nest by Danmarks Medie- og Journalisthøjskole

nest

It is an ancient longing. A feeling we search for within ourselves, and seek in the physical world. The softest and most simple melody of home welcomes us. The loudest and coldest song makes us feel foreign where we once belonged. And with time, it fades into the memories of our collective. The nest we build, the nest we long for. Our nests sway in the branches of life.

My second home is my castle Mushfiq Mahbub Turjo

Beyond our pond Shirin Abedi

A dual excistence Michelle Hanks

A race against time Guillaume Derclaye

Brynhildr The Vi-Queen Deepti Asthana

Silent killer Saara Tuominen

No Strangerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Land Haris Begic

Moving a town Ellie Cherryhomes

Home (away) from home Aurelie Demesse

Life Goes On Yehyun Kim

While having tea with Rasul on a late afternoon in a carefully decorated allotment hut at SkjoldhĂ¸j Haveforening, I wondered what leads a man to this obsession with a house that he has been working on since 2012. When I asked him, Rasul suddenly stood up from his chair and started showing every inch of his house and furniture one after another in between the interview. by Mushfiq Mahbub TURJO

My Second Home Is My Castle

I first met Rasul in a second hand shop where he helped me buy a saucepan. We got talking, and he invited me to visit him in his allotment. SkjoldhØj haveforening was a very strange lonely place for me back then. It was the end of winter and you would barely see someone outside. This place is just at the end of the suburbs of Aarhus near the woods. Roads are broken, empty. Some houses are abandoned for months as if the owners have lost interest and left their houses unfinished. The whisper from the wood was letting me know how lonely everything is, it felt like standing at the corner of the world. Rasul Muhammad then started to show me his house, his laughter and joy was all about showing an alien boy how creative he can

be. I didn’t even guess that few hours of meeting Rasul would make me so attached to this place and meet others who barely come out of their houses. Rasul explained about his house with a joyful gesture: “It took three years to make this. It is not finished yet, something you cannot see, but I see it is not finished”. He had nurtured this land and grew some trees and built the house almost by himself. It has become an obsession, an unbreakable part of his life which he cannot even think of leaving. it has become part of his ‘soul’. He showed some unnoticeable corner which might need repair after few years. He again lovingly explains ‘I have used good materials for this house. I have 5000 screws here, if you ask me “where?” I will tell you. I know

Fares’s house is not ready, although he put an image of New York carefully as his beloved brother lives there and didn’t meet for 30 years.

Fares rests a few seconds in between heavy works.

Fares rushed into Abdulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house to see if he is okay after hearing some noise.

everything of this house.’ His house consists of two big drawing rooms a small bedroom and a toilet. The house is waiting for electricity and Rasul is using solar equipment to cover the lacks. The water supply is expensive and there is no heating system. But still he takes care of visitors with tea and instant noodles. He would like to share as much as possible to make invitees feel happy by sitting down and enjoy cigarettes with him. Rasul Muhammad is 36 years old. He made his way from Afghanistan 18 years ago when he came to Denmark as a refugee. from my early days in Denmark I have been meeting Rasul often in his allotment hut. A warm-hearted person, he finds inspiration from others to make the house. To him it’s more than just a property. It is almost an art work, which is appreciated by friends and even unknown people, who are just crossing the road outside his

house. He has a good apartment and lives with his family in Braband but he doesn’t consider it a proper place to live. Often, He spends all day here just to touch the soil and keep up his never-ending artwork, which he wants to be different from other huts by characteristics and functions. Maybe just by taking different furniture or trees which he has collected carefully and sometimes spent years finding. Although being in a foreign country he has tried to build the house like the ones in his home country, for instance by adding a big brick oven as a symbol of Afghanistan. Fares Issa (63) is another refugee trying his best to build a house here, although he has an apartment that he shares with his family. He came to Denmark in 2003 as a war refugee, and tries his best to fit in with his family. He was a former soldier in Iraq and has undergone knee replacement surgery after being injured in the war. While in a conversation, he kisses his fingers and throws his hands towards God, happy and grateful to be alive. He seems very happy to be in Denmark. All his family flew away from his beloved motherland to be saved. But past doesn’t show mercy to us ever. It comes back at least in thoughts. Being a soldier witnessing the death of close friends has made him unstable, and it is hard for him to just sit down and relax. He chose to build a house here to be busy

and tired so that he can take his sleeping pill every night, have a decent sleep and forget about his traumatic past in Iraq. I can see his passion to make his house, which still needs some details to be fixed, electricity or water can come later. Right now, he is more focused on gardening, painting and cleaning before summer. I try to help him, and he smiles gratefully breathing heavily, because he doesn’t stop working. I wonder how he will survive once he has finished building the house. But now he looks forward to his son coming to see his work and say “what a beautiful house”. It is obvious that people in the allotments take pleasure in building their houses, although they have not learned how to do it. But one hand washes another. They have a great bond of sharing materials and labor. Fares’s neighbor Abdul Gulam (63) can call him anytime to get help. Abdul is on his mobility scooter, and therefore in need of help. He came from Kuwait 27 years ago as a war refugee. Five months ago, he had an accident and the doctors had to cut his leg to save his life. On our first meeting he offered me a job to clean his bird house and make a concrete floor. Throughout my working time he explains ways to build a house. He talks about the time when he was able to make the house by himself, sometimes with the help of friends

Something is stuck in bird’s leg which needed to be clear.

and sometimes for money. He is in his mobility scooter having cigarette after cigarette all day. Sometimes friends come to build a bit more of the house, sometimes he is on his own. He enjoys coming every day to see his pet birds. Maybe he thinks of a complete place to have time with family or be just waiting for the day of the whole family coming together. With the same routine after a few cigarettes he turns on the tv to see the same Moroccan music video

Abdul asks neighbors and searches for people to take care of his house.

Chickenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hut is not ready yet, thus needed to be in the birdâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cage for a few days.

While walking outside the house, Rasul started to pray as it was the time to do so.

from his only DVD. This seems to be his only pleasure. He hopes that one day his grown-up sons and daughters will come here to make a BBQ. I can see a person’s reason to have more than one house, a reason to wake up in the morning. These second houses represent hope and reminds them of their home countries. On the outside the houses look like other houses in Denmark. But inside they are special and decorated in a way that brings their home countries closer in. Maybe this helps them to exist. I ask Rasul if he is ever going to sell this house even for a million dollars. Rasul remembers the time when he ar-

rived here empty handed and worked hard to earn. ‘I make this house good. This is for myself.’ And after humming a few words to himself he says “THIS IS NOT FOR SALE”. When I leave Denmark, these men will still be in their allotment huts in Denmark. Rasul will be redecorating, Fares will make sure he is busy, and Abul Gulam will knock strangers for some help to continue building the house forever. The houses are all different, but they also have something in common. They are all decorated with objects and images of the countries their owners left behind. Where ever we go, home is still with us.

Beyond our pond by Shirin Abedi

When I was eleven years old, I asked in my diary if we will ever travel as a family again. Twelve years later we are on the road.

