meet the demand for sperm for those wanting to have children. Currently, the country relies on Denmark, with nearly half of all donations travelling from there.
The source
The journey begins with the sperm donor. Most Danish sperm donors are students. Lui, a non-Id release donor, as they are formally called, was primarily motivated by money. He considered it ‘a nice little income booster’. However, the process to become a donor isn’t easy.
First you have to provide a sample and the sperm bank will research it in the lab. If the sample is good enough, you have to provide medical records of your family tree. Your cousins, grandparents and older grandparents, all diseases and causes of their deaths. After that, the company examines your blood and urine, and you also have to visit a doctor for a thorough medical exam.
“They check everything, your balls and even up your anus. It’s really thorough”, Lui says. He found the process uncomfortable and is not a big fan of needles.
The first time he went in, it felt weird to go up to the counter. The more times he went, the more it became a natural thing. Lui began to think, “They see nothing but people like me every day. It’s not that weird for them so it stopped being weird for me as well”.
He wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble if he didn’t get compensated. If your sperm has good quality, you can get around 500 dk per donation. Despite being motivated by the money, he doesn’t view it as a job. “It’s a good thing to do, and also nice that you get the compensation. It’s an everyone wins sort of thing,” Lui says.
The thought that his sperm is being used to make children isn’t a troubling one. He doesn’t see parenthood as a biological thing but as someone taking care of and loving the child. That’s why he doesn’t see himself as anyone’s dad.
Donation room
When a donor steps out of the elevator they can take a seat on the couch or go straight into the donating rooms. The bright tv is plastered with porn titles and the rooms are small. Just a bench and a small sink. The rooms all have different themes, such as a forest and an ocean theme to make it look more homely. After the sperm has been donated, the clinic checks it in the lab. They cleanse it and then store it frozen to minus 196 degrees. Until the samples are bought online, they wait in the big cryo tanks in the laboratory.
Laboratory
Cryos, the biggest sperm bank in the world, has its main location in the centre of Aarhus. Next to cafes, bars and grocery stores, you can take the elevator up to the front desk. They have facilities in the four largest cities in Denmark, which are also university towns. Chosen because they have the largest amount of possible donors. It’s important for them to have a lot of applicants because only five percent of them end up having good enough sperm to sell.
The sperm bank ships to more than 120 different countries. There are no international laws or regulations stating that a donor can only be used a certain amount of times. Which causes concern, because too many half siblings for donor children can lead to emotional distress. The company tries to aim for 25 to 50 families worldwide.
”It’s really up to us in the end,” says Lasse Ribergaard Rasmussen, PR and communication specialist at Cryos, where he has been working for four years.
Lasse Ribergaard Rasmussen thinks donating sperm is not that much of a taboo anymore in Denmark. Cryos advertises a lot on social media and has big bus ads to target potential donors. Lasse Ribergaard Rasmussen calls Denmark altruistic, Danish people like to help others. A lot of sperm donors are also blood donors. However, he acknowledges a difference.
“Some people associate sperm donation with something sexual because of the involvement of pornography. But compared to other countries, Denmark is more open-minded. When we expanded to the UK, we couldn’t use the same advertising and donor recruitment strategies, it’s much more of a taboo there.”
Once the sperm has been purchased, Cryos makes it ready for transport. Tubes containing 0.5 milliliters of frozen sperm are put in a Styrofoam box with dry ice. They can stay frozen for four days. GLS or UPS, picks up the packages and checks where they’re going. This one is going to the Netherlands.
Fertility clinic
After a journey of about 600 km to the Netherlands the sperm stops at a Fertility Clinic. Nijgeertgeen, located in a tiny village called Elsendorp, receives packages from three Danish sperm banks, including Cryos, every week. UPS delivers them to the clinic, where the packages are stored behind secured doors. Due to the private documents the containers are sealed. When the packages have been removed from the containers, they are stored in their own cryo tanks until they can be used. The storage of the tubes must be done carefully and by two people to prevent any possible mistakes.
The receiving end
Linsey Duyvestijn, a 35-year-old Dutch woman, ordered a sample through Cryos ln september last year. When ordering online she looked for a donor that would be her type in real life. Her options were not limited.
“I could see their posture, weight, height, shoe size, education, hair and eye colour.” She chose a tall man with dark hair and a beard. The story he wrote also appealed to her: “A family is not a father and a mother with a child. Family is the people who love you and choose to be there for you.”
On average it takes six tries until a woman gets pregnant. Linsey bought three samples to start off with, the cost of that was already 4000 euros. Her first try was on September 29, but it didn’t succeed. October 24 was her second attempt, which was also unsuccessful. If the third attempt won’t succeed, Linsey would have to buy more tubes.
Linsey has always wanted to be a mom. But that partner never came. At thirty, she had her first relationship, but it didn’t last very long. They did live together, but in the end, it didn’t work out. It left her feeling like she had to start all over again.
Attempt number three is a cycle later on November 18. A week after, it was Linseys birthday. That day she walked down the stairs and she felt a sign, something in her body changed. Her third attempt was successful. She says it isn’t about the money, but the mom to be was relieved she didn’t have to buy more. It took quite a long time before she was sure about using a donor. Her parents were convinced before she even was. They live two doors away and have always told her she has their full support. Her brother lives in the same neighbourhood, and her sister is just a town over. This is the place where she feels comfortable and the environment she wants her child to grow up in. The pregnancy came sooner than expected and she has plans to renovate the house to build an extra room for the child.
THE SCREAMING SILENCE OF S Á MI WOMEN
by Victoire Becquart
The heavy burden of sustaining personal life, community, and Sámi tradition has been kept silent for many years. Now, some of them are raising their voices— for themselves, for the younger generation and for all those who have given up
“I never felt like I was enough” Ayla,
20 years
The flames of the brazier dance in her tearfilled eyes while she is talking. Frantically, Ayla scrapes the log in her hands, stripping away the bark. Her hands are bare, but she doesn’t seem to feel the -10 degrees that the thermometer displays on this cold March afternoon. After all, her body has had time to adapt to the harsh Lapland conditions over 20 years of existence. She lets silence settle in the white-painted landscape she knows by heart. Her gaze drifts into the void. In the distance, the few houses of the village of Karesuando outline the horizon. Beyond, vast snowy land stretch as far as the eye can see, typical of Northern Sweden. Ayla Nutti recently returned to live with her parents in Karesuando after two years studying reindeer herding in Norway. She is now taking a gap year to decide what to do next.
“Last year, when the time came to gather the reindeer for summer pastures, I was sure I would go with my father. I’m the eldest of my siblings, and I’ve always accompanied him in taking care of our herd. And I’ve worked hard for years, both at home and at the reindeer herding school I attended for two years in Norway. But when the time came to gather the herd, it was my little brother whom Dad asked to go with him. He had only been interested in all of this for a few months. The only reason? He’s a boy, and I’m not.”
