belong by Danmarks Medie- og Journalisthøjskole

belong

verb

be·long | \ bi-ˈlȯŋ, bē-\ belonged; Belonging; belongs intransive verb

1: to have a sense of community // Mothers of Strength // p. 6 2: to find a place inbetween // Crossroads // p. 16 3: to have an affinity withn a place // Four Point Nine // p. 26 4: to not fit in, is fitting in // On the Right Track // p. 36 5: to feel connected // Wherever I Lay My Hat // p. 46 6: to be seen // Karavana // p. 56 7: to bond with others // War Without (real) Weapons // p. 66 8: to have a sense of longing // From Greenland to Denmark // p. 76 9: to find a state of contentment // The World on my Shoulders // p. 86

Mothers of

Strength Photos and words: Mackenzie Brockman

Female immigrants struggle to integrate in Denmark, especially with the recent increase in anti-immigrant rhetoric, but they can rely on other women who have been in their shoes to help them find their strength.

Idil Abdirahman, Souhair Osman, Faduma Abukar

Randa Radwan is busy cooking dinner in her kitchen. She moves back and forth, managing several lit stove burners, boiling water, juicing a lemon. She has some leftover Fawaregh, an arabic delicacy which is a favorite of her husband’s. Randa’s working on putting together the rest of the meal. In the next room, four of her kids are sprawled out among three large, cushy leather couches watching Netflix’s “Fuller House” dubbed in Danish. Randa is Palestinian and when she was a child, her family moved from Dubai to Denmark. Despite living 29 years in Denmark, she feels fully accepted in neither the Danish nor Arabic communities. Stuck in a limbo of identity, she wonders: “Where do I belong?” Randa says that it was hard for her to come to Denmark and she hoped it would be better for her kids, who were all born here. But it’s not. As the refugee crisis spreads throughout Europe, integration for immigrants and their children has become more challenging. This is especially true for non-western immigrants and women according to a study conducted by Economists Without Borders in 2016. One initiative in Denmark focuses on uniting immigrants into a local community and giving them the tools to integrate. Based on the idea that the mother is the key to the family’s integration process, the program focuses on outreach through educated local “neighborhood mothers” known as the Bydelsmødre. On one of Randa’s free days, she drives to see her best friend, Ghada Taha. As the ladies chat across the kitchen table, eating melon

seeds and drinking coffee, Randa fills out a Julehjælpen form for Ghada. Julehjælpen is a charity which provides a box of Christmas food to families and Ghada, who does not speak Danish, would not have been able to finish the form by herself. Although she is not on official Bydelsmødre work, Randa says this is exactly what she would normally do. Whatever her fellow mother needs, she will help. The neighborhood mother may accompany a woman to the doctor to help translate, encourage her to attend school meetings, or help her apply for unemployment benefits. “The work of the district mothers is very important for the area and it helps the women who live in isolation, who do not know much about the society in which they live, who have challenges with the Danish language and who have distrust of the municipal system,” said Ilham Mohamed, a coordinator of Bydelsmødre in Gellerup, a neighborhood of Aarhus. There are nearly 50 Bydelsmødre groups across Denmark. Bydelsmødre are trained to give the women they work with the information and resources they need to make informed decisions about the problems they face. Some of their education might involve study tours of community facilities, instructions for dealing with the municipality and health systems, or how to help someone deal with the formalities of a divorce or death. Many of the volunteer mothers have experience integrating into Danish society. This adds a personal element to their work, helping them connect with the women that they come into contact with. “Bydelsmødre means a lot to me. I connect it with safety, respect, experience and my social life in general,” said Randa, who has been a Bydelsmor in Gellerup for half a year. The work has been shown to increase a sense of belonging and confidence for both the volunteers and the women they help. While the municipality has struggled to reach immigrant women, they can now do so through the Bydelsmødre who spread information

View of Gellerup from an apartment. Above: Tahani Sabbag with her daughters.

Randa Radwan

about one’s rights and duties as a Danish citizen. Additionally, the Bydelsmødre groups learn about organizations throughout the community. For example, they might get a presentation from a local bank about debt relief, hear from representatives from the Danish ADHD-Association, or visit a women’s aid shelter. “Bydelsmødre has turned me into being an active person in the society,” Randa said. Besides serving on the school board of the local kindergarten, Randa is on five other committees that fill her week with meetings. She says that her parents taught her to always be working and busy. When their family first came to Denmark in 1990, her mom did all she could to become independent after the social worker controlling her commune support gave her the option to either take a job in a pig slaughterhouse or not get the week’s money. In the years after, her mom would demonstrate strength time and time again. Randa, who also prides herself on being a strong woman, credits her mom for showing her this. Both agree that immigrants really have to fight hard to have a life in Denmark. Bydelsmødre work is structured to encourage every woman to find this strength. In their training, a “helping to self help” mentality is emphasized. They are taught to simply spread knowledge among women, not direct them on how they should change their lives. The support of a Bydelsmor gives the woman confidence to stand on her own feet. The ability to not only help herself but others is an empowering feeling. “I feel happy to help others,” Souhair Osman said. Souhair is a Bydelsmor in Silkeborg. “Helping gives life meaning and that’s what Bydelsmødre do.” Recently, the work of the Bydelsmødre has turned heads. Bydelsmødre groups organized efforts within their communities to encourage people to vote in the 2019 elections. They rang doorbells, hosted information meetings and led debates.

The team in Gellerup had a considerable impact on voter turnout. The neighborhood saw a 20% increase in turnout between the 2014 and the 2019 European Parliament elections. The Parliamentary election also saw a 7% increase in turnout. At the 2019 national Bydelsmødre meeting, the Gellerup group was surprised to be recognized with the first ever Årets Bedrift award (Feat of the Year). Mai-Britt Haugaard Jeppesen, the national Head of Bydelsmødre, said the group was recognized for their impact on turnout for the election and the positive publicity they have generated. “They have lifted a very big task, they have knocked on doors, they have talked to hundreds of families, they walked up and down the streets,” Jeppesen said. In November, Jeppesen accepted the Kronprinsparrets Sociale Pris (the Crown Prince Couple’s Social Prize) recognizing

Belonging & Confidence A 2015 study surveyed 230 Bydelsmødre and 29 women who have been helped by Bydelsmødre.