The sky is blue like the sea while a warm breeze touches my skin. I take off my clothes in front of my veiled mother and sister in law, Yasaman. I walk into the water till my knees. I look back, for them the water seems too cold to swim. My skin is burning, I take deep breaths, now my belly is in the water. Maman takes a photo of me photographing her and goes away. I lie down

in the water, now only my head is dry. She comes back, takes off her blouse and her scarf, puts a bandanna on with her swim glasses and jumps into the sea. After some minutes Yasaman and my brother Hossein join us and even my father comes to the beach to step into the water. It has been a long time since we have done something like this together.

19.04.2019 /at Hossein's house in Hannover before leaving We are in Vlora, Albania, on our long roadtrip to Iran. My familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s home is in Germany and my grandparents live in Iran, where we all are from. I was seven years old when we relocated our home to a new country, and since then its meaning has changed for me from a geographical space and a monocultural identity to feelings, people and memories I have beyond the borders I cross. For my family it is common to travel and explore. The first stories we heard about people driving to Iran fascinated my brother and he got this dream of travelling the world by car. So in 2016, Hossein drove to Iran in his small Peugeot 206 where he also met his wife. Recently he bought a van and planned

the trip again with his wife, my parents and me. For a few days I will be part of my familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s daily life again. During all our previous trips, we avoided the seasides. We never felt comfortable with the look people gave my mother with her Hijab on the beach. Germans speak about the freedom of choice and equality and people are even allowed to bathe naked. But a woman who wears a Burkini is out of place and canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enjoy the beach peacefully. When I was 19 I decided to swim in rivers and seas to let go of beliefs that are not mine. For my family it was a big issue but I was tired of being sad about experiences that I have missed.

20.04.2019 Croatia

26.04.2019 Albania

27.04.2019, 00:34 Greece

Also my brother started to explore the seasides of Iran and Spain and found a pleasure which he wanted to share with us. Maybe seeing my sister in law swimming in a Burkini encouraged my mother to be more self-confident and with our support, the sea was not anymore a taboo-destination. So we spent a week on the road by the coast of Croatia, Montenegro, Albania and Greece till we reached Istanbul.

I return to my parent’s house a week before we start the trip. It feels like I haven’t been away: everybody lives the same rhythm as when I left. My parents still drink coffee every evening, the garden is green and the neighbours haven’t changed - I wonder if anybody even noticed I was gone. Was everything just a dream? There are small moments where I get revelation that my memories really happened: My mother’s long hug, the lost connection to my hometown and the clothes in my

wardrobe I used to wear. Inside the lowest drawer in my room I find my old journals. One note from first grade asks my mother when we will visit Mamani, my grand mother. Another one shows longing for my father who came to Germany 6 months earlier than us. In the next diary I wrote about the road trip through Germany in 2007. I was eleven years old at that time and wondered when we will ever travel as a family again.

On Friday we leave Hannover and arrive in Zagreb at 5am the next day. The plan was to directly drive to Srima, but we underestimated the distance of 1500 km . The next morning Hossein tells us that we lost the registration document of the van. He and I walk down the street to find the document, but in vain. We decide to use a copy instead of quitting the whole trip. In the evening we visit Sibenik. Hossein and Maman have an argument about the journeyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

27.04.2019 Greece plan and I interfere with a harsh farsi phrase the meaning of which I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know. This breaks her heart. Her eyes get red and she doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want me to talk to her. We reach the church in the old town and hear spiritual singing for easter. As if the music would take the frustration and anger out of us all, the tensions disappear. The next two days we visit the Krka Nationalpark and head to Dubrovnik. Almost each night we sleep in a new city and try to feel comfortable in rooms that are not ours. Three years ago I moved to Tehran for a year and since then, my home has been a place that changes every half a year. I feel guilty for leaving my family alone with their problems. But when will I become independent if I always stay? Nevertheless it hurts me to see their vulnerability and weakness.

The next stops are Budva in Montenegro and Vlora in Albania, two countries whose beauty I underestimated before. We are supposed to see the town Saranda before leaving Albania, but we leave it out to reach Thessaloniki before midnight. The room we booked happens to be a fake offer, so we have to find a new place to sleep. Today is Saturday and we have about 600 km to drive to reach Istanbul. We eat lunch in Kavala a city I visited two years ago and head to the border. It is dark and there are many transporters waiting at the greek-turkish border. For me it is not common to cross a border with barbed wire fences and strict controls. Living in Germany and travelling through Europe feels as if this continent has no fenced borders. But it has, just a bit far away from Germany at its outlines.

In my adolescence, I felt shame for the way we were in the cold german environment: loud, different and uprooted. My parents believed in their iranian values and their culture was all they had left from their beloved home. When people migrate to new places, there are many things they don’t know, which I couldn’t relate to. I compared them to german parents who had no accent while talking to teachers or who let their children party. I didn’t like to be different. But as a grown up woman I have a lot of gratitude for the person they helped me to become. They travelled with me and my brother through Europe, China and even to the USA,

24.04.2019 / dinner in Montenegro

although we were never rich. While my classmates spent two weeks at the baltic sea every year, we saw so many different places and cultures. I just so much wanted my family to be accepted look upon as ordinary german citizens, because that is what they are. Soon I will leave my family and go my own way. „It is like you’ve been away for so long.“ Says my mother in Albania. For sure I will miss her too, but I am looking forward to sleeping in my rented bed in a dorm that I have known for three months and call home. Although I feel like leaving a part of my heart in the van.

a dual existence by: Michelle Hanks

Every person’s identity is shaped by their environment. However, identity, specifically a feeling of belonging, can be hard to define if the individual comes from two cultures.

Six individuals share their thoughts and struggles when it comes to figuring out their identity as a Vietnamese German. While all six share similar feelings, each have internalized their struggle through different aspects of their life. Some like Thu Huong, has come to terms with their dual identity while others, like Hannu Mahalo, feels disconnected from their Vietnamese roots. Vietnamese people are the largest Southeast Asian group in Germany. An estimated 168,000 live in the country as of 2017, and over 17,000 live in Berlin. The majority of Vietnamese people migrated to Germany in the late 1970’s and 1980’s.

Several decades have passed and many of the first generation Vietnamese people have had children who, unlike their parents,have been exposed to German culture and society at an earlier age. As a result, several second generation Vietnamese have questioned their identity as someone who’s part of two cultures.

My Duyen Nguyen

My Duyen Nguyen was born in Vietnam then moved to a city in northern Germany at the age of three with her mother. Her father originally migrated to Germany as a contract worker for the GDR. Her parents were adamant to preserve their Vietnamese culture and it felt like she was forced to embrace it as well. As someone who grew up in a predominately white town, it made her feel out of place. Since her move to Berlin to study law, My Duyen has learned to appreciate

and accept her Vietnamese culture. However she still struggles with the way she thinks others perceive her. As someone who sees herself as outspoken with strong opinions, she always wonders if strangers assume she fits the female Vietnamese stereotype as quiet and submissive. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m struggling the most in situations, when I feel like I have to prove or my identity to others,â&#x20AC;? she wrote.