Ayla stands up, picks up her coffee cup, and leans against the red wooden wall of her garden shed. Beside her, a reindeer hide is stretched out. Once dry, her mother will use it to make shoes, hats, and clothes. She closes her eyes, letting the sun gently warm her face.
“Reindeer herding is a man’s thing among the Sámi. If you want to take part as a woman, you must prove yourself. You have to do everything perfectly, show that you’re just as capable as a man.”
Ayla takes another sip of her coffee, now cooled by the freezing air.
“That moment with my father made me very sad. He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, just like that without even noticing it, I think. Yet, my father has modern values. He always let me work with the reindeer, something others in the village disapproved of. ‘How can you let your daughter do that kind of work?’ they said. In our community, it’s not common to take a man’s place.”
That day, her father’s response broke something in the young girl. Since then, Ayla has stepped aside more, making space for her brother. The fire crackles. A gust of wind pushes the flames away, but they come back even stronger an instant later.
“You know, fire is like humans,” she says. “If you blow on it, encourage it, it grows and becomes strong. But if you leave it to burn alone, it dies.”
For someone only 20 years old, her wisdom is striking. Ayla is part of this young generation of Sámi women who speak out, who raise their voices, and who try to push the boundaries of a deeply rooted tradition. Her strength of character is impressive. She seems torn between fatalism and a deep sense of rebellion.
“Our mental health is affected simply by the fact that we are Indigenous people, a minority among minorities. We can’t escape what we are, what we represent, or our way of life.”
ALARMING MENTAL HEALTH
Indeed, the last Indigenous people of Europe are struggling. Spread across Lapland—covering northern Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia—more than 100,000 Sámi today are trying to recover from the traumas of the past decades. First colonized, then subjected to forced religious, cultural, and linguistic assimilation policies, they came dangerously close to losing their identity forever. After long battles with governing authorities, it was only very recently that they gained recognition of their culture, rights and land. In 2020, the Swedish government, followed by Finland and Norway in 2023, issued official apologies for all the injustice and abuse committed against them. But recently, a deeper and more hidden pain has begun to be spoken about. The Sámi people are suffering for their women, their mothers, their daughters, whose mental health is alarming. This was revealed last March in a report from Umeå University in Sweden named “It’s terrible and magical at the same time: a report on the health of young Sámi people”. Young Sámi women attempt suicide at twice the rate of young Swedish women. And women are significantly more affected than men. Almost no one talks about this reality even less within the Sámi community, where the subject has so far been entirely taboo.
Inga says she fights every day for her two children. Without them, she wouldn’t be able to endure her situation
Inga, 30 years old
“You never cry in front of a man”
THE LAW OF SILENCE
The streets of the village of Karesuando are deserted. The Swedish winter is harsh. Even for the locals, who much prefer their cars or snowmobiles to get around. About 300 souls live here, and among them, roughly 70% are Sámi. The village is built around a single road that provides access to everything: the church, the two schools, the gas station, the small shop, the restaurant, and the local café. A few kilometres to the west, if you follow the tire tracks on the ice-covered road, you’ll reach the village of Idivuoma. Here, only a few wooden cottages have settled. Among them is Inga’s home.
“We don’t talk about emotions here. Even less so between men and women,” says the 30-year-old woman, who is ten years older than Ayla. “You never cry in front of a man.” This is the kind of phrase regularly uttered by older women that she and the other young women of her generation have grown up with.She turns her keys in the lock of the wooden door and steps into the small white cabin, sometimes barely visible in the winter landscape. With her, the cold rushes in, brushing against the wooden planks that form the walls. Now in the warmth, she rubs the soles of her reindeer-skin boots to remove the stubborn snow. Next to her size 39 boots, two smaller pairs in bright colours sit neatly. Inga Kemi is a mother of two. Marielle is four, and Mihkkal-Einar just turned two. They are her greatest pride.
Sitting on a sheepskin and dressed in their finest Sámi outfits, their portraits are proudly displayed on the entryway wall. Her husband, also Sámi, has gone to the mountains with their reindeer herd. He won’t be back for ten days. This is nothing unusual; Inga has had to adapt over time.
Today, she has just four hours before picking up her two little almost white-haired children from primary school in the centre of Karesuando. It is a Sámi school, built on stilts like most houses in Lapland, its yellow wooden facade facing that of the municipal primary school. Just a few meters separate them—along with two vastly different realities. But for the young mother, there was never a choice between the two schools. Her children had to be with the other Sámi children of the village, to feel included and surrounded.
“I want my children to be proud to be Sámi as I wasn’t always myself...”
Like many Sámi of her generation, Inga still bears the scars of racism and discrimination she faced as a child. Like that day when she was 11 years old. She was walking with some friends through the streets of Kiruna, the capital of Swedish Lapland. That day, as usual, she was wearing a traditional Sámi hat made of colourful fabric by her mother. At some point, a group of boys began to follow them, throwing snowballs violently— only at her. Because she was Sámi.
“I came home crying that day. It was the first time I became truly aware of the racism we, the Sámi, faced. For all these years, I’ve been trying as hard as I can to accept my appearance, my almond-shaped eyes, the colour of my hair. And I dare wear Sámi attributes. Without lying, it’s a daily struggle.”
The hands of Anneli, another Sámi mother from the village, are braiding a part of the gákti, the traditional Sámi costume
As she walks towards her small desk by the wall, she glances at her watch. “Damn, I’m late! I need to get to work, quickly!”. She sits down, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and focuses on the two screens in front of her. Her tired gaze betrays her—she doesn’t want to do this, she says. But she has no choice; this job as “Sametinget” – a Swedish government authority mixed with a Sámi parliament – is what keeps her family afloat. For years now, reindeer herding hasn’t paid well enough. Climate change, meat prices, fuel costs, conflicts with locals, globalization. It’s no longer as stable as it once was. So most Sámi women have had to take on full-time jobs—on top of managing daily life alone and fulfilling all the traditional duties expected of them: crafting all the family’s Sámi clothing and accessories, cooking reindeer meat every day, passing down Sámi traditions and language to their children… In short, doing everything that makes them “good and happy Sámi women”. And heaven help the one who can’t handle it all. The ever-present social scrutiny of the community will make sure she feels guilty.
“It’s unthinkable to talk about your problems even with other Sámi women. If you can’t handle everything, you’ll be seen as weak and incapable. Even though we all suffer under this daily pressure, we bear it in silence—each in our own home.”
After a few seconds of trying to focus, Inga’s gaze freezes, giving way to her thoughts. Her mind has brought back one of those painful memories from the past. As if speaking about it for the first time, she recounts it, her voice trembling.
“It was ten years ago. One evening, we learned that a friend of my mother’s—a mother of two young children, the youngest just one year old—had taken her own life a few hours earlier. We were all terribly shocked...”
Inga’s eyes fill with tears. She pauses, seemingly reliving the scene she has never spoken of before.