57%

of Bydelsmødre feel more at home in Denmark.

41%

of women got to know more people in the area where they live because of the Bydelsmødre.

47%

of Bydelsmødre feel they have more influence on their own life.

62%

of women have gained more courage to face challenges in everyday life because of the Bydelsmødre. Deloitte, “Evaluering af Bydelsmødrene”

Bydelsmødre across the country. As she presented the award, Crown Princess Mary said they received the award, “because they help lift and empower minority women every day and because the way they face challenges is both successful and innovative.” While the work of the Bydelsmødre has created ripples across the country, it all comes back to home. Sherin Radwan, 18, says her mother, Randa, is her biggest inspiration. While Sherin doesn’t necessarily want to be a Bydelsmor, she said her mother doing so “has made me so extremely proud of her and given me a bigger perspective on how the opportunities in Denmark never really stop, and that it is never too late to become wiser on how society can really develop.”

Hanan Yusuf and her family.

Randa visits Ghada Opposite: Ilham Mohamed

Crossroads Khashayar Javanmardi

Weekends are the best time for walking around the dormitory and enjoying the landscape and Danish Hygge mood. It’s easy to find deer and rabbits in the forest behind the dorm. There is a sign in the forest and I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if means danger? I’m confused about it. It’s really an arranged system. I don’t know what to do with this sign and here is one of my very first feelings about differences. My paternal, religious grandfather was an Islamic revolution supporter. He went on a pilgrimage to Mecca more than ten times. My maternal grandfather was a doctor. He used to travel to the U.S. and other countries. When my grandfather accepted my father’s proposal of marriage to my mother, it was the beginning of the merging of two different ideologies. My grandfathers never agreed with each other in regards to ideologies and Islamic approaches until the Islamic revolution happened and Iran became an Islamic country. My father’s side is more religious and my mother’s more modern. I was born twelve years after the Islamic revolution of Iran. I grew up among two distinct families with opposing beliefs. My paternal grandpa would encourage me to attend annual anti-American demonstrations with him. We would watch the American flag get lit on fire and burned.

The United States put the first economic sanction on Iran 40 years ago, during the beginning of the Islamic revolution. After America’s economic sanctions, everything started to change. In the Middle East, Iran is the country that is most against the U.S. policies. The common agreed idea between the Iranian people and the Republic Islamic government is that U.S. sanctions directly impacted ordinary people and their lives. At that time a subconscious message was spread among people:

“leave to live better.” The government and system of Iran is dominant in people’s daily life. People whose beliefs opposed the system’s found themselves suffocated by it. They would decide to leave and move abroad. I grew up watching my maternal family leave Iran one by one. My aunts, uncles, and my best friend all left Iran in the same year. One of the young Iranian generation’s main goals is to leave. My country is facing one of the highest rates of brain drain. I was seven years old when I met my lovely teacher on the first day of school. A nice woman born nearly two decades before my parents.

“Dear Khashayar, There was not much time to chat and talk. Keep in mind that your kindness and humanity will be eternal in everyone’s heart espesially mine. Never get hopeless and keep your endurance. Respect your decisions. Your inside god will help you. Then be patient and try to understand this: You are my father, You are my father, You are my father!”

She said something that stuck with me:

“My best and most successful students live abroad. They left Iran after university and now they have a great life that you can’t even imagine.” In that moment I didn’t understand how impactful this sentence would become to me. Eventually I started to believe that real life is somewhere out of Iran, on the other side of its borders. I didn’t know which side I should cross? Which country to go to and how to live alone without my parents? I was always thinking that successful people are living abroad and they have everything they want. As I grew up with different ideologies and political viewpoints, I was taught how to be a religious person with liberal ideas. I can leave Iran but I want to stay and help to make my country a better place to live.

I left Iran when I won a grant to study photojournalism in Denmark. This grant helped me travel to Europe for the first time and realize the dreams of living abroad. There are many new things for me here in Denmark. Some things are the same as what I was expecting but there are still a lot of cultural shocks here. Danish people are more welcoming than Iranians were to Afghan, Pakistanian, Arabs, or any of our other neighbors. Danes care about things that I never do, and they never care about things that I really do. Here everything is planned, nothing is unexpected. The Danes even plan the walking paths in forests. I can live here without stress. Without thinking about fuel and energy prices. Without the high-stake conversations and not much bad news every single day. I don’t worry about property, food, work, my future, my health, the American sanctions, and the hundreds of fundamental rights that I’m struggling to have in Iran.

Aarhus, Denmark, Fall 2019

What will happen after solving all these problems? What will happen if the contrasts disappear and everything becomes united? Responsibility and conscience are not separable, but motivation could lead the whole story somewhere else. I don’t know which decision to make, how far to go, which song to sing, but for sure nothing will remain if everybody just leaves to live in a better place. I’m still somewhere in between. I’d like to be responsible and stay far from the chaos at the same time! Immigration is not always the best decision. It is not the most sustainable decision, either.

My Grandmothers and I

Now I look at the sky and listen to the birds. The sky is high and vivid blue, the same as in Iran. The birds here are expert singers, also exactly the same. This decision to stay or return to Iran has two different consequences. I can have a better life in a different country, ignoring the 80 million other people living in Iran. Or I can be a part of the change. I’m not sure if this much patriotism will help or hurt me.

“Life is the stage of our art. Everybody sings their own song and leaves the stage, but the show goes on. Good for the song that people remember.” Zhaleh Isfahani The poem was printed on the very first page of our school books for many years, and I still carry it with me.