Quyny Ng remembers spending a lot of her childhood pushing away her Vietnamese culture. She wanted to speak German more than Vietnamese with her friends. When her parents talked to her in Vietnamese, she would respond back in German. She also had opportunities to learn more about her culture, but at the time she was interested in things other than her heritage. It has been 10 years since Quyny last visited Vietnam. A goal of hers is to go back on her own. As she’s gotten

older, Quyny has begun to worry about how much of her culture she can pass down to her future children. It’s a fear of hers that her future children would be more removed from their Vietnamese roots than she is. “I feel fortunate to live in Europe and I am proud of my Vietnamese heritage,” she wrote. “I’m just afraid to not be able to pass it on to my children decently but I guess future me will take care of that.”

Quyny Ng

Hannu Mahalo Hannu Mahalo’s parents came as boat people seeking refuge from the Vietnam War. But by the time Hannu was born, his parents were speaking a mix of German and Vietnamese with him and his three older siblings. As a result, he had a weak connection to his culture and his language. Today, Hannu identifies more as German than Vietnamese. He has taken classes to improve his Vietnamese, but he can only communicate at a basic

“I’m well aware of the fact that I think, act and speak like a German and I feel that so much more when I do talk to Asian - not just Vietnamese - people.”

level. It can be a challenge for him when it comes to speaking in more abstract terms. For example, when he was taking martial arts classes from a Vietnamese master, he and his master would need to communicate in German. Hannu is still appreciative of the life his parents gave him in Germany, but it does sadden him that he feels disconnected from his Vietnamese roots.

In her flat, Thu Huong has photos taped in her room of her with her parents in Vietnam and polaroids of her with her university friends. Unlike many other young Vietnamese-Germans, Thu spent the first 11 years of her life in Hanoi, Vietnam before moving to Germany. The transition was difficult for her, especially when it came to learning German and English. Today, Thu lives in Berlin studying medicine. Thu has returned to visit Vietnam on

Thu Huong

several occasions. Her most recent trip revealed to her how connected she still is to the Vietnamese culture, yet at the same time she still feels just as connected to Germany, specifically Berlin. As a result, she cannot put a strict percentage of how Vietnamese and how German she is. “But before moving to Berlin, I haven’t given a lot of thoughts on the whole identity topic,” she wrote. “Berlin made me rethink everything.”

Hoang Tran Hieu Hanh

Hoang Tran Hieu Hanh spent her childhood and teenage years in a small town near Hanover. She remembers feeling disconnected from both German and Vietnamese culture. “The more I let German-Vietnamese people tell me that I was not German-Vietnamese enough, I gradually started to believe it,” she wrote. After finishing high school, Hany left Germany to study abroad in several countries around the world. In 2016, Hoang Tran relocated to Southeast Asia for a year; she felt the most at home when living in Malaysia.

After spending several years of living abroad and recently doing theatre again, Hoang Tran has come to realize that she is able to explore her identity beyond her Vietnamese-German upbringing. “I was eager to explore and formulate a new sense of myself and find strategies to overcome the effects of internalised oppression which varied greatly from my ethnic and cultural contexts I originated from,” she wrote.

Thao Nguyen Thao Nguyen is the daughter of a former contract worker of the German Democratic Republic. As Thao has gotten older, she has become more curious about her mother’s past in Vietnam and in Germany. However, her mother is very private about those topics and rarely talks about them with Thao. She believes her mother doesn’t want to open up about her past due to how traumatizing it was for her. It has been 24 years since her mother visited Vietnam.

Thao feels like she will lose a main tie to her Vietnamese roots if she cannot find out more about her mother’s past. “This is all I got from my Vietnamese culture,” she said. When Thao moved to Berlin she joined a political activist group geared toward Asian Germans. This group is where she met other Vietnamese individuals who she sees as an extended family and who have helped her feel more connected to her Vietnamese identity.

“I realized how much living in Germany affected me. People in Vietnam didn’t really recognize me as one of them. It was the way I talked, the way I looked, the way I behaved.”

A race against time by Guillaume Derclaye

The traps are circular to prevent the boars from injuring themselves too much. Didier does not want them to suffer.

The sun has set, the darkness has risen. It is about a quarter to nine and Didier gets up from the table. He could not have dessert with his family and the friends they invited to dinner that evening. He puts on his khaki shirt, adjusts the collar, checks that his night vision scope is well-charged, warns that he will not come home until two in the morning and then goes to get his rifle, holding a piece of cake in his hand. Twice a week, he travels the roads alongside two other hunters. A driver and two shooters. Didier often sits next to the driver, because he is the one who knows the terrain best.

At the end of April, the fight against the African swine fever continues in Belgium and no one knows when it will stop. Shootings are organized, traps are built every day and people are busy creating a crawl space around the core area. Didier has been working for 30 years as a forest ranger, the woods have been his playground since then. Two weeks ago, he decided to help other governmental agents building traps. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just sit there and do nothing. In Belgium, African swine fever is taking its toll. 4000 breeding pigs had to

Motion detector cameras are installed near the traps to see if the boars have come.

be slaughtered, more than 2400 wild boars were killed or found dead. The first boar who died of swine fever was found on September 11, 2018. Since then, 2413 wild boars have been analyzed. They were either killed or found dead in the woods and 765 were tested positive for the virus, a bit more than 30% of the total. Hundreds of people have been suffering the consequences of this virus, harmless for humans, while others have been fighting against its spread. Didier is one of them.

The woods in which Didier usually works are not in the buffer zone, but in the vigilance zone. No positive boars were found there. The area is protected from the virus by the highway, which slows down and even prevents the passage of wild boars. He fears that the disease will cross the highway. If that was the case, it would be a disaster. It’s around 9.00 am in the middle of the forest near Herbeumont, a small village in Gaume. Didier goes get the equipment needed for the traps and then goes implement them in the right places. Jean and Pierre-François will accompany him for the next few days. They will always follow him in their little white van, until they no longer pass along the paths Didier takes with his jeep full of mud.

Didier’s phone is ringing all the time. He often leaves it in his pickup but then reality takes over.

In his pickup full of dust, Didier’s rifle lies down in the back seat. He didn’t have time to take it back home this morning after going around the four traps he’s dealing with, so he left it there. He used it a few hours ago to shoot down a piglet. He had to kill the first three with a knife but could not do it for the last one. When he speaks about it, you can see a certain revulsion in his eyes and feel the pain in his voice. Taking all these lives away does not make him happy. While driving on the damaged forest road, a Browning cap stuck on his

head, Didier confides that “for the past 8 months, we have been disturbing the animals. That’s why I’m here, so we can leave them alone. In a few weeks, deer and goats will start giving birth…”. Beats, even without dogs, and shootings stress forest dwellers and he wants to put it to an end. At a crossroads, in the middle of the woods, Marc is waiting for him. He’s a hunting manager, he will tell us where to build the next trap. He knows the woods he manages, where the wild boars go and where the wind come

from, it will be helpful. Didier follows him down in the forest and when the two 4x4s arrive where he wants the trap to be built, three deer flee to the heart of the forest. Didier sees them directly; his eyes are trained to see what people usually donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even notice. Like a few hours before where he probably saw a boar on the edge of the forest, slowed down the car and went back on the road. With Jean and Pierre-FranĂ§ois, the construction of a trap takes about two hours. The difference between

Didier and the two younger ones can be seen. He is 50 years old but seems to be made of different wood, harder, more robust. He does not blink driving the piles into the ground, while the youngers need a break, seem to suffer from this physical work. He is a hard-worker and likes a job well done. At noon, they all take a well-deserved break. Everyone goes to get their bag in their car, few words are exchanged while the bread boxes are emptying. They all have their daily routine: Jean has a different cheese every day while Didier has his yoghurts for dessert.