“We never knew the exact reason behind her act. In the Sámi community, everyone talks about men’s mental health in the face of the hardships of reindeer herding. The mental health of women is completely overlooked.”
Shaken by what she has just shared, Inga tries to pull herself together and grabs her computer mouse. This time, for real, she starts working. The ticking of the clock blends with the tapping of keyboard keys echoing in the room. Soon, she will have to pick up her children. And, as she does every day, she will try to hide her fatigue, her anxiety, and her fear that one day, her daughter will also suffer in silence.
HOLDING ON
Anneli, 30 years old, made a different choice—she decided to talk about it. When she felt her anxiety growing ten years ago, she sought help. The diagnosis was clear: she was suffering from severe depression. Since then, antidepressants have accompanied her morning coffee. The only difference now is that she is a mother of two little girls, Elle-Majken, who is four, and Leia, aged one and a half. She no longer considers herself depressed but still feels the need for support through medication.
“It’s too much responsibility every day,” she says, rocking her youngest daughter in her arms. “Everything depends on you, always. In the family business, I’m the CEO. My husband participates little, if at all. That doesn’t make him a bad father—it’s just the life we lead. We don’t have a choice.”
The warm rays of the late afternoon sun filter through the windows of the wooden house, signalling dinnertime. Tonight’s menu: pasta and reindeer steak from the family herd. The girls eat heartily—it’s no surprise, given they have just returned from a long journey. They spent the last ten days in the mountains with Annelie’s parents, helping with the reindeer. Getting some help with the children allowed her to take a small break. Her husband has been away with his herd for several days.
“I never fully regained my mental health after my depression. My mind is in a constant fog. I never feel like I’m enough. Following tradition, pleasing the Sámi community while also conforming to Swedish society... it’s all asking too much of me at once. Sámi women have to juggle several identities and that’s a big burden every day.”
Anneli, 30, and her daughters
TRUST ON THE COUCH
ONE AT A TIME
by Noah Sele
I am setting out on an eight-day trip around northern Germany and the Netherlands to meet and stay with hosts found through the Couchsurfing platform. My aim is to find out what it’s all about and why someone would let a stranger stay in their home.
Couchsurfing is a community of over 20 million members all over the world. It’s a platform that enables travellers to find hosts that will let them stay in their home. It’s a way of traveling on a budget, meeting locals and connecting with like-minded people.
NINA RUHL FLENSBURG
My journey is starting as I am driving from Aarhus to Flensburg to meet my first host, Nina. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Driving from Denmark, I arrive in Flensburg shortly after crossing the German border. Finding parking here is not an easy task, but I am able to park in a residential street a 20 minute walk away from where I am staying tonight. I arrive at the door and look for the right doorbell. Nervously I press the button that says ‘Zander/Ruhl/Wackermann/ Gajewksi’. Nothing happens. I try again, but before anyone opens the door two men show up and ask if I need to go inside. They open the door and as we are walking up the stairs together, they ask if I am here for a tattoo appointment. I say no, I am here to couchsurf and with a surprised but friendly smile they say: “Ah, you must be Noah.” We enter an apartment on the third floor where I introduce myself to Nina and the men who turn out to be her flat mates. Nina Ruhl, 32, has been on the couchsurfing platform since 2013. She is a very active person and sometimes works as a yoga teacher next to her day job as a teacher for children with special needs, does water sports, loves travelling, is an activist and just took up highlining. In the same fashion, shortly after I arrived at her place, she heads out to a ukulele jam she organized in the centre of Flensburg. Tagging along I have the joy of meeting a group of Germans with a shared interest in music and ukulele and I briefly become part of this small community. Afterwards Nina shows me around the city and we talk about her experiences with couchsurfing and her motivation to be a host. Nina says her reason to host is to get out of her everyday rhythm and mindset. It is easy to fall into the same routine every day and not change much, she says. To her, hosting someone is like being on vacation. People on vacation are more open to trying new things, spending their time differently than they usually do and being surprised by whatever happens. The same thing happens to Nina when she has a guest over. As the guests don’t know the city, they pay more attention to their surroundings and see more opportunities to explore and do fun things. Fittingly, the next morning during sunrise before she went to work, Nina and I went cold-plunging in the Flensburg Fjord.
MATHIS LAUTERBACH
HAMBURG
After a day spent wandering around Flensburg, I start my drive to Hamburg in the late afternoon. I take one of Nina’s flat mates with me in the car, as he is visiting a friend in Hamburg, and drop him off somewhere in the city centre. I park my car right next to the dike and meet my host for the night. Mathis Lauterbach, 24, is a student studying renewable energies. As it is already quite late, we talk in the kitchen for a while but head to bed soon. I get to sleep in a loft bed above the couch in the hallway. The next morning, we have breakfast together, Mathis shares his cereal and bread with me, no questions asked. He sends me a list of recommendations of what to do in Hamburg, hands me a pair of spare keys to the apartment and heads out to Uni. We meet again later in the day and go for a drink with his friends in a small bar. I feel like I am staying with a friend more than a stranger. Mathis likes to host people to get to know them and have a good time together. He likes having people around and says that sometimes friendships form which allows him to stay at their home in return.
NIENKE ARENDSEN
UTRECHT
My journey continues with a drive to Utrecht, in the Netherlands. It’s a beautiful day and I stroll around the city and its canals for a while before I meet Nienke Arendsen in the city centre. She works in an eyeglass shop and just finished her shift. We walk to her shared apartment together and spontaneously pop into an art gallery opening on the way there. Nienke is 20 years old and has travelled abroad with couchsurfing, but has never hosted before. I ask her how she feels about hosting for the first time, and she answers that she was nervous and scared but also excited. She wanted to meet me in the city to get a feeling for who I am and if she wants to let me stay in her home, to do a “vibe check”. Having made great experiences with her hosts in the past, she wanted to help the community, too. Travelling with couchsurfing made her feel good about people and restored her faith in humanity, as she put it. She made friends with some of her hosts and still keeps in touch with a few. I end up staying two nights at Nienke’s home as I did not manage to find a couch for the following day, and she offers me to stay at her place for another night. We spend another day together and she shows me around Utrecht some more and even takes me to a small board game party with her friends in Rotterdam. The next morning, I leave before lunch and ask her how it was to host and trust a stranger. She says it was fine and that she does not have a lot of valuable stuff and trusted me with all her things.
FRANCIEN VAN EVERDINGEN ROTTERDAM
My travels continue to Rotterdam. I park my car outside the city centre next to a hospital and police station, as I was told by some Dutch people that someone might break in and take my stuff. I take a 20-minute metro ride into the city and meet my host, Francien Van Everdingen, 55, just outside her home. She clearly states in her profile that she does not want gifts other than stories and company, but she lets me contribute to our shared dinner by bringing some fresh vegetables. We start cooking together as soon as I arrive. While cooking we have lots of interesting conversations and get to know each other. We eat shortly after 7 pm as Francien practices Ramadan and thus does not eat during daylight hours. Francien has been part of the Couchsurfing community for more than ten years and frequently hosts people in her home. She used to host couch surfers in a room upstairs but has now taken in a refugee from Yemen, who lives there. Instead, she hosts couch surfers on a mattress in the living room. Her hospitability extends further than just couchsurfing as she regularly hosts nights she calls “dinnerfriends” where she invites neighbours, friends and refugees that live in Rotterdam into her home for a shared dinner. Francien suffers from a disease that gives her pain in her muscles and joints and makes it harder to move. She thus likes to have company in her own home and couchsurfing makes it easy for her to meet new people. “I see it like I have a temporary flat mate” she says me. After our dinner I wash the dishes and head into the city on my own.
