Heimat by Danmarks Medie- og Journalisthøjskole

HEIMAT

Heimat is a German word expressing the feeling of belonging. Perhaps a country, a person or a place, the sense of heimat is as indefinable as it is universal to the human experience. “One’s heimat is not merely a matter of geography; it is where one’s heart lies.” - Jenna Blum

THE LAST WOLF CHILDREN

WE ARE ALL ON THE SAME BOAT

BACK TO BASICS

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE

Lukas Kreibig

Giulia Frigieri

Jennifer Riis Gotrik Nicholas Pfosi

38 SÃ&#x2020;LDE

Kristina Steiner

XXL LADY

THE SCARS WE CARRY

MIXED GENERATIONS

I, JINAN

HOME, THE BEST PLACE IN THE WORLD

Klara Zamourilova

Ebrahim Elmoly

Christine Simon

Capucine Chandon Kaveer Rai

THE LAST WOLF CHILDREN written and photographed by Lukas Kreibig

The horror began What can you take in ten minutes? Food. Clothes. Gisela went with her grandmother to the church in the dead of winter. First, the Russians separated the men and the women. Then, they forced them to travel to Russia. By foot. The Russian soldiers would not waste any bullets, preferring, instead, to beat to death all those who fell. During this march they ate next to nothing. Gisela’s grandmother died of starvation on this march. When she ran to be by her side, the soldiers yelled at her “Go away, go away, we will kill you!” At this point, Gisela was alone. She wanted to escape. She wanted to run. Her memories are worn and, some, a little mixed-up. She doesn’t have a full picture—instead, only fragments and feelings rise out of the blurriness. She stares down at the floor of Erna’s living room, nervously playing with her fingers. She remembers breaking free from this death march with a few others, but not exactly how. They didn’t know where they were— no maps, no markings, nothing. They began by searching for farms, but found them all empty because the farmers were also taken by the soldiers. Covered in lice and dirt, they barely survived. At some point, they heard Königsberg was safe again, so Gisela and the others returned and joined the effort to start cleaning up the city. They would get 200 grams of food each day and, sometimes, a watery soup. The Russians came with their own families, so there was no space for Gisela anymore. She heard of people fleeing to other countries from this devastated land where a 14-year-old German girl would always be an enemy so she too decided to go. Her goal: reach Lithuania. At least, there, she heard, food was easier to come by. There is a name for people like Gisela and Erna - kids who were roaming in east Prussia between 1945 and 1948 during one of the biggest humanitarian crisis in history. Wolf children – because they often slept in the woods.

After losing their parents in the chaos of World War II, children of former East Prussia are forced into a struggle for survival. Gisela is one of them. “It’s not that I have a hard time remembering, it’s just that I don’t want to,” Gisela says, as she bursts into tears. She doesn’t want to remember because, in those days, she survived on next to nothing, begging for food every day. She doesn’t want to remember because, in those days, she saw her own 8

grandmother die of starvation and as she grieved the Russian soldiers shoved guns in her face. She doesn’t want to remember because, at the age of 14, her life became a living hell. Today Gisela Unterspann is 86. Many years have passed since these horrors happened but the memories still strike her. She sits in the living room of a small, old house with her friend Erna Schneider, who hands her a tissue to wipe the tears. Her gaze drifts to a lake in the distance through the window at a beautiful lake. Here in the Baltic state of Lithuania, spring comes late and the air is cold. Erna and Gisela couldn’t be more different. Gisela is a quiet person. She thinks before she speaks, and answers concisely.

Erna, on the other hand, speaks freely and has an optimistic approach to the world. She even ran for mayor once. Today she made Gisela a so-called hunger soup or “after-war food” as she calls it, made from thick pigs' blood and potatoes. When the British army bombed Königsberg in 1944, the old and and the young were evacuated to the countryside. By the time the city surrendered, about 42,000 people had died and the Red Army had captured over 90,000 prisoners. When the soldiers arrived in the village, they banged on the doors and told them that they had only ten minutes to gather in the local church.