Corn is spread before a trap is built, wild boars love it.

Every time they go out at night, Didier and his friends can travel up to 80 kilometers on bumpy roads along the meadows or in the woods, always at a reduced speed. The boar is not an easy animal to see, let alone to shoot, so the hunters are well-equipped. Everyone has a super-powerful spotlight to illuminate the edge of the forest. Lucky for them, the moon is very bright and high in the sky tonight. If a boar is seen, the lights are cut off, the shot is prepared, and only then is the bullet fired. No one wants a mistake to be made. Night shots are less effective than traps but have still killed more than fifty animals

since they started. Tomorrow, Didier will be on holiday. All year-round, he lives at the rhythm of the forest, but sometimes he needs to get away from it, to take a break at the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge. This time, it will be Venice, city of water. The night has been short, and he should be off work but he will get up at 6:30 am and go around the four traps he is watching. His son will accompany him. He is currently studying silviculture, following his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s path. While he will be away, others will continue the work with a vain hope of eradicating all the boars in the zone.

Brynhildr The Vi-Queen â&#x20AC;&#x153;Every day I feel different, someday I am more woman and other days I am more man. And for the outer appearance I make a choice every dayâ&#x20AC;? by Deepti Asthana

Rasmus couldn’t sleep that night. He was restless, pacing the room while his mother sat on his bed, watching him anxiously. It was late but he needed to talk to her. His mother was worried about his behaviour and had even taken him to see a child physiatrist. However, he couldn’t make himself voice the huge secret that had been eating him up. Rasmus had given himself a deadline, so just before his 16th birthday at the midnight; he held his mother’s hand to find some courage. After a few deep breaths, he uttered the words “Ma, I am gay”. Ramus’s mother embraced him and said: “I knew you were different from other kids and now I know why”.

Rasmus Frederiksmose is a 23-yearold gay man but identifies as an androgynous. Being a drag queen helps Rasmus to expand her creativity; whether it’s through music, creating costumes or styling wigs. And in every bit of her persona, it is apparent that she wants to make a loud statement about her masculine femininity. Big yellow beard, sparkling sequenced jacket, thick mascara and ripped jeans is an everyday look for Rasmus.

“Drag for me isn’t only about only stage performances. I don’t go in and out of the character. I am always Brynhildr the Viqueen, who loves to dance, sing and live life to the fullest.” Ramus’s father had a pig farm in Lolland, an island in southern Denmark and her mother works as a nurse. Rasmus had a near perfect childhood growing up in the farm; until he started to fight his own feelings. In adolescence when his friends were living life to the fullest, Rasmus struggled with feelings of shame and denial about his sexuality. Forcing himself to act like a straight boy, he closed himself off from other people. At the age of 15, Rasmus discovered the world

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I dont like traditional drag queen makeup, the big eye lashes, curly wigs and pout. But sometines I go crazy with the makeup, like a child who is just starting to paintâ&#x20AC;?.

Rasmus has approximately 20 hand stiched dresses. Most of the dresses in women section do not fit her well.

of online dating. Seeking validation, Rasmus decided to give it a try. He took money from his dad’s wallet and caught a train to another city to meet an older man. In retrospect, she realized that it was an act of desperation that she regrets deeply. In 2015, Rasmus moved to Copenhagen in order to make a living but also to seek acceptance. Rasmus shares her apartment with Emma Louise Mckay, who is a straight woman. Memories of Rasmus’s childhood are kept in every corner of her room - crystals, stones, a guitar, a piano, an artificial human skull, a wooden chest. But the rest of the room is filled with mannequin heads wearing painted wigs, colourful dresses hanging orderly, sequenced jackets, all indicating her current life. “I am a hoarder, I am interested in different things from music, painting, singing, acting. Thankfully, I didn’t end up being an engineer. What a disaster it would have been” says Rasmus. Rasmus started onto the Copenhagen drag scene with her drag persona, Brynhildr the Viqueen. Her first drag performance in 2017 was during Copenhagen Pride for an audience of approx. 30,000-40,000. It was a great start for her. She struggles to make enough money with her drag performances to support herself. She has been working

in a nursing home to make extra money and support her passion for being a drag queen. Rasmus’s performances are often political and controversial. She also uses her platform to spread awareness about depression and mental illness.

“it isn’t about jumping, dancing and splitting. I have a voice of my own. I am not only a pretty woman; I have an opinion too”. There are approximately 20-25 drag queens in Copenhagen and a few in Aarhus and Odense, the other two larger cities in Denmark. Being a small community, they all know each other quite well. The queer community in Copenhagen is a safe haven for Rasmus. They are like one close-knitted family, although like all families they have their differences and disagreements as well. Drag Queens are frequently competing against each other for gigs or accolades. The competitiveness among freinds affects her deeply. Recently, Rasmus wasn’t selected for a renowned drag competition to be held in Copenhagen which pushed her to feel low and depressed. “We’re all starving and there’s only one piece of meat on the table. We have

Rasmus with his friend Steffen aka Kopa, a 21 year old gay boy who likes to dress as a puppy. In this costume everyday was looking at them, but Rasmus and Steffen donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care.

Regany is going through a hard time, as gay people in Lithuania face legal and social challenges.

In her low days, Rasmus doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get out from the bed or cook for multiple days.

to scratch and claw and fight to get to that piece of meat. Sometimes you get lucky and sometimes you don’t. And those who don’t starve that night”. Rasmus’s appearance often makes people a bit uncomfortable and she has been the victim of hate crimes. These hateful homophobic incidents have happened in Copenhagen and during her travels; on a trip to Dublin a few years ago she had her nose broken which caused permanent damage and another time she had a leg fractured during an assault and was bedridden for a month. These incidents affected her deeply and her mental health plummeted as a result. She felt rejected by society and everyone around her. To find solace she turned to drugs and alcohol to escape the world of hatred. “I was dressing up as drag queen almost every day just to hide my sadness in all the glitters and sparkle. But behind all those colours there was a person who was crying every day to escape these feelings. Feeling of loss, feeling of uncertainties, feeling of not being, feeling of not able to find a home anywhere and in anyone”. Rasmus suffers from depression and is currently being treated for it. But most of the time she pushes herself to do drag even in her low moments.