ERWIN VOSSEN WASSENAAR
I’m meeting my last host for the project today. It’s a short drive from Rotterdam to Wassenaar and I arrive in the idyllic town early. I explore on my own for a bit and meet my host, Erwin Vossen, 46, in the late afternoon. He gives me a quick tour of his house and shows me my private room. A first for me on this journey, since so far, I stayed in living rooms, shared bedrooms or hallways. We sit on his couch and start chatting. Having his own collection of books about the town and collection of antique objects from the area, it seems Erwin knows everything there is to know about Wassenaar. He explains the region’s history to me, and we talk about the Netherlands, the worlds wars, colonial history and many more interesting topics for hours.
In the evening Erwin cooks dinner for the both of us and prepares a Dutch cheese tasting afterwards. He shows me a video about the Netherlands that, according to Erwin, boils down everything there is to know about the country into less than twenty minutes. Erwin likes to show this video to his guests and then watch one about their home country to learn about the world and different cultures. He likes the idea of hosting a traveler from every country and has hosted people from 19 countries so far. “Do you also travel with Couchsurfing?” I asked Erwin. “No, I like my privacy” he responded. This is surprising to me as he let me, a total stranger, stay in his home for tonight. Erwin hosts people regularly and sometimes does for multiple weeks or even months at a time. He likes to help make people’s lives just a little better by what he can do for them. If a guest likes history he’ll take them to the prison museum nearby, if they like cars he’ll take them to the car museum and so on. He told me countless stories of how he helped guests and made sure their stay in Wassenaar was a good experience and that he could help be part of that.
The Bengali word “ (Chitra)” can refer to the spotted deer commonly found in the Indian subcontinent, mostly in the Sundarbans. It can also mean something picturesque or vividly depicted, often used in literary or artistic contexts.
by Abul Hayat Rahadh
Following the poachers’ footsteps into the Sundarbans in Bangladesh is like opening a window to a hidden world, exposing the quiet violence that unfolds beneath the mangroves. This isn’t just about poachers or the deer they kill. It’s about a delicate balance—one that has existed for centuries but is now crumbling. Every snare set in the Sundarbans doesn’t just claim the life of a single animal; it sends ripples through the entire ecosystem, pushing the region’s last remaining Bengal tigers closer to extinction and bringing conflict to the doorsteps of those who live on the forest’s edge. This is a story of survival—of hunters and the hunted, of desperation and consequence. And in the shadows of the mangroves, where the traps are already waiting, the cycle continues.
The sun has barely risen when Ashish Chakrobarty and his nephew leave the relative safety of their village on a boat just across the river to enter the heart of the Sundarbans, ‘the beautiful forest’, in Bengali. They have come by boat from the village and as they approach the edge of the forest, the heat of the day is still a few hours away, but the humidity is already oppressive. The dense mangrove forest stretches out before them, its twisted roots and thick vegetation providing cover for countless creatures, including the tigers that roam the swamp. It is here, in the labyrinth of trees and mud, that Ashish and his nephew set their traps. “We’ll get one in a day or two,” Ashish mutters confidently as he surveys the terrain. His eyes narrow as he looks at the areas where the deer often roam, just beyond the edge of the forest. His nephew nods, a silent agreement between them. They know the risks of poaching, but the rewards outweigh the dangers. The money they make from selling the skins and meat of the deer will keep them afloat for months. The pair set to work quickly, positioning rope traps with precision. Ashish’s movements are deliberate, born from years of experience. He has learned the best places to set the traps and the types of trees that provide the most successful ambush points.
They work silently, each knowing what needs to be done. The traps they set are designed to snare the deer by the neck, ensuring that when they return, the animals will be unable to escape. Ashish’s nephew works alongside him, pulling the ropes taut, ensuring that the traps are secure. As they move from trap to trap, Ashish’s mind begins to wander. He thinks about the money he will make from the deer they catch. He thinks about the challenges of keeping a low profile, avoiding detection. But most of all, he thinks about the balance of nature, how the deer are an integral part of the ecosystem, and how their absence will inevitably affect the balance of the forest. Ashish has seen the consequences of poaching firsthand. The number of tigers has decreased to 114 in recent years, but so have the attacks. Ashish knows that the increase in poaching is one of the reasons. There are only 140 thousand deer left, which is not enough for neither the tigers nor the eco system of the forest. When the deer population decreases, the tigers come closer to human settlements, attacking villagers in search of food. The circle of life, it seems, is becoming unbalanced. But Ashish also knows that he will continue. He needs to feed his family.
Belief & survival
Ashish and his nephew have set up around 50-60 traps that day, though some poachers, they know, set even more. The traps are not small, each one is carefully placed to avoid detection. The longer they wait, the better the chances of catching a deer, or, if luck is on their side, several. Ashish knows it isn’t unusual to come back after a day or two, and though he doesn’t admit it aloud, there is always the fear that the animals might escape or, worse, that the traps will be discovered by forest rangers or other poachers. But he has his methods, and they are often enough to avoid detection. Once the traps are in place, the pair return home for the day. They don’t enter the forest on Fridays; it is a belief that has been passed down from the elders of their village. The locals are superstitious, and Fridays are considered a sacred day, a day when the forest itself may turn against them. To ward off any potential harm or dark powers, the poachers tie a special handkerchief to a nearby tree. This is something they have learned from a local Kabiraz, a healer who has lived in the area for years. The Kabiraz’s teachings are steeped in ancient lore, and though Ashish doesn’t fully believe in the mystical aspects, he adheres to the practice out of respect and caution.
The fightback
Nimai Rai, a local union member and activist, has been working on initiatives to reduce poaching and improve the relationship between the local community and the authorities.
“Poaching has increased after the government stepped down in August 2024,” Nimai says.
“It has become a financial necessity for many people, but we need to make the law stricter.”
He emphasizes that the solution to poaching isn’t just enforcement but education and community involvement. Nimai believes that organizing counseling sessions and involving locals in the protection of the forest will help curb illegal activities.
“Deer are essential to the survival of the Sundarbans and its wildlife, especially the Royal Bengal
tiger,” Nimai explains. “Their population is crucial to maintaining the balance of the ecosystem. We must protect the deer if we are to save the tigers.”
He also points out that the lack of deer in the forest will lead to more tiger attacks, as they move closer to villages and settlements, looking for food.