During those three years, 100,000 people died from epidemics and malnutrition. Children where often the ones who survived, fed the last bread from a starving mother, who they then had to bury. They didn’t have any future and couldn’t survive in this area, so they died, fled or ended up in a Soviet orphanage. But their stories didn’t end there. This was just the beginning of a new chapter in their lives. A new life Gisela went illegally by train to Lithuania. When she arrived, she began working small jobs like babysitting and farmwork. Due to the intensity of the work she was just skins and bones. Ultimately, she ended up on a forced collective farm in the Soviet Union called a kolkhoz.There, where she lived from then on, she found her future husband. The work was hard, pulling potatoes and roots out of the ground. After she picked them, she gave it all to the Soviets. She had to work seven days a week with no days off. 9

Later, her husband got a better position in the collective so she could stay at home raising the children. Until the dawn of the Soviet era, Gisela always had to cover up her identity. She tried to keep the details of her story close to her heart because the government threatened punishment to anyone who wouldn’t report Germans. She took a Lithuanian name and learned the Lithuanian language in about three months. For 40 years, she lived with the constant fear of being discovered and punished for being born in the wrong part of the world.

Reinhard Bunti, born in 1936, became a wolf child when he was 10 years old. “My heart is German, but I’m Lithuanian.”, he says. When his mother was on her death bed in their bombed-out house in Königsberg, she told him, “You have to survive, go to Lithuania.” He went there all alone with nearly frostbitten feet in a cargo train in cold December.

Margot Dudas, born in 1935, became a refugee before she was even 10 years old. She had to bury her own half-brother who was decapitated in a train accident during her journey to Lithuania. Her greatest fear was being raped by the Russians. In one instance, she witnessed a woman trying to defend herself from the Russian soldiers’ advances. They shot her.

A letter for Gisela Gisela sits in her little house in a tiny village in rural Lithuania with a population somewhere between 10 and 100 people nobody really knows. A run-down gravel road connects the inhabitants to the outside world. It is peaceful here. Quiet. Only chickens who scratch for seeds and a car now and then disturb the silence. She holds an old, yellowed letter in her hand, Express from Germany. She can’t read it; her eyes aren’t good anymore. It’s dated April 18, 1961 and her name is written on the envelope.

It says in German: “My dear Giselchen, I am so happy that I know you are still alive and that I have your address to write you. We haven’t heard from each other in a long time. Your brother Dieter and I are healthy.” The letter is signed:” Your Mother.”

She tried everything, even the German embassy, but nobody could help her. And then it was too late. Her mother died two years after the first letter. Cancer. She had never told Gisela about her illness. Gisela would never see her mother again.

This is the first letter she had recieved from her mother after decades of separation. With it, there are another one hundred or so stapled in a little box - two were sent every week for about two years. Gisela bought a dark green German to Lithuanian dictionary, now worn from age. She used to translate her thoughts into German. Her first letter took her three weeks. Back then, Gisela attempted to return to Germany. She wanted to see her mother again.

She is now 86 years old and after all those years of hiding her native language, her German is almost gone. She sits quietly between the pauses of nearly every sentence that she speaks. Gisela wants to forget all the horrible things she witnessed but she can’t. “It just stays with you like a scar. It looms over you,” she says.

But her freedom was restricted at the kolkhoz. It’s a place where people are forced to work. The leader of the collective hated her husband because he was a well-educated man, born as upper-class, a thorn in the side of a loyal party communists, so her freedom was particular limited.

above: Erna Schneider, born in 1936, became a wolf child when she was 9 years old. She was seperated from her mother when Erna was deported by the Red Army in a cattle train. One stormy night in a strain station she managed to escape and fled into the forest. Later she found out that all the children who stayed on the train were taken by boat to Russia which was subsequently attacked. All of them died.

She feels disconnected from the Lithuanian government, which provides her with a pension of just 148€ a month. She heard in Germany some people get 1000€ per month.

right: Elfriede Müller, born in 1934, became a refugee when she was 11 years old. While in hiding, she witnessed her mother and brother were taken by the Soviets and sent to Siberia to work in a forced-labor camp. Elfriede’s mothers wouldn’t return to Lithuania until 1990, several decades after their separation, only to pass away three years later of cancer.