“Depression is like a devil. It feels like someone or something has entered my life uninvited and have sucked every ounce of happiness. It’s cold and it’s grey, everything seems meaningless. The whole purpose of your existence seems pretty much meaningless.” Like all the youngsters, if there is one thing that Rasmus desires most it is acceptance from society. Often rejected by society, queer people find a home in each other and build relationships of various kinds to keep each other safe. The more experiences drag queens take younger drags under their wing and teaches them the art of drag, that includes make-up, wigs, tucking, lip-sync. The experienced drag queen is then referred to as that person’s drag mother; most drag queens have this sort of mentorship with another drag queen. Though Rasmus is a self-taught drag queen but has taken two budding drags into her care. Regany is a 21-year-old gay boy from Lithuania and Rebecca is a 21-year-old lesbian girl from Copenhagen. While Rasmus has been in a lot of troubles herself, she often advices her daughter and son in their tough times. The relationship of drag mother and son or daughter is rather more of a symbolic term originated from the fact

that when families turn their backs on queer children who them creates families for themselves within the queer community. As a drag queen, if you are performing on a public platform, you are seen as a representative for the drag community. Rasmus feels that responsibility and hopes to make good use of the opportunities afforded to her. She wants to remain available in-person as well as on social media for other people who want to reach out to her. “It is a huge relief to know that we are not alone in this; there are more like us in the world who enjoys glitter, colours and high heels even if they are born as a man. And if more people get to know about the drag, hopefully, it will be normalised one day”. With that intention she hopes one day, it will be safe to walk on the streets for people like her. Rasmus wears very manly clothes for her work place, the nursing home. She swallows her antidepressants with a cup of coffee and says “I don’t want to show people how perfect my life is; it is full of imperfection. But it is my life. A Life full of glitters and colours”.

Rasmus and Emma visit their new apartment. Soon, this will be their new home, and they canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wait to begin this new chapter.

SILENT KILLER Mold is a catastrophe that grows quietly over time. People believe mold makes them sick, and some move from place to place to escape their symptoms. Mari Vesala, Marita Vaan and Mika Tolonen have all lost their homes and health to mold. by Saara Tuominen

Mari Vesala is packing up her belongings. Two pairs of winter boots, a yellow coat, tulip-printed rain coat and towels lay in a small pile on the porch. Blue and white sheets are hanging on a rope, drying in the low Spring sun. Mari stuffs her clothes in two layers of plastic bags and throws them in a caravan parked outside the front door. She is afraid to bring her clothes in a new space and is trying to protect them. Bags land with a rustle on an aluminum spread, taped to cover the whole caravan floor. Her bed is covered with aluminum as well, and so is her tiny kitchen table. Packing up is routine for Mari. She has moved more than 120 times in the last three years. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spent a week here, a few days there. Since she got sick

Mari saved three things from her old house. She has to keep them wrapped in tinfoil, inside a Minigrip bag, inside a plastic box stuffed into two layers of plastic bags.

she has lived in tents, friendsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; sauna buildings and childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s play cabins. Now this caravan will become her next home, where she hopes to stay for a long time. Finland is growing mold, sometimes referred to as the silent killer. Schools are shutting down, prisoners are moved around. A report made for the Finnish Parliament in 2012 states that as much as 18 percent of schools are severely damaged by mold and moisture. The Mold Refugees Association estimates that almost a fifth of the Finnish population is subject to dangerous inside air. Some believe that they are getting severe health risks from it. Help is not easy to get. A majority of doctors do not see prolonged mold sickness as a disease.

Research has not been able to find a physiological mechanism that would explain a connection between the symptoms and mold. There is no practice to clinically test the sickness and there is no official diagnosis either. A lot of patients still firmly believe that mold is causing their sickness, and they feel that they are not heard by doctors. Most medical professionals state that a reaction to a particular space can be caused by a number of things other than breathing in mold or chemicals, for example a bad ventilation system. The Finnish Institute of Occupational Health states that prolonged mold symptoms are caused by conditioning. Patients would be able to heal if they could convince themselves that their environment is not trying to harm them. Patients themselves disagree strongly. They say that they have suffered from mysterious symptoms long before they found out about being exposed to mold. The only treatment that seems to be effective is getting sick people to non-toxic spaces to recover. Mari suffers from a range of symptoms every day.

”People say that I choose to be afraid of living, but I have not chosen this for myself”, Mari says. ”I would saw my own legs off if it would improve my situation.” Two years ago Marita Vaan had found a dream home. From the old side of her home village, a wooden house on a quiet street with red panels and a tiled roof. The insides had just been renovated with a shiny new kitchen and white walls. Then her three children started to get sick: nose bleeds, headaches, infections, rashes, ear infections and high fevers were every day life. One day Marita’s daughter hung a gallery of her watercolor paintings on their living room wall. Marita was admiring her work when she noticed water running down the wall from the ceiling. Her landlords ordered an inspection. A mold dog marked every single room of their house. In two weeks they had moved out. For a single mom the financial stretch was immense. In the case of mold, home insurance does not cover anything. ”When we left our home we drove to a general store and bought two air mattresses to sleep on.”

Most of their belongings are still in the house. Marita has spent thousands of euros to replace their furniture and hundreds of hours cleaning the house and washing textiles in an effort to save them. Marita still does not know what really grows inside those walls. ”I wanted to offer this house for my children as a place to have a childhood and grow up”, Marita says. ”But instead they had to give up their health and belongings.”

Marita is afraid she will not be able to clean the mold from her family’s old baptism dress from the 1940’s.

64 In 2017 Mika Tolonen was having the time of his life. He and his spouse had just moved into an old wooden house built after the Second World War. They had two dogs, a big yard and a baby on the way. But then Mika started to have weird thoughts. The happiness for the coming birth of his son, his love for the mother of his child, it was all gone. He wondered if his own mother really was his real mother. But when he left the house his head cleared again. Mika was sick all the time, his vision was blurry and his head felt foggy. He was prescribed allergy medicines. Then their bathroom wallpapers shredded away and revealed mold growing behind them. Mika felt like he got an explanation for his state. He and her spouse found a new flat in another town, but Mika’s symptoms continued. He could not sleep. Lying awake at night with his almost due spouse he was overwhelmed with worry. If he would fall asleep now, would he still wake up the next morning? The situtation felt hopeless. Mika was now reacting to everything around him. He could feel electric devices. His spouse’s breath on his skin felt like she was spraying solvent on him.

Then mold grew through the corner of their new apartment’s bathroom. The wall between their bathroom and living room was infested. They had to move out yet again. Last summer Mika rented a cabin in the woods and moved there. He could finally breath. He was sweating like he had just come out of a swimming pool. After nine months he was able to move back to a small town of Lapua. He is able to function, but is still sensitive to chemicals and mold. ”I even bathe in spring water”, he says with a bit of a laugh now. But the love he has for his family is back. He spreads his arms out and calls for his son, who giggles and runs to him. He and his spouse try to decide on what kind of hedge they want to grow on their backyard. Pineapples or avocados. Or maybe grape plants would be appropriate, as they also grow back even after a harsh winter. No one knows for sure where this sickness will lead to. Mari suspects that it is too late for her to ever fully recover, but Mika is hopeful. Maybe Marita’s kids will survive with a scare. But the trauma of losing a home overnight is one that might follow them all to the end.