Four Point Nine Maggie Svoboda

Rain lightly hits the windows as the ferry slowly departs from Rudkøbing. Soon all that can be seen are the bright orange vests of the workers along the shore repairing the coastline. The orange of the workers mimics the orange life vests that pack in the empty spaces in the bins above the passengers and below the seats, an overwhelming sense of safety. Everyone on the ferry seems to know one another as they enter to sit at the turquoise tables that line the edges of the small holding room. They greet each other, grabbing a shoulder, holding a hand, and bending down to hear what is being said. Their conversations are almost a whisper, a distinct politeness.

A few people stand along the harbor staring out to sea, waiting for the ferry’s arrival. The port is the only point of entrance and exit for Strynø, an island in Denmark’s South Funen cluster of small islands. Roughly one and a half times the size of central park, the 4.9 square kilometer island is home to 216 people. Hosting a schoolhouse with 11 students, it is one of few islands in the country that has a sizeable mixed age community. As part of LAG Småøerne, or islet group, an island local action initiative, the longtime residents focus their efforts on sustaining the small island way of life. The center of town in many ways feels as if it is from another era. It is rare to see cars drive through and many opt to walk or take their bike. People linger at the checkout counter at Strynø Kobmand to talk with the sales clerk Chico, who has lived and worked on the island for almost 15 years. Chatting stops when the timer goes off in the corner letting her know it is time to take out the fresh baked bread. Flyers hang near the door to post upcoming events and to note items for sale. No need to call, just show up.

Just past some grazing fields on Sandvejen, Bjarne and Birthe Sorensen have spent the past three decades working around their large yellow farmhouse on the southern part of the island. Their surrounding land is filled with large plants, vegetable gardens, and an abnormally tall rosebush that reaches to their second story bedroom window. Once a blacksmith, Bjarne who is now in his mid-80’s, still spends his days repairing the house, tending to the garden, or erecting structures inside their work rooms that once housed animals. Upstairs, towards the back of the work barn is Birthe’s painting studio that is filled with works that lie along the walls. Bright primary colors mix together to create landscape scenes and details of nature motifs that largely resemble parts of the island. There isn’t a surface without a drawing or painting. They talk quickly over one another as they move around showing the easel Bjarne made for her so many years ago. After walking down the wooden plank stairs back to their garden, Bjarne picks a few apples and plucks a blade of grass close to the house that he begins to chew. It turns out it is a scallion.

Bjarne and Birthe Sorensen’s home is filled with small mementos from their travels and the paintings she has made over the years.

Like the Sorensens, Kjeld and Margaret Tønder have been on the island since the 80’s. After living on Thule Airforce base in northern Greenland for many years, they wanted to live in another small, insular place with a similar feeling of community life. Their vivid yellow home sits just outside of the town center. A neighbor’s produce stand holds eggs from their chickens that day with a small container for people to put money in, the honor system is always upheld. Small pieces of artwork and family photographs cover the walls in the living room and a painting made by a local artist showing Kjeld driving his motorcycle donning his cowboy hat in front of their house, hangs near the kitchen. Everyone knows it is Kjeld when they see the hat coming, they tell me. The Tønders’ tie to the island runs deep. They are both actively involved in keeping the collective identity of the island intact despite societal shifts. Over the decades that they have called Strynø home, they have witnessed big changes in island life. Like many rural communities there has been an exodus, nearly 600 people have left the island as shifts in a sustained economic livelihood have evolved from farming and sailing to globalized production and the technology sector forcing people to head to more urbanized centers. Despite the evolution of outside societal structures, longtime residents of the island remain to relish in the simple ways of living. Through family style dinners in the schoolhouse or having a person over for a cup of coffee, they hope to pass on island traditions to other generations.

Margaret and Kjeld Tønder embrace inside their home on the outskirts of the town’s center.

Birgitte Bergreen and her dog Maya in the main house on her property.

The deepest cut from the migration from the island was felt when the only grocery store was being threatened with closing after the previous owner hit financial trouble. An initiative was established among the residents, like the Tønder’s, to gather funds to save it. Creating a collective among the community helped solidify a place to buy food, which plays a pivotal role for the people who no longer commute. Many of the elders no longer care to leave the island feeling connected to the land and opting to remain within the natural boundaries that the water creates. Birgitte Bergreen moved to Strynø many years ago after she had lost her husband and fell ill herself. After a friend invited her to visit, she stepped off of the ferry and basked in the beauty and silence of the place. She knew after years of traveling that she had finally found her home. As she sips tea in her main house and pets her lap dog, Maya, she says that she prefers to stay as much as she can, “I am not going away from the island just for fun. I am going to because it is needed, but I like to stay here. I like when I am not planning to go. Other people say, ‘Oh, if I’m planning to go I feel good because then I know something is happening. I am just the opposite. I am happy when I’m not planning to go.”

While being an islander for a lifetime is very rare, the strong sense of identity and the interconnectedness of their lives keep the people of Strynø willing to make the sacrifices it takes to stay. Building a life here takes years of creativity and grit, working with what you’ve got. The shores of the island act as a container for the community offering a safety and serenity that the people who remain believe could not be replicated elsewhere. As Birgitte peers out the window toward her garden, “There’s another thing which is wonderful to be on an island right away. When I go to sleep, I can almost feel that I am on a ship and there is water all around me. I am just there in the middle. I am safe and no one can come to me.” Doors famously remain unlocked and some of the keys have even been rusted in place. When darkness sets in and the final ferry leaves the docks at 7:00 pm there is the recognition that you are here now and that there is nowhere else to be.