WE ARE ALL ON THE SAME BOAT Fed up with overpriced houses and life in a concrete jungle, more and more people in London undertake untraditional life choices. An insight of how it is like to live on the water in the European metropolis. By Giulia Frigieri

uring a spring sunset in Victoria park, east London, Phil, London boater since 2003, is peacefully cruising with his Barge boat into a canal lock, a chamber gate which is going to rise his boat up to the level of the next section of the waterway. “Since I am at the water point, I shall get me water,” he says in his Yorkshire accent while connecting the hose pipe into the tap. Boats, differently from houses, do not have unlimited water and Phil says it is a good habit to remember to fill up your water tank every time you pass by a common facility point on the canal. From first dwellers of the canal to nowadays Considering that narrowboats made their first appearance as wood and coal cargo boats, it might seem strange now to think of them as a very popular dwelling choice in London. It was only from 1995 that British Waterways agreed to release a “continuous cruising” licence to boaters who did not want to pay for a mooring ( a place where the boat could be kept and left) or to use the facilities of the marina on the condition that they would “engage in regular navigation along the network of canals and rivers, and should not be moored in the same place for more than 14 days”. This was the mutual agreement between Canal River Trust and London boaters who were allowed to live on their houseboats all year long but expected to move every two weeks to a different spot. Phil comes out from the boat with a big white cassette and walks to the water point. “You know what I am about to do right ?” he giggles. When you pass by a water point, it’s also a good thing to remember to empty your chemical toilet, which has not unlimited capacity either.

Mobility as a way to create a community? Mobility, which is one of the main features of this lifestyle has always represented for boaters an opportunity to make weekly friends with people mooring next to one another (rarely in London you get to meet your neighbours) and paradoxically the chance to create a community. However, since May 2015, new regulations were applied by CRT on continuous cruisers, partly to face the increasing numbers of people who came to live on boats (who would largely exceed the common facilities ) and partly to prevent them to stay long time in the most popular areas. The most important enforcement stated that boaters would now have to travel a minimum of 20 miles a year. Since 2015 many cruisers had to fight against the threats of not having their licence renewed and lose their home because the supposed lack of miles accumulated. Clearly, CRT’s change of attitude hasn’t been accepted by members of the community in the same way. Phil lives and works on board, running a cafè boat and moving to different spots every two weeks around London. He thinks that British Waterways has been changing rules with very little consultation to boaters and that its enforcements are inducing feeling of fear and paranoia into boaters.

“This is my only home and stability I have in life. I work on my boat Boston Belle and I make my living out of it, can see why many boaters are stressed about this”.

“I think the rule of the 14 days is a good way of preserving a public space for everybody. There is no point of living on a boat if you don’t move. Affordable living is another right to fight that should not be confused with the right to preserve a public space for those who chose a nomadic life. I have always moved so for me that aspect hasn’t changed much”, Daniele points out. The problem of the increasing amount of people choosing the waterways as the only alternative to the London housing crisis is clearly something that has been deeply affecting the canal and especially older boaters. “In the last couple of years since of the housing crisis, more and more people decided to go and live on houseboats only driven by the cool aspect of it or the cheaper costs. But most of these people are not made for this life, they don’t love it. It’s common to see them for a bit on the canal and then seeing someone else on their boat after a while”.

Pablo, jewellery designer from Argentina, boater on El Suenero since five years, is finding it more and more difficult to cross central London for the lack of spots available.

Positive attitude However, how disruptive and scary this might be for boaters, there are reasons to believe that CRT’s ultimatum to boaters could also have a positive impact.

“The vibe on the canal has changed a lot. Boating is becoming a more and more leisure lifestyle. There are too many people. You barely find a spot. They don’t just call us hippies now but territorial hippies”. - Pablo

The chance to be still in a place Whereas mobility has been defined as one of the most representative feature of boating life, London canals are also populated by people who pay for private mooring, spaces equipped with facilities where boaters can live for shorter or longer term while “paying rent”. A good reason for that seems to be the need for many people to settle down and not being too worried about moving after the decision to have a baby. This is a way for boaters to combine family commitments and life on water. Differently from continuous cruisers, people with private moorings seem to succeed in establishing an intimate community with their neighbours which in many cases are families in a similar condition.