“Every 5-10 years, tiger attacks increase, and it’s closely linked to poaching. The more deer we take, the more tigers will attack.”
Local informants sometimes help forest officials catch poachers, but Nimai knows that the battle against poaching is far from over. The poaching trade has become deeply embedded in the region, and it will take more than just law enforcement to stop it.
The uncertainty
The first light of dawn on Saturday morning has barely touched the horizon as they set out again, ready to check the traps. The process is always tense; they don’t know whether they will find a deer, or nothing at all. When they reach the first trap, Ashish pauses. His eyes scan the area, looking for any sign of the deer. The sharp rope traps have worked in the past, but the deer are swift, and not all of them will be caught. This time, as they approach the first trap, they find nothing. Ashish grumbles under his breath, frustration evident in his voice.
“Nothing this time,” he says, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement. His nephew glances at him, uncertain of what to say. The disappointment is evident on both their faces. Deer are a valuable commodity in the local markets, and the chance of finding another one is slim. They move on, hoping for better luck at the next set of traps. Despite the setback, they continue with their search. They find more empty traps, the ropes undisturbed. Each time they check, the feeling of frustration is mounting. Ashish knows that not every trip into the forest will result in a successful hunt, but the lack of any catch this time leaves him feeling uneasy. Without the animals, they are left with nothing. They make their way deeper into the heart of the Sundarbans, knowing that they have to return to check the traps. The forest is silent now, but Ashish knows it won’t remain that way for long. The heat of the day will bring the forest alive again with the sounds of birds’ chirping and dry leaves rustling. There is a constant hum of life in the Sundarbans, but there is also danger, wildlife, forest rangers, and the law of the land all working against them.
The cost of poaching
The consequence of poaching isn’t just limited to the animals caught in the traps. The lives of people in the surrounding areas are also impacted. Nur Islam, a 75-year-old fisherman, honey hunter and wood collector, has experienced the wrath of the forest firsthand. In 2009, Nur was attacked by a tiger that entered the village. His hands, calves, and arms bear the marks of the struggle, but what haunts him the most isn’t thephysical scars, it is the memory of his nephew, Mohammad, who was killed by a tiger 20 years ago.
Nur has grown up near the forest and has always lived with a respect for its creatures, but the tiger attacks have been increasing in recent years.
“It would have been better if I died on the attack rather than people killing the tiger,” he said after the incident. He believes that the poaching of deer is the main cause of the increase in tiger attacks. With fewer deer in the forest, the tigers are venturing closer to human settlements in search of food, becoming more aggressive and unpredictable.
The cycle continues
As they move deeper into the forest, Ashish and his nephew come across two traps that have been set with greater care, newer, sharper ropes that have replaced the older ones. Ashish knows that these traps are more dangerous. They are designed to ensure a more reliable catch, and it seems that they are working. Yet, to his surprise, the traps have been triggered, but the deer have disappeared. “Two of them escaped,” Ashish mutters as he crouches near one of the traps. He can see the marks where the rope has cut through the deer’s skin. The rope is still intact, but the deer have somehow managed to break free. “Lucky for them. Unlucky for us.”
As the day wears on, Ashish and his nephew check more traps, only to find them empty. The forest seems to mock their efforts, the sound of wildlife barely audible. But Ashish is resolute. He knows that tomorrow, or the day after, they will try again. The hunt for deer—and the ensuing cycle of life and death, is far from over.
“We’ll get one tomorrow,” Ashish mutters under his breath as they ride the boat back towards the village. “We’ll try again.”
*Editor’s note: Ashish is not his real name, but his identity is known by the journalist.
STEPPING INTO THE LIGHT
by Ellen Wiklund
Finland, which has been a mainly ethnically homogeneous country until recently elected a woman of colour to be last year’s Lucia. Now, she has to grapple between the fame that came in the aftermath of the event and the racist backlash that ensued.
It’s Sunday evening in late March and Daniela is scheduled to sing at a church close to Helsinki. Before the performance starts, she’s been invited to a dinner with the congregation. Pies, cakes and coffee are being served and members of the congregation, mostly retirees, try to get a chance to talk to her.
“What a pretty Lucia we had last year”, one of them compliments Daniela. At the church, a priest, originally from Rwanda, is invited to hold the sermon. He talks about discrimination in Finnish churches and urges people to come together and turn to God. Daniela follows by performing the song Speechless from the Disney film Aladdin.
Three months earlier, in December 2024, 21-yearold Daniela Owusu was elected Finland’s Lucia for Saint Lucia Day, a Scandinavian tradition celebrating light in the dark winter, usually only significant for the Swedish-speaking minority in the country. Each town organizes their own event where girls and boys dressed in white gowns sing traditional songs together, with the most important figure being Lucia at the forefront. The largest event takes place in Helsinki where traditionally a blonde, blue eyed girl is elected by the public. First, a jury selects ten candidates, then their campaigns kick off, and finally, the public cast their votes online to make the ultimate decision. This year, to much controversy, Daniela was the first woman of colour to hold this title.
It’s an early afternoon a week before the church service in Daniela’s kitchen and the sun is casting a warm glow across the room as she edits her TikTok video and transfers it to her second phone, which she uses exclusively for social media content. Ever since December, Daniela has been the centre of attention.
Right after her crowning, she gained 10,000 new followers on TikTok in just one day, launching her career as a social media influencer. Her typical day used to consist of attending culinary school, working in a restaurant, and hanging out with her friends. Now, her routine includes brand events, guest appearances on podcasts, interviews and talks.
The effects of Daniela being chosen as Lucia weren’t all positive. After her election in November, the first racist comments began to appear.
“At first, it wasn’t too bad. The comments were few and came from the same types of boys I went to school with, who made fun of me when I was younger, so it didn’t affect me much; I was used to that.”
The day after Lucia Day, the racist attacks against her became widespread and more severe.
“Someone left a comment on TikTok mentioning people were talking about me on Twitter, so I downloaded the app and searched my name – and I saw thousands of people had posted racist remarks about me being elected. These grown adults were saying horrible things about me, and it was then it truly started to affect me.”
Shortly after Saint Lucia Day, a video of her crowning was posted on TikTok, and it quickly went viral, garnering half a million likes and thousands of hate comments within just one day. “That was a really bad day for me, it really got to me. I cried a lot that day.” By November 2024, more than 70 threads discussing Daniela had been posted on the imageboard Ylilauta, which is the most significant platform for publishing hate speech on the Finnish-language internet, according to a 2021 report by the Ministry of Justice. These threads were filled with derogatory comments claiming Lucia can’t be black, racial slurs, images of the Ku Klux Klan, and remarks blaming multiculturalism for the country’s decline.
At the same time, Daniela received messages and letters from people expressing their gratitude, especially parents who shared that their non-white children finally had a role model who resembled them. She turned to her family and friends for support and found that the sting of the comments faded when she shared them with the people she trusted. By laughing together at the absurdity of the hateful messages and refusing to take them seriously, she says it took away their power. And as the nice messages started to appear, the hate got easier to cope with.