On The Right Track Though the tough exterior may intimidate some, The Sidetrack goes by an inside out principle first and foremost. To not fit in, is fitting in. The rules are simple: no violence, no hard drugs, no discrimination. Photos and words by Jessica Miles

Beneath the Ringgade Bridge, the railway tracks flow out west into the afternoon sun from Aarhus Central Station. Clangs and bangs of the building site opposite speak garishly of the ongoing residential development throughout the city. Then, humbly nestled in the gritty vastness between the two, lies a small yet rugged formation of repurposed shipping containers. Makeshift but tough in appearance, the setup is reminiscent of something in-between an alternative clubhouse and a small fortress. The outer shell extends itself by a framework of rough-hewn wood cladding, decorated characterfully with graffiti. Above the entrance a red and black flag dapples softly in the wind, hinting at values of liberty. Maybe it is intimidating upon first look. But maybe the unknown always is. This is the sanctuary of The Association for Downtown Subcultures, The Sidetrack. Now 1:54pm, Jesper Tvedegaard and his wife Eva Ligaard Hald emerge from the cycle track under the Ringgade bridge, their greeting sincere and warm despite the cold November chill in the air. They come most days like many others. It’s time to open The Sidetrack’s doors. The association was conceived late 2014 by a small group of activists, including Jesper and Eva, that were made up of citizens more or less “ousted, homeless, poor, rejected or lonely in Aarhus,” Jesper says. They were tired of the difficulties at Mølleparken - an area long notorious for drugs, crime, and difficulties

around homelessness. They stepped away from the harsh environment for visions of a peaceful alternative that held more of a positive culture. Wanting to remain in the city centre, by 2016 they established their first project on the grounds beside the railway tracks close to today’s Sidetrack.

New Foundations It wasn’t an easy feat to reach what they have today. The municipality granted them use of the original grounds for just a year. At the start it was just three 20” shipping containers placed on asphalt and concrete without power, water, or sewer access. It was powered by solar panels, water was ‘borrowed’ from neighbouring establishments, and two portable tank-toilets were brought in. “It was primitive, but OURS!” Jesper reflects. With little resources on hand, but the backing of a local concert/festival organisation, the association stepped things up. By spring 2017 they had a bar and cafe, storage area, and had established a scene for performers which attracted diverse groups of people. However, with no walls and just an open area, it was harder to offer shelter during winter months, as well as distance from those who could not respect their three rules: no violence, no hard drugs, no discrimination.

Raising 120.000 DKR, this summer they obtained the premises they occupy today on lease. Having physical boundaries has created a safer space for the group to evolve and grow. The community shapes up a little differently from the original ‘soft-core’ of the Mølleparken area but still has roots in activism and cultural growth. Collectively they describe themselves as a diverse mix of subcultures and minorities exposed together in a place free of societal stereotypes and judgement. Through the entrance and out to the courtyard, mismatched tables and chairs scatter the paving. Eccentric but made homely by strung bulb lights, woollen blankets, and plant beds. Eva tells me that everything seen inside is either donated, from Reuse, or hand made. The Sidetrack is not a place of residence, but it is more than just a place to hang out. The purpose of the association is to create a community, not exclusively, but especially for the young people at risk in Aarhus Municipality. With workshops, creative opportunities, and friendship, their focus is on involving and energising the younger crowd. They hope that by being part of such a community can provide them with the ability and motivation to take responsibility for their own lives and choose more positive paths. Now Chairman of the association Jesper, alongside Eva deal with the day to day runnings of The Sidetrack. Though younger members affectionately toy with nicknames ‘mum and dad’, the community make decisions collectively. Having experienced similar adversities that the youth face today, the older generation operate in the community from a place of support and genuine care, but also as friends that are in it together.

Common Ground Mykie Sommer Stange Hasselmann, 21, from Aarhus, has been involved with the community

before it was based at The Sidetrack, back in the Mølleparken days when “there was nowhere else to go.” In the summer of 2018 Mykie was met with something unexpected. On the old freight railway patch, Mykie met David. Now married, they came together through a common feeling of judgment from society that is relinquished when together and at The Sidetrack. Mykie says “People that are pushed out on the edge can meet people that are just as out on the edge as they are. It’s a safe space.” David adds “People can come down here to just sit and talk after a long day. They can think: finally I can breathe. I can be myself.” However, the community does not turn away people who come from conventional backgrounds and dressed in plain clothes. It’s clear that the rule surrounding no discrimination is truly all encompassing. “It really is here for everyone, and we mean everyone is welcome down here... that’s the great thing about this place,” David explains.

Full Circle It’s a Wednesday evening, candles light the tables ambiently whilst chatter fills the warm atmosphere. Everyone sits around together enjoying dinner supplied by The Blue Cross. This happens every week. Thomas Nyland, 32 from Aarhus tells me he was a part of the founding group and that people come to The Sidetrack for many different reasons. He believes that the community has a good influence on himself and other members. Some years back, Thomas was struggling during a tough peak of mental illness so he turned to his friends from The Sidetrack. “A good bunch of the sidetrack community were the people who cared for and supported me during that time.” Now in a stronger place Thomas is an active character in the group, seeing it as an opportunity to do good and thinks kindness goes a long way. “I guess it’s a mixture of loyalty and paying back by being caring and supportive myself within the community.” he explains.

Flemming Kolding Laursen says “Most people who come here for the first time may be a bit surprised, because when you just pass by, it could seem like chaos. But when you come in and sit down there’s always somebody to talk with, no matter who you are or where you are from. For many it’s also essential to have this safe space.”

Jesper hopes that Aarhus municipality hold faith with the association so they can continue their work. “There are a lot of good reasons for the city to acknowledge and allow our community to build a permanent place in the city centre. We have become a big plus socioculturally and socioeconomically for this city. Everyone is benefitting from the existence of The Sidetrack.”

Having found himself homeless for the first time 11 years ago, Flemming, 50, uses his experiences to help people who might be in the same situation he was in back then. He hopes that the younger generation from this path who come through The Sidetrack will aid in breaking down the negative stigmas surrounding homelessness.

We return to the courtyard, dusk falls much earlier than just a month ago. Psychedelic rock hums in the background, whilst people chat amongst themselves with tones of ease and comfort. I admire the smooth husk of the singer’s voice - Eva passes by telling me it is Anisette Koppel. With a smile at my confusion and affection in her voice she clarifies: “She’s like the Janice Joplin of Denmark.” The bulbs strung around the nooks of the shelter light up and Eva puts out some candles on the tables. Another winter afternoon comes to life at The Sidetrack.