“Being on a mooring really helps us. It was a great opportunity we didn’t want to miss and we can still move over summer for short cruises. But we did it for Mo, our son. We wanted him to have a bit of stability and still be able to live on this boat and enjoy this life”. Ade, urbanist and personal trainer living on a boat for over six years with her husband Lindon. Calypso, former continuous cruiser, has been living next to Ade on the private mooring for nine months. She describes their living condition almost as an expanded family where people help each other almost everyday. Also, she feels that the mooring offered a chance to have a baby without the pressure to move back onto land”.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen. I believe the canal will always be everyone’s. And whatever happens we’ll face it because, yeah, we are on the same boat”. -Phil

BACK TO BASICS Off-grid or otherwise sustainable lifestyles are growing in popularity throughout SmĂĽland, a heavily-forested province in southern Sweden. Laila Dokter adopted this way of life over eight years ago.

By Jennifer Riis Gotrik

aila breaths in and leans into her green lawn chair, ginger tea in hand. Igor, her German Shepherd, barks in the distance. Eight years of dependence on nature’s original energy source has taught her to take advantage of sunny days like these. The solar energy meter reads 100 percent. Today is laundry day. A twenty-minute drive from Högsby, a small town in southern Sweden, 52-year-old Laila Dokter finds herself at home among the trees. It’s quiet here. Quiet, until you begin to notice the songs of the birds and the wind moving through the tall trees. At night, when the sky fades to black, a thick blanket of darkness reveals the brilliance of the stars. The resulting stillness is increasingly difficult to find today. “You have to use your senses again. Really seeing, hearing, tasting. I think we lost that,” Laila says. “Listening to the birds, feeling the wind, the cold, the sun, using all five senses.” Laila believes returning to the basics - “the simple things” in life - is the future. She says coming to understand yourself is the best thing you can do for the world and that, by spending time in nature - witnessing true quietness on a daily basis - you face your true self. “You are forced to slow down, sit with your thoughts, sit with your pain. You grow stronger from this.” The sun sets and Laila begins chopping carrots and potatoes for her evening meal. Everything on the table is locallysourced. The meat from Kalmar, a nearby island; the potatoes from a farm five kilometers away; the iron-rich water, slightly brown in hue, from a well in her yard. Dinner is prepared on a stove fueled by wood from the forests outside her door. While a typical house is connected to an electrical grid and the city’s gas, water and telephone lines, Laila’s home is fully “offthe-grid”, a term referring to the system and lifestyle of people functioning without the comforts of remote infrastructure like electricity, water and gas. So-called “green” lifestyles like hers are rising in popularity throughout Sweden due to increasing accessibility. Many find that going off the grid allows for a certain sense of freedom and security seemingly undiscoverable within the confines of modern-day society.

“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influentce of the earth.”

- Henry David Thoreau

“[People] are afraid of almost everything losing a job, the rising energy prices, war, everything. If something should happen, you have your own water and your own food so your life will continue.”

“You feel the difference, how you act with nothing and with everything. You see the bigger picture. I didn’t see that before; I couldn’t see it when I was in a hurry.”

Alone in the woods

Originally from the Netherlands, Laila moved to Sweden eight years ago with her husband and their son, Sven. The family of three invested in and installed solar panels, planted a vegetable garden, and began their journey towards self-sufficiency. About a year ago, she and her husband separated. The man she began dating at the age of seventeen left the home they started together and moved to another town about an hour away. Sven, now seventeen, went with him. “This year I learned what the difference between loneliness and being alone is. Loneliness, I don’t feel,” she says. “When you feel alone, you can do something about it so it’s not a problem. Loneliness, I don’t feel, because... well, I don’t know why. I just don’t feel it.” Old photo albums from family trips they had taken to South Africa and Australia sit on a shelf next to textbooks on hand reading and holistic healing methods, subjects that have piqued her interest in recent years. Sven will begin his university studies in natural sciences a year from now. “I tell him, ‘you’re the smartest guy in the world, I hope you know that.” When he stops by the house for a visit, he feels that his mother misses him, that she’s still sad he left. For a seventeenyear-old boy, it’s not easy to deal with. Like any mother, Laila wishes he would stay longer, and come by more often. Laila has found her life of solitude to be, more than anything, empowering. There’s a balance between fullfilling work and peace in the quiet. If she wants to socialize, she calls her sister. Four evenings a week, Laila teaches Swedish to Syrian refugees who recently moved to Högsby. Many of her students have experienced a degree of loss and tragedy unimaginable to her. After class, she sometimes reads the lines on the palms of their hands. She says every crease tells a story. She interprets the lines and the students tell her that the readings brings them peace. “I want to help people open up, to do the things they want to do.” She doesn’t plan to live alone in her house forever. She sees herself in six or seven years moving somewhere warm. “Not a big house, but a small house. I think I will actually live alone but I hopefully will have a partner. A real person you can share everything with. It sounds good.”