Mika took barely anything with him to the cabin. He slept on a matress on the floor.

No Strangers Land To Vedad sense of who we are and where we belong is an evolving process, influenced by many psychological and social factors. He used to be a complete stranger in the place where he lives, but it eventually evolved into a natural habitat. by Haris BegiÄ&#x2021;

Vedad was born in Bosnia and Herzegovina just before the war, in October 1991. His story abroad started when he moved to Germany in 2008. He was so confused that he entered the full-service laundry thinking he entered a shopping mall. He took some cheap T-shirts and jeans and as soon as he wanted to pay he got warned by the employees that they would call the police. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know why.

Vedad is a photographer. He graduated two years go by making a project about borders on the teritorry of Ex - Yugoslavia, which did not exist 30 years ago

Vedad comes from Sarajevo, BosniaHerzegovina. He as well as many other young people had to flee Bosnia and Herzegovina in a search for education and better life. First of all, unlike organized and developed countries, where youth are treated as countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most valuable development resource worth investing in, over 100,000 young people have left Bosnia in the post-war period and is one of many examples of disrespect toward youth in Bosnia and Herzegovina. His trip as far from homeland started 2008 when he moved to Bielefeld, Germany. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s where he fulfilled his desire to start a Documentary photography program at the local art academy. All of a sudden he finds himself in a state where all the connections he has had with his environment are basically waiting to vanish and be forgotten. He became a stranger, also to himself.

Josip Broz Tito was the Prime minister of former Yugoslavia. He’s still celebrated as a symbol of unity amongst people from Balkans

“The worst thing when I came here was that I didn’t have any friends and I didn’t know the language. I felt very lonely and I missed my friends back in Bosnia.”

As Vedadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s future as part of the German culture was very uncertain, nowadays there are many that are still uncertain whether if they will find their place within the German society or not

72 He says that language is both an important identity marker and a central factor for interpreting cultural identity. It proved to be far more than just a means of verbal communication and social interaction. All the young people are authentic polyglots, speaking, writing and thinking in three different languages - English, German and Bosnian - in their daily lives. Their memories are also inscribed in three languages, each belonging to a cultural cluster of time and events. The different languages, however, play a different role and are used selectively depending on the audience, situation and theme.

Despite the total lack of any chance of putting down roots, many Bosnians were well integrated in German society by the end of their stay. Many refugees had relatives or friends who vouched for them, who took them into their homes, even found them jobs. Their children went to school, and in most cases quickly learned German. While most old Bosnians remained stuck in their identity as ‘displaced Bosnians’, refugees and war survivors, the younger generation was able to adapt to the new environment more easily. Furthermore, they managed to become an active part of the culture and language of the countries they escaped to, rather than remain mere

outsiders like their parents’ generation. A group of young Bosnians spoke to me about how they saw themselves in relation to Germany. Everyone was born in Bosnia, has spent years in Germany. Research and talks revealed that there is a direct link between the refugee experience and the sense of belonging, which fits into the category of cultural hybridity. Contrary to the traditional exclusive forms of group identity - based on one culture, language, ethnicity, territory or nationality – the Bosnians from Germany have crossed both imagined and real boundaries of identity and exclusiveness, and have integrated different cultural domains into their identity and everyone eventually will.

Many have found Germany as a good place to stay but many are also struggling to intergrate

It’s not a problem that he ever felt displaced, and he didn’t believe that he would ever feel happy in this country. Because now he feels much better. He’s got a lot of very good friends there. They are from all sorts of backgrounds; Anglo, Greeks, Italians, Chinese, Bosnians, Lebanese, Croats, Sudanese... And he also tries to keep in touch with his friends from Gymnasium and his former neighborhood.

“Displacement is something that puts everybody into a pretty weird state of mind and the so- called zero-gravity zone, or in many cases, into black hole. But as the EU is based on a single community with many verities of people and the open borders brought all of them to coexist, that is a ‘NO STRANGER LAND’. Back in 2008. or 2009. I remember once I was asked to speak up so people can see who I am. But I strongly believe it would never happen nowadays.” - Vedad

Moving a town Photos and words: Ellie Cherryhomes

by Ellie Cherryhomes Every night just after midnight a deep rumble is released from the belly of the earth. It travels 2 kilometers upwards until it shakes the foundation of the town it gave life to. The first time Anika Nilsson noticed its physical manifestation was when she found cracks spidering across the sidewalk while walking her dog after a day of work in the mine. Soon enough, a fence plastered with an LKAB logo read that it was no longer safe to walk on. Within weeks, the path was consumed.

The Swedish town of Kiruna is 144 KM north of the Arctic Circle and is home to two sizeable populations: the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s largest underground iron ore mine and about 20,000 people. Bright century old wooden houses sit on top of the tunnels in which many of the residents find their employment. The iron they extract is shipped around the world and molded into steel to form skyscrapers, cars and kitchen appliances. But, the town is being undermined. A deepening hole moves towards the city. It is sinking.

In 2004, the Swedish owned mining company Luossavaara-Kiirunavaara Aktiebolag (LKAB) and the Swedish government had to devise a plan. They produced a bold solution: They will continue mining in the direction of the old town. They also would build a new Kiruna 3 km away. Historically and culturally significant buildings will be relocated. The rest will be demolished. Anika can still see the outline of what used to be her old neighborhood. Her home of three decades was sorted into piles of concrete, wood, and electrical wires. It was combined with her 200 former neighbors.

Anika Nilsson worked as a scientist for LKAB for over two decades. She also served as a politician to cordinate the move.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Of course I would have liked to stay and go on living here, but I know that the mine and the city are connected to each other,â&#x20AC;? says Anika as she stares at the smoke funneling from the mine.

The site of her old house will soon be a green space for the residents. The park will be a place for gathering under the northern lights in the winter and for cozy campfires in the summer. But for many, the park will also be a recarved map and a ghostly memory of a life they once lived. Originally, Maria Hedhult’s house was not within the area of marked houses to be moved. But, when LKAB announced that her apartment complex of 152 homes would be torn down, she and her neighbors hosted meetings to figure out how to navigate the selling process. Only three of her neighbors refused to sell their home to LKAB.

Natali’s rashes from the dust.

The payout for a home like Maria’s can be life-changing: transforming the collective of residents into millionaires overnight. Maria and her husband, an electrician who works for LKAB, plan on moving to an older home to avoid going into debt with the more upscale housing alternative in the new Kiruna. In a normal move, it’s likely that one would find solace in leaving aspects of their old home behind. But for Maria, her heart catches on the aspects of her apartment that her family handcrafted. They enjoy an enclosed heated deck overlooking the mountains that Kiruna is named for. Tender meat hunted by

her husband dries hanging in the window. Her son’s childish art nearly two decades old frames the walls amidst the modern furniture. She recently renovated her bathroom with steampunk inspiration. She will have to leave it all behind. Maria’s new toilet and sink are some of the things she especially adores and desires to bring with her. After they sell, champagne will be shared as the neighbors soak in their final moments together. When the fateful day comes and their apartment walls are shown naked to the world, Maria will watch the demolition. She’ll post a video of it to the citizens of Kiruna Facebook page. The last breaths of her neighborhood will then exist in the archives of the internet and the collective memory of the citizens. Säde Harju is in the early stages of moving to new Kiruna. Her granddaughter Natali helps her search for a new apartment online. Scanning the new buildings, she keeps in mind the various needs of her aging Mummi. “What if she develops Alzheimer’s? Then you can’t move her. She would wake up every day like where am I? This is not my apartment. We would say ‘You moved here. They tore down your old apartment. How is she going to believe that?” says Natali.