“It’s a great opportunity for young people which can help them decide which direction their life will take. There will be many people here who have experienced what they may have that would like to help and give advice, without judgement”. Jesper leads me through The Sidetrack. We start with pouring a hot coffee in the bar area. Walking across the courtyard we pass through the meeting room - the place which is transformed to host performers on a regular basis. We take a moment to pause in the last courtyard, which is less put together than the rest of the premises. It has not yet been utilised to its full potential. Here he speaks of the future hopes for The Sidetrack. Now employed by their backers as Project Coordinator for the initiative, Jesper is working to gain permanent status for The Sidetrack. But with so much development work right on their doorstep, it is uncertain right now. Transforming the unused space into a non-profit cafe could assist in maintaining the space financially as well as creating a better venue for dynamic events and activities.

‘‘WHEREVER I LAY MY HAT THAT’S MY HOME’’

Marvin Gaye

Tariq Safieh

I was born in Syria, in the late ’80s, in a small family, in a small city close to the sea Tartous, in which life is simple and so are the people. Though the city has its own charm, it was not the best place for a curious teenager to grow up in, life was inadequate there, limited by social expectations in the dress of values, the usual was protected by a hidden agreement. Despite my fairly good life there, it was shadowed by the missing ground feeling of being connected; I was not totally desperate, a sense of adoption had developed to make the balance with the environment, I pressed myself down. Schools I attended did nothing but reinforce the feeling of detachment and suppression. I tried randomly to find the feeling of belonging in a sports team once, then a religious group, and then a political party, all before I reached the age of 19, and none really fulfilled what I was looking for. I knew I wanted to leave; I knew the world is bigger than my neighborhood. I believed in this idea, however, I set no plan at that time.

It’s hard to feel you don’t belong to the place where you were born, it is emptiness, but if you never felt belonging before you have nothing to compare this emptiness to, it remains an abstract idea you are following. I didn’t know what I was really looking for, what exactly was I pursuing? I wanted to move forward or in any direction. So, I moved to the capital, Damascus.

Damascus 2011 It was late in the evening, the street was long and dark, and nothing looked bright at the end of it. Almost no sounds but the wind moving the trees and irregular noise coming from far away, 10 minutes ago I got off the bus at its final stop and I had to walk about half an hour to reach the main square, because I received a message on my phone from a friend saying “something is happing here, and you must come quickly.” So, the street felt so long and short at the same time, I was trying to walk slowly to cover my excitement or to look calm, but my legs were faster. I reach the square, It’s a small one, on the right of it you see the city hall and the beginning of “Al-Souq” the trade street center of the town, on the other side a small road takes you between the farms to other parts of the town. In the middle of it, a long pole hangs on top of it’s a yellow streetlight that spread the light over the square.

I pass a few motorbikes that block the main road, a lot of men are gathering here, having conversations, I find my friend who sent me the message, we talk briefly about what is going on, and a few minutes later people around us start to cheer loudly “Freedom Freedom” We look into each other’s eyes for a very clear moment, we are witnessing history. The crowds quickly accelerate. We join them. Everyone is cheering out loud, jumping in place, and waving our hands in the air like hummers, all voices and bodies are fully participating as one unit in the demonstration. Later with many friends who experienced the same moment in different parts of the country, we talked about it and for most of them it meant freedom of expression, for me it felt more like belonging.

After a few months, I packed my stuff and headed back to Tartous. I was finally connected, to the ground and the sky and the people. It felt eternal, so nothing else mattered. In the following years, the city was quite safe compared to other cities, this left space for discussions and expression, different groups and different ideas people were liberated from their usual concept of life. Tension, fear, and uncertainties lived side by side. It might sound as if democracy was applied at that time. No it wasn’t. But there were ways to speak your mind with the determination and the risk to do so. I was fully attached to the place, warm and alive like never, like I found what I was looking for a few years before, but I was aiming for more, and Beirut was the nearest airport for me and I was ready.

Beirut 2015 I arrived good in time as I am afraid of being late when it comes to experiencing new places. It was a hot, summer afternoon. The sunlight was falling through the big windows, filling the huge crowded hall with a soft light that mingled with the replicated sounds between the high ceilings. My eyes were able to find the small screens where the flight details were shown; I read it through. I still had enough time before check-in, I turned my back and went outside to smoke a cigarette. I grew older when in Syria during the time of the revolution, I gave up the burden of searching for the unidentified feeling of belonging. I experienced the feeling within, with the people whom I connected to, as I had not felt before.

Now it’s in my heart and I knew it could exist anytime anywhere. The world became big again. At that moment when I was smoking outside, I realized that it was happening, I was leaving!! The whole journey with the Sub roads of the recent years passed through my head, faces of people I met, people I was afraid I would not meet again. It was complicated. I started crying, not out of sadness, not exactly because of happiness, it was a relief and somehow I felt lighter. A man cleaning the sidewalk looked at me, he almost smiled and I almost smiled back, or this is what I felt. I put off my cigarette in the ashtray, took a deep breath, and turned my back again and headed away.

After a few years and a few cities, I’m living now in Denmark near a small town close to the sea. I made connections to life through friends, brothers, and sisters, and a marriage that set free my roots and branches. Relationships like that can let you feel any place you park in like home if your heart is connected. The question of belonging is still present sometimes in other aspects, where should I settle down? Or should I anyway? How do I want to live? And so on, but the query comes now in a form of motivation, not an obstacle anymore.

KARAVANA They started out of necessity - a necessity for a place where they can express themselves, a place where they don't have to fit in, a place where they can be.