In response to the recent backlash, politicians and even the Finnish president have condemned the racist attacks. While Daniela appreciates their remarks, she feels frustrated that they only spoke out now that the situation has gained media attention, despite the fact that racism has been an ongoing problem in Finland.
“There are so many black people here that can’t go through their day, they can’t live, they can’t go to work, they can’t go to school without experiencing racism.” She wishes people understood how widespread this issue is in Finnish society.
“I think every black person in Finland has experienced being in public and a crazy person comes up to you and starts screaming at you, or just says the n-word to your face. That’s definitely happened to me a few times.”
It’s a few days before the church service and Daniela’s just finished her classes for the day. She’s on the bus heading to the Red Cross office in the outskirts of Helsinki to accept an award for her efforts in fighting against racial injustice and has managed to carve out some time for this occasion. She’s greeted by a group of representatives who welcome her into the kitchen, where coffee, pastries, flowers, a gift bag, a plaque, and a speech from a representative await her.
After the reception, she takes the tram back to the city centre to have dinner with her boyfriend. Back in her apartment Daniela is going through what she’s saved from her time as Lucia. Letters, brochures and drawings are either all saved at her apartment or at her mom’s place. She takes out one card a kindergarten class sent to her. Different coloured cutouts of paper represent Lucia and others included in the procession. The text wishes her a Merry Christmas.
Daniela and her roommate Alexandra chat on a Monday evening in their hallway
“It was especially nice to see children, especially the non-white children, coming up to me and being so happy. It’s not like the white children didn’t get a lot out of it, too, but it was so nice to see the ones who aren’t white finally see themselves represented. And that was the best part of all of this.” Saved are also the countless newspapers with articles written about her. The titles describe how historical this moment is and how popular Daniela has become, and also inevitably mentions of the racist reactions.
As the days are getting brighter and the last remaining snow is melting, Daniela is starting to leave the days of Lucia behind her. The charity events connected to Lucia are becoming sparse and the media frenzy has quieted down. The memories are all still there, though, the white gown and red sash hanging in her wardrobe with the letters and articles stashed on a shelf above. Hundreds of screenshots of the hateful messages and posts have been collected in a Google Drive file for an ongoing police investigation into the attacks.
On TikTok, you’ll find comments related to Lucia still appear now and then, and her account description still reads “Dani, 21, yes I am Lucia :)”. Though increasingly, cooking tutorials, makeup brand events, fashion photoshoots, and sponsorship deals take up most of her page. Her inbox is still piling up and the following week is likely to be booked as well, if she manages to balance it with classes, work, and spending time with her friends and family. There’s no sign of her slowing down, and while the aftermath of the Lucia role still lingers, it’s not what defines her anymore. Now she mostly focuses on the positive sides of the experience. Her main plan is to become a social media creator for a restaurant, and she even dreams of opening her own café or hosting a cooking show in the future, which has now become an attainable goal.
LESBOS IN ENDLESS LIMBO
by Ella Seeger
“There are cameras everywhere, and there are curfews. If they try to put me in there, I will resist!“
The sounds of seagulls and the chatter of locals fill the narrow streets in between old houses. The harbour of Mytilini is dotted with fishing boats and private yachts lying in the sparkling blue water, but what sets Lesbos apart from other holiday islands are the large ships of Frontex and the Greek coastguard, their backs armed with remote control guns. Closer to the city, graffiti begins to appear, with messages such as “Stop Pushbacks, Stop Deportations” and “Greece is killing refugees with European money. “
Many tourists who come to the Greek island, are unaware of the harsh realities faced by refugees here. Realities which stand in stark contrast to the image of a peaceful holiday destination that also the Greek government wants to maintain, exposing the contradictions in European migration policy.
What is happening on Lesbos is emblematic of the European Union’s treatment of people seeking protection: While Greece’s third largest island can be easily reached by an almost daily ferry for tourists with a European passport, in 2024, more than 2,280 people died trying to cross the Mediterranean and Aegan Sea according to an United Nations report and the Refugee Support Aegan Report, with a large number of unreported cases. Not only does the sea claim lives, but big dreams can also vanish in an instant, with the Greek coastguard playing a big role in that as well. Several organisations, including Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, have reported that the Greek coastguard has allegedly carried out pushbacks, intercepting migrants at sea and returning them without processing their asylum claims.
As in the case of Mohammed, who did not make the daring crossing to Lesbos the first time. Mohammed recounts how, on his latest attempt, he took a more dangerous route across the Aegean. He boarded a boat with two 450-horsepower engines that could cover the distance from Turkey to Lesbos in just 35 minutes. For Mohammed and the 31 other passengers, the journey was an ordeal, where they held hands, rising and falling together with every wave that hit the boat. But this time Mohammed made it.
He landed on an island that since 2015 has become synonymous worldwide with the so-called European migration crisis. Most recently after the infamous Moria refugee camp burned down on September 9, 2020. The camp, which was originally intended for 2,800 people and at times housed 20,000 people, burned to the ground. Overnight, 12,600 people were left homeless.
Instead of learning from the fire, the Greek government, with the help of the EU, will soon open a new camp that looks more like a high-security prison - with constant surveillance, higher fences, strict rules of entrance and exit times, and limitations on movement. The project is built in the middle of a highly flammable pine forest. As many other countries, Greece has faced intense heatwaves in recent years, and climate change is expected to exacerbate this risk. The President of the North Aegean Fire Brigade has criticized the choice of location, describing it as the “worst place” for the camp. He highlights the lack of proper evacuation plans and fire safety training, warning that a fire could devastate the entire island. Without roads and clear evacuation routes, there are significant risks to the safety of refugees and workers.
A controversial location
The Greek government ignores the warnings. Instead, they are nearly 95% finished in building the camp, which will be called Vastria CCAC (Closed Controlled Access). The Vastria CCAC is designed to house refugees while they await decisions on their asylum applications. However, its location in a remote area of the island, far from the capital city, Mytilini, and the space where NGOs have settled for more than 10 years now, has raised concerns among refugees, volunteers and locals. At present, the camp is nearly complete, with only an emergency road and an early fire alarm system left to build. Refugees who have worked on the construction have shared their experiences with a sense of both exhaustion and disbelief. They were paid €35 per day to build the facility, often carrying heavy materials in challenging conditions.
The people who worked there described the conditions as inhumane. The refugees are exploited to build a prison, into which they themselves may later be imprisoned.
“When we saw the containers, we thought at least they are not tents,” said one worker, who requested anonymity. “But it still feels like a prison. There are cameras everywhere, and there are curfews. If they try to put me in there, I will resist! “
The development’s emphasis on security has raised concerns about the future of refugee integration. The isolation created by this facility could hinder refugees’ access to essential services such as legal aid, daily life activities, medical care, and community support, making it difficult for them to rebuild their lives.