The iron ore has been mined for over 100 years.

When the apartments are knocked down Maria says she stares at the collage of exposed wallpapers.

LKAB worker Jarno Dahlqvist says his daughter has a difficult time grasping the move.

The thought of moving falls away to the rhythm of everyday life for many locals and sometimes becomes merely background noise.

No one expects to have to mentally and physically deal with the parting of a loved one twice. Yet, it’s a process that hundreds in the Northern Lapland have no choice over now. Once relocated, the family won’t be able to lay a candle at the tree her grandfather’s ashes now nourish. You can’t move ashes that have settled into the earth. Most of the decisions affecting the citizens are being made from the cylindrical and shiny new town hall. It was one of the first buildings built in the new center “The hospital and apartments is the smartest thing to build first. But no, we have a new city hall,” says Natali. Many citizens have to drive over an hour away to seek medical treatment

Natali Harju was raised in Kiruna.

Natali’s grandpa’s ashes were spread 10 years ago without much thought of the city moving. He was released outside Kiruna church, one of the town’s prize historical possessions and set to be relocated to the new town. Her grandmother bribed the janitor of the crematorium to learn at which tree the ashes were spread.

for processes beyond the scope of the local medical center. “We are breathing in mine dust every day,” says Natali. It kicks into the air when a car passes. Black ash finds its way into the inner lining of homes when a door is left open. Natali’s eyes sting and itch. Her arms ring red with psoriasis. She went to multiple doctors in high school for a diagnosis when rash like circle markings covered her body. No one would explicitly say it was the mine. These symptoms disappear every time she leaves Kiruna.

Natali has therefore decided to move from Kiruna all together. She wants to live in an area that her body doesn’t react to and with a future beyond mining. She plans on walking around the town that shaped her one last time. Nostalgically, she’ll linger in her childhood parks and forests. She’ll let the old memories that can only be sparked through the senses flood in. “There will be nothing. It won’t even be legal to walk here because it’s not safe,” says Natali. “The only thing that will last is the mine.” As the city inches away from the mine, the future of new Kiruna still rests on the backbone of the mining that built it. Many citizens are willing to relocate in order to preserve their newly fragmented community and way of life. In the new city, sleeping through the night without feeling the mine explosions might be an option. But LKAB is finding that underneath the new city is a rich supply of iron ore.

Anikaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s demolished neighborhood.

Lingering in the dust is the ever-present question: Will this cluster of minerals eventually force the new Kiruna to move again years down the road?

HOME (away) FROM HOME For old people who can no longer stay in their house, nursing homes provide a good alternative where care and assistance are offered by professionals. But it doesn’t always cover the emotional needs they face on a daily basis. When you’re forced to move out from your house, how do you manage to feel home again?

by Aurélie Demesse

sold the house and got a place for him About a year ago, Jacques moved at the nursing home. He didn’t keep in at Le Rossignol. Before he came much from his house: an armchair, to live here, Jacques fell over a few two old cabinets and a few sentimentimes: once in the street, once in his tal items. house. That’s why his daughter, who “It’s also a big change. When you have lives nearby, asked him to move to a house, you have too much space. this nursing home. It was a You wonder where you put way for her to put her mind things. But when you live “When we sold at peace and to be closer in only in one room, it’s more case of problems. Jacques it, something in difficult”, he explains. agreed to leave his house, me left with the but at first, it was rough.

house.”

“When we sold it, there’s something in me that left with the house...”, says Jacques, quietly. He built it together with his wife, back in 1958. For more than 60 years, he lived there, in Strombeek, in the North of Brussels. After his wife died about 12 years ago, he lived there, alone. With the help of his daughter, they

He wasn’t the one who picked what he would keep. It’s his daughter who took care of it. They kept everything that was good, and the rest was for the junkyard. “I valued this furniture. But they’re too old for the new generation, they go to Ikea! I said to my granddaughter, “This is oak”. But they don’t like it anyway....”, adds Jacques.

90 In his room, the light purple color of the walls gives to the whole room a quiet tone. There are several pictures of his children and grand-children on the walls, but the decoration is very light. Jacques spends most of his time in his room. Living with other people was one of the things he had to get used to: “The biggest problem for me was that I was used to living by myself for 12 years. I did everything by myself in the house: the food, the laundry, the garden… everything. I had a lot of work to do, I don’t have anything to do here”, explains Jacques.

The old radio in Jacques’ room is often broadcasting different shows. He loves listening about historical events.

91 Several types of nursing homes are available in Belgium, depending on the level of medical care seniors need.

Like Jacques, about 60 residents live at Le Rossignol. It is a nursing home in the countryside of Braine lâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Alleud, in Wallonia. Located in a dead-end street, the building is surrounded by fields and facing a small park. In the morning, you can even hear a rooster crow. There are only a few other houses nearby, the street is very quiet. The nursing home is a two-story building, quite modern, with a few parking spots in front of it for the staff and for visitors. Most of the residents are seniors who need care on a daily basis and can no longer live by themselves. In Belgium, there are about 130 000 seniors living in nursing homes or retirement houses. On the ground floor of Le Rossignol, there are the offices of the nurses and the director. It is also where the common areas are and where the activities

are organized during the afternoon. In the entrance hall, a cage with two red and yellow parakeets is greeting visitors. On the first floor, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a long hallway of rooms, each of them displaying a picture and the name of the person living inside. It is one way for the residents to actually feel home. According to a study made in the Netherlands about the sense of home of residents in nursing home, personal belongings and pieces of furniture can help them, just as much as the physical view, the social environment or the activities available to them. But the sense of home is a complicated phenomenon. This feeling is unique to everyone but moving parts of their own place with them seems to be a nice way to come to terms with that drastic change.

In the room at the very end of the first floor’s hallway lives Georges. He moved in the nursing home about 5 years ago. He just turned 92 last month. For every year he spent here, he received a birthday card from the staff of the nursing home: the nurses, but also the direction signed it. All of them are lined up on the top his dresser. He first moved in to follow his wife, who needed medical care because of her illness. But when she died, he stayed there. “My wife didn’t stay for a long time here. She was sick and she died. So… I stayed. But I miss her”, says Georges.

His room is filled with beautiful books and many pictures are hanging on the walls. When he was younger, Georges was a decorator. “I did everything myself. When my wife was still alive, we did it together. I didn’t change anything since”, says Georges. “I have my furniture, it’s like home. Good thing I have this”, he adds. In Belgium, nursing facilities provide basic furniture: a medical bed, a table and chair and a small personal fridge. But residents are often encouraged to bring personal belongings and furniture with them.