By Tripty Tamang Pakhrin

Seated on a chair facing the large canvas on the wooden easel, Rikke bends herself down to paint the bottom right corner of the canvas. She frowns in concentration and her brows behind the frames almost meet the edge of the helmet she wears in case of epilepsy seizure. She paints black the thin oblique lines that she traced using the overhead projector yesterday. Her canvas is filled with a multiplicity of windows and small fantasy figures that look like a blend of flowers and humans. She leans back into her chair and takes a moment to see her work so far. Gently holding the thin paintbrush in her right hand and a tiny plastic bowl of black paint in her left, she turns towards me. Rikke says something in Danish

with an expression that asks for my opinion. I nod, excitedly showing my approval. Rikke smiles at me in understanding, still holding the brush and paint. Rikke, 45, is one of 27 artists in total working at the ‘Art College’ Karavana on Graham Bells Vej in north Aarhus. Karavana is a creative platform for adults with reduced mental and physical capabilities funded by Aarhus Kommune. It is made up of two departments; a theater named Company Karavana, and an artist studio called Atelier Karavana. Administratively, it is a part of the municipality’s Voksen Handicap which helps and supports adults with disabilities. It still works with the same values as when it opened 26 years ago.

The Studio Fifteen artists including Rikke work daily at the studio to develop their own personal and unique visual expression. The works are diverse and in a variety of mediums such as painting, drawing, graphics, sculpture, mixed forms, and ceramics. Rikke has been working at the studio for over 20 years. She feels at ease there and thinks that it is the best place to facilitate her physical needs as well as her creative ones. “There’s nowhere else where I can do what I’m doing here,” she tells me. Atelier Karavana provides inspiration and space for the artists to experiment with the forms of expression and immerse themselves in the artistic work. “Karavana takes people who are interested in arts and theatre seriously. We help them show the world what they have to offer. And they have a lot to offer,” said Mette Demuth who has worked in Karavana as a pedagogue for over five years.

The Theater Company Karavana is a theater that produces theater plays, performances and events. Twelve artists come together everyday to transform their visions, thoughts, ideas and dreams into plays. Peter Bent, 49, is one of the theater artists in Company Karavana. He has been a part of the theater for almost 10 years now. Before joining Karavana, his placement was at a workshop that employ people with disabilities where they can work in an accommodating environment. “I like it better here” Peter tells me. Although he started with painting at the atelier, he moved to the theater for his love of music and performance. “I feel very emotional doing theater. I feel more in touch with my feelings now,” he says. Elisabeth Hessellund, the theater instructor at Company Karavana adds “I think it makes him feel more alive.” Gently reaching out to touch Peter’s hand across the table where we sit to talk she continues, “sometimes when he’s listening to music and dancing in the theater, he stops and starts crying. He gets very emotional.”

“I feel very emotional doing theater. I feel more in touch with my feelings now.”

Coming Together Not every day in Karvana is bright and sunny, only filled with arts and performances. Some days the artists come in the morning feeling low and heavy. It’s not unusual for some to get beaten down at some point of the day. That’s when the instructors come in and help the artists. The instructors do more than just teach arts and theater in Karavana. They are the ones who greet the artists every morning with sincere enthusiasm and the warmth of a hug. Their tactility adds to their communication and companionship. They help the artists by genuinely listening to what they have to say, be it related to their work or something about their day. “We are one big family here. Everybody needs everybody,” Elisabeth says affectionately. Every morning begins with an assembly where all the artists and instructors come together to plan out their daily activities and sing a couple of songs before they start with the work. But, most importantly, the assembly begins with Elisabeth and Mette or other instructors asking the artists how their last day or weekend was, if they experienced something new, if they are feeling okay, and if they have something they want to talk about. Striking a Balance Everyone at Karavana is seen and recognized as being actors, musicians and artists. All the artistic work at Karavana is based on the artists’ resources, what they are good at and what they can develop. The theater develops plays with roles based on what the actors are good at. The studio challenges the artists to find their own artistic expression. The artistic work comes through a dynamic process between artists and educators. The works are exhibited, performed as theatre shows for the public, and put up for sale. “You can’t force anything...if it doesn’t make sense, they don’t do it. And it doesn’t work. Then we have to find a way to make it work so it makes sense to them. And that’s the interesting part,” says Mette.

“And they know things have to be right when we put them out. They want people to see their performances because they’re good, not because they have a disability.” Room for Expression Artists at Karavana have different disabilities. Some are good with words, others have difficulty forming complete sentences. Some are hearing impaired, others hear clearly. Some can take public transport, others cannot. However, they find a common place in arts and theatre where they use their creativity and artistic expressions to gain self-esteem, respect, and recognition. “Here they can be themselves. They can express. Just because you have Down Syndrome doesn’t mean you can only pack things for companies. You can express yourself through art. If you don’t have the words, you can always paint or do theater,” Elisabeth said. Karavana also places high expectations on the artists in terms of the work. They are guided and helped by the educators and instructors to do their best, practice and grow thru that process. Reflections and discussions are highly encouraged. “They are all artists here. We respect them for taking responsibility and ownership of their work, and they respect that,” Elisabeth said.

Every artist is engrossed in their own work, seated on their respective chairs. Rikke and other artists at the studio are currently working on a common theme of birds and home. They are using the seats of white wooden chairs as their canvases for this project. The warm afternoon light pours through the windowed walls of the room. Table lamps rest on each craft desk, casting an ambient light over the gentle brush strokes against the hard wood. Instructors float around the spacious room watching the birds and houses come to life as the artists paint. The music hums so faintly out of a retro CD player that it is almost muted to the untrained ear. However, it is enough to fill the quiet air as the artists put their minds to their canvases until the day is done.