The fact that the new camp is almost six hours’ walk from Mytilini seems to be another strategically chosen harassment.
“They do it to have the refugees out of sight,” says Tommy Olsen, a Norwegian activist and founder of Aegan Boat Report. While currently many of the refugees have set up a whole social structure through mainly voluntary networks, without the help of the government, Vastria means Isolation.
Hinda is looking towards the coast of Turkey, which is 36 kilometres away from the Greek island. This stretch of water has become a tragic crossing point for many seeking refuge.
Fallen tree in the former Moria camp. On 8 September 2020, a devastating fire broke out in Camp Moria, destroying much of the camp, which is now abandoned and overtaken by a group of goats.
Girls blowing balloons for Estelle’s goodbye party at the gym
Munir arrived on Lesbos over a decade ago and now works for an NGO inside the Mavrouvouni camp. His younger cousin, Mustafa, just arrived on the island in late 2024. The two cousins were reunited in Mavrouvouni camp after 12 years of not seeing each other, both unaware that the other had made it to the island.
Barbed wire in the old abandoned Moria Camp. The camp was originally designed to house around 3,000 people, but by 2020 it was severely overcrowded, with estimates of up to 20,000 people living in what had become inhumane and unsanitary conditions.
Tensions and Protests on Lesbos
Before Moria was destroyed, the situation on the island had already worsened. In early 2020, there were violent fascist attacks, and tensions were rising. One night, the authorities attempted to send the military to the harbour to transport materials for the construction of Vastria. However, some locals blocked the port, determined to prevent the supplies from entering. They stood firm, armed with sticks, showing their opposition. This united people across different ideological lines, all standing against the creation of a camp. Some because they didn’t want more refugees on „their“ island, and others because they viewed the camp as a symbol of isolation and oppression. However, after just a week of protests, the police intervened, shutting down the demonstrations. This sparked even more hostility. Locals pushed arriving boats back into the sea, even with women and children on board.
Grassroots Support
Volunteers, locals, and people from around the world have ensured that those seeking protection aren’t abandoned, despite the EU’s neglect. Numerous NGOs have been founded, many centered around the camp. One key hub is Paréa, a community space where multiple NGOs offer support, from bike and phone repairs to mental health services. It also provides essential services like food distribution, medical care, and a women’s space.
Next to Paréa is the YSR gym (Yoga and Sports with Refugees), open to refugees, volunteers and locals alike. Estelle Jean, the founder, highlights the unifying power of exercise.
“While training together, everyone is equal.”
She first came to the island in 2017 as a volunteer and quickly recognized the urgent need for such a space.
The gym has become vital for both physical and mental well-being, offering an escape from camp life and a chance to regain routine. It allows people to connect, reclaim independence, and feel part of a larger community. Estelle, alongside Dana, a refugee from Kurdistan, started with simple activities like running and yoga in a small tent. By 2019, they secured a permanent location, and the gym has since grown. Like many other NGOs on the island, they emphasize involving people living in the camp in playing an active role in running the gym, with nearly all coaches coming from the community.
For women in particular, the gym has become a powerful space of empowerment.
“It changes so much for people. Women feel free, strong and capable. It’s transformative,” Estelle says. Through physical activity, they not only strengthen their bodies but also feel empowered, free, feeling that they are capable and strong.
Some NGO leaders are still unsure if Vastria will ever open. Although it was announced in 2023 that it would, it didn’t, and now they say it might open in autumn 2025, but there’s still no certainty. For now, NGOs are operating day by day, unable to plan ahead due to lack of information. No one expects to gain access to the camp, and the uncertainty has left organisations and people on the move in limbo.
Mohammed and Youssef walking back to Mavrouvouni camp
Kahlide and her brother have tied bread to a small plastic string and cast it out into the sea, just a short walk away from Mavrovouni camp. Sometimes, the camp food isn’t great, so many families gather along the shore to try and catch their own meal.
GRIT FOR GOING GREEN
by Arthur Venot
Denmark seems to be among Europe’s star pupils when it comes to the green transition. But there is still a long way to go, and the road ahead promises to be as long as it will be challenging. Still, amongst the new farmers being trained at Jordbrugets Uddanelses Center, a younger and greener generation of farmers is growing.
Every school bus smells the same. Getting on, you get hit by whiffs of the damp, old blue carpet displaying motifs that make you wonder whether bad taste was invented in the seventies. It’s awfully quiet, as you’d expect before 8AM on a cold March morning. Some students are staring at their phones, some of them at the view outside the window, all of them slouching. As the bus fare nears its end, each and every one of them is trying to gather some energy for the day ahead. Once we get to Bredballegård, just a few minutes’ drive from the school’s’ campus, the hum of the engine stops and gives way to the chirping of birds, as the young farmers get up in a line and walk to their classrooms.
Bredballegård is part of Green Academy (Jordbrugets Uddanelses Center, Aarhus). On the estate, a few kilometres outside of Beder, the students are responsible for taking care of both the livestock and the over fifty hectares of land adjoining the old farmhouse that has been repurposed as teaching facilities. In the barn, the day to day is quite similar year-round, and the thirty-something jersey cows seem as used to the students as those are to the acrid smell of humid haystacks and manure coming out of the sheds.
THE WHIR OF ENGINES
Out on the windswept fields, the new season brought along new tasks, and if the neighbouring farms have already ploughed the land and are ready for sowing, the point here is to have young people learn, and the teachers don’t mind if they’re a bit slower than the real farmers. One of them, Max Frederiksen, has been teaching here for more than seven years. He’s the coordinator of the machine drivers, and otherwise teaches “mostly technical stuff”, about plants and the new technologies used in farming. GPS data and satellite images applied to agriculture aren’t the figment of some tech-savvy farmer’s imagination anymore, but his students will certainly have to master new practises. Spot spraying, for instance, makes use of those tools to increase efficiency and reduce environmental impact. Is sustainability something important to the students around here then?
“Some of them have it on their conscience all the time. They know it’s a problem and that they must do something about it,” he answers.
Sustainability may not be the first thing on his pupils’ minds, but still Jeppe Klinge, one of the machine driving students, prides himself on how they always clean up after themselves after being out in the park.
Max Frederiksen is more doubtful, though.
“It’s hard to say, because some of our students simply love to be farmers. They don’t choose an agriculture school like ours because of the focus on the climate.”
Those who humorously call themselves ’right foot-men‘, as it’s the right foot they use to step on the gas pedal when driving machines, are also just regular teenagers, hiding away from the campus tutors to drink in the evenings, sharing cigarettes, and talking about which girls they find attractive.
NEW SPROUTS IN THE GREENHOUSES
On the main campus of the Green Academy in Beder, another part of the teaching takes place in the humid greenhouses and nurseries. The smell of dirt rises amidst the trees and produce growing in sync with spring, while the students conduct experiments aiming to replace chemicals by biological pest management, or to find alternatives to the use of peat, a fossil fuel that is second to none for the growth of plants. Its use is however being banned in several countries, as it is an excellent carbon sink. But of course, these noble sustainability pursuits aren’t enough to make a living as a gardener.