The retirement house organizes several activities to which residents can participate. Georges won several times the trophy.

It takes time to get used to living in a ized every day, but not everyone is as nursing home and not everyone manhealthy as he is: some of them sufages to do so. But Georges did. He fered from stroke or have dementia. created new habits and almost feels at Sometimes, he goes to Mass, which is home, now. held once a week. His daughter visits “I got used to it pretty quickly. But him each week as well, she’s the one there’s nothing to do, right? It’s not like taking care of him. home, though”, says Georges, before adding “It’s good All of that is still fairly new “We don’t forget here. It’s not the same, for Jacques. He still needs anything, we get I’d rather be in my home… to get used to it. used to it.” but I think it’s better for me “Sometimes, I still dream at here”. night that I’m in my house, then I realize that it’s not possible. I Since his wife died, it’s been hard for guess that it’s the years that do that. him to stay alone all the time. When The first weeks were… I don’t know, he’s in his room, he watches TV to get in the end, you get used to it”, says some news, but he mostly spends his Jacques, then quoting Jacques Brel, a time downstairs with the other resfamous Belgian singer: “We don’t foridents. Several activities are organget anything, we get used to it”.

Even if he misses his wife every day, Georgesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; life goes on. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s still healthy and tries to enjoy every moment.

Life Goes On

by Yehyun Kim

If Lily, 14, had a time machine, she would first go to an ice rink where her mom Alex was skating on her own. She would give Alex a big, tight hug and say, “I know exactly what’s going on.” Alex had lost her mom to breast cancer that morning. Going to an ice rink for the first time in her 15 years was her way to cope with her mom’s death. Her family in sorrow didn’t tell her everything would be okay. Her brother who first told about her mom’s death cried on her shoulder. Seeing people having a normal life on the ice rink, she was able to assure herself that life will still move on without her mom.

Lily felt the same uncertainty at the thought that her mom might die. Alex Pickles, 54, was diagnosed with stomach cancer last May. Her doctor said Alex has 12 to 18 months to live. Alex went straight to her teenage son and daughter’s school to share the news. After plenty of tears in her car, she suggested options they could choose if she died and explained what would happen. She wanted to make sure that her children felt comfortable even in the worst scenario. Her caring attitude towards her children expands to her animals, neighbors and volunteers frequently coming in and out of her small holding in rural west Wales. Alex starts her day asking if they had a good sleep and in the evening, she watches the sunset over the hills while tying down cages for the storm forecast for tomorrow. Making a home for herself and others has been her way to remain resilient in the face of divorce and cancer. The terminal cancer diagnosis felt unfair to Alex. It was right when she threw her old life away and headed off into a new life. Through horse therapy, also called natural horsemanship, she looked into her inner self and realized that she wasn’t happy with her marriage.

“It was almost as if I have been trapped inside a maze,” Alex says. She finally got separated from her husband two years ago. “Suddenly coming around the corner, there’s the door and there’s a big field and sky. It’s like, ‘Oh, I finally found the way out,’” Alex says. She started a horse therapy business with her friend, where she coaches the clients while they observe their own emotions and body language to communicate with horses. They learn different levels of therapeutic plays without using force by building rapport and a relationship with horses. Alex started to have more clients with the business. She was also going to college to get a degree in counseling to be more helpful when treating clients with mental health issues. Chemotherapy put a break on her new ambitions. She had four and a half chemotherapy cycles. Something suspicious on her spine in February led to radiotherapy.

“It’s really worthwhile just to remind me of the connection I had with my horse, my level of skill and what I can achieve.”

Alex reconnects with her horse Carla. She didn’t have energy or motivation to do so for a year due to her treatment.

100

About a year has passed after the initial terminal diagnosis. But Alex and her doctors doubt that she will die in a few months. To the doctors’ surprise, there was a 30 to 40 percent reduction in the stomach cancer after the second chemotherapy cycle. Recent CT scans showed that her stomach cancer is stable. Although she is still waiting for a result on the latest radiotherapy and feels easily tired, she’s slowly recovering from the treatments.

Each CT scan result decides her next emotion. Happiness and relief or anger and worry.

Feeling at home has played a big role in her cancer treatment. Not having a partner to accompany her on the journey hasn’t been a problem. Divorce rather helps her feel at home. She can have her room and other things at home in a way she prefers. She built fences around her house. Now she doesn’t need to worry about her animals eating her plants and flowers. There is more sense of calm at her house.

101

Alex had long hair her whole life. She had her hair cut and bought a wig prior to chemotherapy. Thankfully, a cold cap technology prevented her from losing her hair.

102

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not just about her own sense of feeling at home. It includes feelings of her animals and people at her house. Living in rural Wales for 18 years, animals have continued to expand and now she looks after a total of 24 animals, including chickens, horses, goats, sheep and a ferret. Volunteers from different countries come to her house and live in caravans she provides next to her house. They help with animals and house chores in exchange for free accommodation and food. Alex provides more than basic life necessities for her volunteers. She

asks how they are feeling multiple times, finds out what they like to do and takes them out for varied experiences. She even purchased electric blankets for their warm sleep. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Having people want to come around and feel comfortable in the space. I like that,â&#x20AC;? Alex says. She pays close attention to behaviors of her animals. A new horse staying out of the herd and another horse staying close to the new horse all are a hint about their relationships and well-being.

103

New plants start to grow as she slowly recovers from cancer.

Alex relaxes at least an hour every afternoon. “I didn’t before. I was always rushing to make sure everybody else was okay,” Alex says. Cancer made the change. “If you don’t practice self care, then you can’t help anybody else.”

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Not having a partner and direct family nearby could have made her chemotherapy much more difficult without her friends. It’s challenging to drive back home with an exhausted body after chemotherapy. Her close friends took turns in driving her to the hospital and her sister-in-law brought food to feed her family. Sharing her cancer experience with her close friends has made Alex stay more connected to them. However, she often hides that she has cancer from people not close to her. Cancer adds a disability or minority label to her.

“They treat you like, I’m going to break,” Alex says. Many stop telling her their problems because they think that theirs are nothing compared to hers. “It could just be that your car keeps breaking. That means you can’t get to work. It’s creating lots of stress for you. Well, for somebody, that’s a big problem in their life. It doesn’t make it less valuable than my problem,” Alex says. “I just want to be treated normally.”

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People feel uncomfortable or don’t know how to respond to her cancer news. She’s noticed some people pretending not to see her or walking on the other side of the street, presumably because it’s a difficult conversation to have. “We don’t want to think about death,” Alex says. “So, people don’t really want to talk about it. They don’t really want to be near people who are going to die, even though we’re all going to die.” The thought of death scares Lily. She can’t fall asleep without saying exactly three things to her mom.

“Every single night, I have to say good night, lots of love, see you tomorrow,” Lily says. The fear of not knowing the future will continue as long as Alex lives with cancer. She felt it at her mom’s death and feels it every time she waits for her scan result. When she was 15, it was others’ normal lives on an ice rink that reassured Alex that life will still go on. It is now things in her own home that holds her. The sound of people coming in and out and the dog barking at them tells her that nothing serious will happen overnight.

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