Photos and words: James Jackson

War without War without (real) War without (real) (real) weapons weapons weapons 67

At first sight it seems as if a war is going on. Men in combat gear running about shooting at each other in a dusty battlefield of containers, barricades and plastic hidings. But no one dies, no one really gets hurt. At Aarhus Hardball Bane in Brabrand it is all for fun, for exercise and good company. Hard ball, or airsoft gun shooting, is a team game played with different kinds of replica guns equipped with hardball ammunition. The technical skills of moving behind barricades, aiming and positioning tactics keep the players focused. And even though it is just a game, the players are dead serious and focused when playing. The battlefield is a carefully laid out indoor or outdoor course divided into a safe zone and a game zone, and the players use military tactics to achieve objectives set in each game. Their equipment very much looks like that used by modern military and police organizations. But the game is kept safe by trained professionals, and the rules are strict. In the game, every player gets the opportunity to improve their own skills and boost their stamina. Airsoft gun is incredibly strategic, and many players choose to join teams with players of the same mindset. To prepare for the game and improve their physical ability they also take part in activities such as fitness and cardio training. People of all ages, ethnicity and genders come here to play, sweat and feel excited. And they perform as a group rather than individuals. Some of the regulars even have their own groups with names like Ravenfall, Wild Geese or Dragons. While in combat they are dead serious fighting each other, but outside the battlefield they are mates, friends or business partners helping each other to get better and have the best time with their sport.

by Hadi Uddin

“I came here because I like games, I really appreciate both the people and the community. I consider all players as my friends; every single is really amazing” – Kim Andersen

From Greenland to Denmark Every year, around 300 people move from the many townships of Greenland to settle down in Denmark and pursue a better life. In some cases for a couple of years, and in others for good. But what happens when you leave everything you know and love behind to travel somewhere else? Moloy Ranjan Biswas

Special thanks to Thomas

“How I look” 2017

Despite coming from all ends of the Greenlandic society and having experienced massively different facets of Danish culture, many of the students appear happy with their lives in Denmark. Generally, the biggest surprise is how full of calcium the water is, how many cars are on the streets, and how loud Danish people are in social gatherings. All minor inconveniences, they say. But despite their apparent indifference to the more cultural aspects of migration and what it means to be a stranger in the place you live, it is clear that they have all left things behind in the homes they came from to pursue a better life or improved opportunities here. And it is clear that while they are optimistic and hopeful, they have all struggled to rediscover themselves and their identities in a country so similar, and yet so different, from their own. Naja is 18 years old, going to be 19 pretty soon. She is studying in the second year of high school in Aarhus, Denmark. She moved here from her small Greenlandic town. Naja believes herself a creative, nature-loving individual who loves to explore new things. This is not Naja’s first time in Denmark, but it is the first time she actually lives here. As a kid she used to holiday in Denmark with her family because her dad is Danish and wanted to bring his family back home to visit whenever he had the opportunity to do so.

However, having a Danish dad and frequent trips to Denmark also reinforced the feeling that Naja was a stranger in her own community. She has always felt like she didn’t belong in Greenlandic society and culture. And since coming to Denmark she has realized she does not feel like she belongs here either. “I thought I knew the Danish culture and society,” she reflects, “but obviously I did not because I had never lived in it. So, when I was in Greenland, I was always the Danish girl, but when I moved to Denmark, I was suddenly becoming the Greenlandic girl. I did not feel like I fit in to either Danish or Greenlandic society.” Instead, Naja says her community comes from another place. She surrounds herself with people like herself, she says. People who don’t fit into a specific community, or belong to some specific culture. The misfits, as she likes to call them. “Most of my friends are misfits. They don’t really fit in anywhere. They prefer to just be themselves and define their own lives through their living. Back in my home I was way too Danish and here I am also way too Greenlandic. But people like me who never really had somewhere to belong to, they are my community. That is where I belong.”

Suulut Filemonsen grew up in Aasiaat, a small town of little more than 3,000 people positioned centrally on the west coast of Greenland. Here he spent the majority of his life surrounded by beautiful nature with dreams of becoming an engineer one day. That dream led him to pursue a technical degree from high school on the other end of the world’s largest island in the sprawling - by Greenlandic standards - city of Sisimiut. After high school, Suulut Filemonsen moved on to Arctic DTU, the Greenlandic wing of the Technical University of Denmark, to pursue a degree in engineering. It quickly became clear to Suulut that the life in engineering he had envisioned for himself was far removed from what an actual career in the field would look like. As a result, he left the Arctic DTU and decided to apply for a bachelor’s degree in architectural technology at the University of Aarhus in Denmark. That led him 3,340 kilometers away from his birth town of Aasiaat to the second largest city in Denmark, with a student environment like no other city in the country. “One thing that surprised me when I first arrived, is how many people you see in public here,” Suulut Filemonsen laughs. He is sitting in the common space of his dormitory named Skjoldhøj which is located in the neighbourhood of Gellerup commonly known as a ghetto in Aarhus, Denmark, drinking from a cup of organic yoghurt. He spends relatively a lot of time in the wide common room where he socializes with the other students living there after his studies. It has been four years now since he moved to Denmark from Siisimut leaving behind the beautiful ice walls and vast areas of undisturbed nature in Greenland to pursue a career in architectural technology and looking for a better life.

“It was a little bit overwhelming in the beginning,” Suulut says, flashing a smile so bright his cheeks adjust his glasses for him, “but these days I’m used to all the people wandering about and I kind of like it even. There are just so many people here. You don’t really see that back home in Greenland.” After four years in Denmark, Suulut enjoys going out in the Aarhus nightlife, which he says was a huge culture shock at first. The Danish nightlife and drinking culture is quite famous for being wild and crowded, and for the first long while the culture shock was almost too much to bear. But after a few years in Denmark now, Suulut has learned to appreciate and even enjoy the nights out with his friends. “You know; you just stop noticing the crowd of people eventually. You get used to it. And then you just worry about the friends you’re there with, and that really helps me enjoy it,” he smiles. Today, he no longer studies architectural technology. He still hasn’t quite figured out what he really wants to do, but he could see a future for himself in gastronomy, which he can study at a technical school, Aarhus Tech, so that is the dream he considers pursuing within the next year if all goes to plan.

From Kristiane Andersen’s Diary 2019

“I miss my family and friends a lot. The love and safety you get from being close to those you love. And I miss the fresh air and clean water. But I am happy here for now, and one day, when I’m done, I will get to go back home. So I try to enjoy this journey while I am on it.”