“Because in the end, you can make the greenest product possible, but if you can’t sell it, what’s all the fuss about it?” says Lukasz Chrystofiak, who teaches in the greenhouses.
NEW LIFE TO THE FARMING INDUSTRY
Karoline Kobberøe Fink, one of his students, is well aware of the challenges ahead, and quite ready to take them on. Having worked as a chef for several years, she started to wonder why Danish restaurants would need to have products from Egypt, if they could grow them themselves? Born on a farm, her first instinct was to get as far away as possible from this world, but she ended up deciding that if she wanted to see some change, she would have to do something herself, and then she started her studies here. Her life experiences and determination for the future show through her resolute demeanour as she explains how the shift of generations bound to take place could bring new life to the industry.
“In ten years, the whole growing industry in Denmark, will be totally different from where we are now. And I think we can make a big impact on that. Hopefully.”
ROOM FOR GREENER GROWTH
Blanca Lieselotte Bald Mallebrein could be one of those embodying the change for greener farming. At twenty-one, she may be among the fiercest of the green students, and reproaches both the school and the place where she does her apprenticeship for a lack of zeal to be greener :
“It’s very late in this education that we start to learn about sustainability, too late even, I think. And the companies I’ve been working in mostly focus on profit, and only try to be sustainable to look good to the customers. I think it’s very sad.”
Her teachers are less assured about overcoming the daunting task that is making Denmark’s farming green. Comparing the results of his students’ trial in the greenhouses, Lukasz Chrystofiak shrugs, as he confirms what he already knew: Growthwise, the peat-fed plants look weeks ahead.
“You know, peat is really gold” he says, placing the pots back down on the steel growing bench. So, it seems that the alternatives being brought forward by the students are yet to outgrow the current climate issues.
“In ten years, the whole growing industry in Denmark, will be totally different from where we are now. And I think we can make a big impact on that. Hopefully.”
HEALING HALFWAY HOME
by Cara Penquite
THE VETERANS’ HOME IN AARHUS IS MORE THAN JUST A PLACE TO STAY. IT’S A HAVEN HELPING VETERANS HEAL ON THEIR WAY BACK TO CIVILIAN LIFE
Uffe raises the flag on Saturday morning holding the clip for the flag in his mouth to steady the rope. Then he goes inside for breakfast, keeping a watchful eye towards the window, naming the birds he sees fly by. After breakfast, he walks on the crunched gravel to the bus, sits in his preferred seat, the edge seat in the back of the bus, closest to the door, one eye on the sign for the next stop, and one on the incoming passengers ahead of him on the bus. He’s on his way into the city to go swimming, an activity that helps him relieve stress, but he sits up straighter on the edge of his seat when a noisy passenger boards.
Uffe Kühne mostly has his PTSD under control, but he’s vigilant sometimes on his trip from the Aarhus veterans’ home, where he is temporarily living, to the city centre where he goes for a swim three times a week.
The veterans’ home, Veteranhjem Midtjylland, in Brabrand, Aarhus is a safe haven for veterans to build community and spend time with others facing the same challenges. The home is open for drop-ins from veterans 10:00 – 14:00 and they can speak with other veterans about their days. For some, it’s a space for talking through the difficulties of returning to civilian life with other people who understand those challenges. Maybe they need a couple days of retreat, sitting by the fireplace spotting deer running through the backyard, making dinner together, or even painting in the studio adjacent to the home. For others, it’s a place to live for a couple of months when the veterans have nowhere else to turn. For Uffe it’s the latter, the home is a resting place where he can stay sober before he moves to Sønderborg in South Jutland where some of his grandchildren live.
Uffe remembers playing war with plastic and wood guns with the neighborhood kids when he was little. Setting off for Cyprus at 19 was fulfilling a dream. But when he came home from the first mission he struggled to adjust to civilian life, so he served two more missions. Seven years after his first deployment, at 26, he came home and started a family, but he knew he wasn’t the same.
“When I came home my aunt said to me, ‘you shouldn’t have been there, you’re not the same,’” Uffe says. But when he looks through old photo albums from his time in the army, he glows with pride at times while also remembering being ready to leave.
Uffe’s experience as a veteran is not unique. According to the Journal of Veteran Studies, veterans are often at greater risk of drug use, alcoholism and homelessness than the average population. In 2010, in the midst of Denmark’s establishment of a veterans care model, six veterans’ homes were established around the country. The veterans’ homes provide essential support for veterans working through periods of hardship in their lives or seeking community. When veterans live at the home, it also provides critical stability to help them get back on their feet and integrate with society.
Like many other veterans, Uffe struggles with alcoholism. And although he has never formally been diagnosed, many therapists and doctors have treated him for PTSD. He traces his struggles back to his father’s death in 2002 which coincided with his 43rd birthday and his divorce.
Before coming to the veterans’ home, he lived in another facility for veterans with PTSD, but he said he was always on alert. He says the people around him were unpredictable and often intoxicated. When he left he spent 35 hours on the Aarhus train station bench and then a few days more in a cheap hotel before reaching out to the veterans’ home for a place to stay.
Uffe meets with his friend Marie Rølling for the first time since moving into the veterans home. Marie brought him his plant from his previous accommodations, a plant she gave him a year ago, which has grown into the plant it is today. Marie reads notes from others who used to live with Uffe, and the two start to tear up.
Moving to the veterans’ home was like a sigh of relief. The home is quiet, with light dancing around the rooms from a multitude of windows and surfaces everywhere covered with plants. Uffe can be calm and rest here and finds it easier to stay sober.
“I can just relax,” he says. Sometimes he spends the afternoon on the back porch with another veteran. Separated by a few chairs, but they share whatever is on their mind the longer they sit overlooking the valley.
After his swimming trip, Uffe dances in his room to the song “Human,” by The Killers as he makes a checklist for his afternoon. He sings along to the chorus, “Are we human, or are we dancers?” a line he says makes him think about spirituality.
Right now, Uffe is focused on building a routine that helps him manage his mental health. Besides swimming three times a week, he walks through the park next to the home and sits at the table looking through the glass wall overlooking a valley. He looks for deer in the evening while working on some gardening with plants he plans to bring with him when he moves out.
For Uffe, it’s important to stay sober when he moves back home. He has not lived near his family for over a decade, and he wants to spend more time with his grandkids and hopefully reconnect with his adult children. The veterans’ home is a step on that path to recovering control of his life.
Left: Uffe looks at the ceiling of a church during a symphony performance. Although Uffe says he does not necessarily feel he is religious, he does feel spiritual. He mentioned he sometimes thinks his father and grandfather are watching over him.
Right: Uffe dances in his room after a trip to the pool. There are six rooms at the veterans home, each lightly furnished. Uffe’s room has a door to a porch area where he keeps flowers.