Kristiane Andersen came to Denmark eight years ago, in 2011, to study sociology at Aalborg University. Unfortunately, it took quite a few months for the culture shock to settle in. Kristiane was diagnosed with depression and had, within the first four months of her studies, decided to drop out of school. Leaving behind your home country and moving to a place that, while culturally quite similar to yours, is different from home in a number of significant ways is not an easy feat. Homesickness and prolonged cultural difference were the key factors for her unwanted depression. It started affecting her physically and mentally. At first, she started fighting her depression with everything she had in her, but she soon gave up. It was such a heavy burden for her to deal with. She was trying really hard to fit in and assimilate to Danish culture and society. But her homesickness and depression were always pushing her behind and forcing her to feel isolated from everyone around her. At that point she became very hopeless with everything and ready to give up. “I was completely done back then,” Kristiane says, sitting at her small kitchen table surrounded by piles of paper and books containing probably every word ever written on healthy lifestyles. “So my boyfriend at the time really saved me. He would literally push me out of bed in the mornings and take me out running and exercising to find myself again.” Eventually Kristiane broke free of her depressive spell, but it was too late to return to a career in sociology. Instead, she realized she wanted to be a chef. She applied to Aarhus Tech, persevered, went to have one internship in Norway and another in the south of France before finishing her education last year. Now she wants to specialize in nutrition and health and work with people who are at high risk of developing lifestyle diseases from poor diets or malnutrition. She started that education back in August and has another two and a half years to go. Fortunately, Kristiane is much happier in Denmark now than she was eight years ago. Though she still misses home from time to time.

The world on my shoulders Every day my heart breaks several times. I get sad and angry and I don ́t understand the inhumanity of this planet. The worst is, I contribute to it, with and without knowing how and why.

Anna Fritsche

An immediate feeling of calmness spreads through my whole body when I walk into a forest. My feet are sinking into the soft ground, I smell wood and I hear the life of nature. When I look around I see trees and plants. When I look up I see the vastness of the sky. It ́s overcast with clouds right now, but it ́s not always this way. I feel how my shoulders sink down in relief and relax. I realise that they are always tense without me even noticing it any more. Kind of like a protecting shield I ́m carrying around the whole day, preparing myself for the next thing to happen that throws me off balance. I need to open my apartment door, walk down four floors and open the front door, just to get outside and feel the fresh air touching my skin. I ́m standing on a busy road and as far as my eyes can see there is no piece of land bigger than a square meter without asphalt. It covers life underneath it, it suffocates the earth. There is not a day when my feet

don ́t touch this harsh, unnatural ground. I want to open my door and immediately feel the nature under my bare feet. Here in the city, I so often feel displaced. Lost and distracted from my deep desire to live compiled to nature. There is no escape nearby from the man-made world to be alone with nature, but I also feel the pressure to live a lifestyle that modern society imposes on us. Even though climate change is being talked about more than ever, looking at the bigger picture, I can ́t see how we can right our wrongs. I feel trapped by a system that is designed to be wasteful, linear, and destructive. Just living amongst it makes it inevitable that I contribute to the destruction. No matter how hard I try to avoid it, the challenge seems enormous. A challenge I ́m mindful of, each day. Before anything I do or buy, I consider its impact on our environment and how it could harm and risk lives of any kind. By existing in this system, I feel like I am living a paradox.

The sun is shining outside, meadows and trees surround me, everything is covered with the white frost, and when my mind stays in the moment, I love life, I am happy, I can enjoy it. But while I look at it, sometimes I feel sadness rolling over my heart, because I think about how much of it is being destroyed. And there is nothing I can do about it, not in the big picture where all these powerful people are ruining it every day, every hour, every second. This thought paralyses me. It ́s almost impossible for me not to get disheartened by how we mistreat nature, animals, and even our own species. I can t́ cope with this apathy. The anger and frustration from being hit with it day by day slows me down. Others get driven from it and can transform it into something good. I can t́ . I haven t́ quite figured out where I m ́ heading, but I need to find a different surrounding for myself.

I feel stuck with the decision of which route is best to handle both my obligation of care to the earth and humanity, as well as my own mental health. I feel lost in the sea of my emotions. Wave after wave hitting me with no break. My conscience tells me to be optimistic for change, while the weight of reality sends me back under, into despair. I could numb the depression by playing ignorant. They say ‘ignorance is bliss‘, but it will never reconcile with my conscience. Sometimes I have to turn off my thoughts, my feelings. My world can become dark when I allow my mind to drift away. It can make me feel scared and helpless. The deeper I go into these thoughts, the more it feels like a vicious circle without any escape or solution. Maybe other people choose not to think about it at all. Or maybe other people find it too overwhelming to think about it and shut off.

The problem is, I will more or less always be a part of the devastation. I will always do something wrong, it ́s impossible to do everything right. Every route has its consequence and in the end I have to learn to cope with this. If I want to live a content life, I need to find a level of acceptance for both sides. So it ́s not exactly only about choosing. This won ́t make me believe that there is much hope for the big picture, but I have to compromise. At the very least, if we can make small changes, we can enhance small things.

Amazingly, there are many people trying to protect and take care of the earth with all its inhabitants. Places where people are working hard on creating a life where they don ́t harm anyone or anything, and reconnect with nature. They are inspiring and they show me what I ́m aiming for. And when I concentrate on that, I find relief from all the weight and the guilt, because I can choose to create a fitting environment for me and thereby make my small picture worth not resigning. Because there is hope for the small picture.

Photos and words by Mackenzie Brockman Tariq Safieh

Jessica Miles

Moloy Ranjan

Khashayar Javanmardi Anna Fritsche

Tripty Tamang Pakhrin Maggie Svoboda Hadi Uddin

With thanks to Mads Greve Gitte Luk Lars Prevelakis Bai DMJX // International 2019

DMJX // International 2019