“It’s a beautiful process here because it’s me, myself and I; I am never alone. If I want heat in the house, I have to go get the wood, and then I make fire. It’s about the small things - what’s really important in life.”

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE As the refugee crisis plays out throughout Europe, lesbian, gay and transgender asylum seekers are lost in the ocean of xenophobia, news coverage and calls for integration. Facing harassment and xenophobia, queer refugees are caught between societies.

By Nicholas Pfosi

eal Berneya’s breaking point came when a stray bullet killed his 26 year old boyfriend, Nor, on the Lebanese-Syrian border. “At that point, I felt like ‘Holy shit I can’t stay here,’” Neal said of the moment. “It hurt so much. Everywhere I went there were memories: ‘Oh, we had food at this restaurant’ or ‘We went to this place.’” That was in 2014. Now, age 23, Neal is on his way to a new life in Copenhagen, Denmark. He’s one of thousands of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) refugees fleeing war and anti-gay persecution in their home countries and, like many, he saw Europe as a safe haven for people with sexually marginalized identities. “When you live [in the Middle East] you have this idea in your head that, ‘Oh, if I went to Europe it would be much

better,” Neal said. “I thought about it actually a long time ago, before the war, before everything. I’d always Google which country is the best. Oh Denmark; it’s the best!’ But when I moved here, I was kind of shocked by the truth.” For Neal and many other queer refugees, the ‘progressive’ Europe is not as inclusive as they had imagined. The Europeans are racist and the other refugees and Muslim immigrants are intolerant to homosexuality, they say. For instance, after Nor’s tragic death, Neal waded into the dating scene in Copenhagen, only to face rejection after rejection once his country of origin came up. “One guy came on the date, and while other people said it in different ways, he’s the only one who said it 31

clearly: ‘Oh you’re Arabian?,’” the man told him. “You’re just pretending to be nice because you want to do something bad to me later.” LGBT refugees face a myriad of challenges other asylum seekers do not. Many have spent their lives hiding their identity which makes proving their sexual or gender identity to immigration officials difficult, if not impossible. Furthermore, the Associated Press has found that many interpreters, who themselves often come from the Middle East, will refuse to continue working on a case when asylum seekers disclose their sexual orientation. The complications continue even if asylum is granted, with refugees often living in communities that are full of conservative or closed-minded people. In 2016, almost 100 cases of LGBT related incidents of abuse and harassment were reported in asylum camps and shelters in Germany and with European governments overwhelmed, queer refugees often wait in hostile environments with little recourse. Additionally, inadequate access to medical and mental health services disproportionately affects LGBT people and this is an

ongoing problem for asylum seekers. In Berlin, for example, the Krankenschein system, (the form of healthcare covering only acute conditions that is given to asylum seekers and refugees) often excludes hormone treatment therapies or psychotherapy. Both of these treatments can be vital to the health and wellbeing of many LGBT newcomers. Ostracized from Muslim communities for being gay, and from European ones for being Muslim, many non-straight refugees struggle to find their place when they leave the camps. For instance, Neal has trouble finding friends he can connect with and for Behoosh Kamaei, a gay Iranian man who fled his country for fear of execution, Sweden is just as homophobic as Iran. “Everything I used to do in my home country, I can’t do here,” Neal said. “Even when I try to meet people or, at least hook up I’m not successful at all, so I just decided to give up.” His social issues aren’t limited to dating. Some of his Danish friends have become frustrated with the lack of empathy Neal shows towards the problems that come up in their lives. Yet to him, they are trivial compared to the trauma of Syria’s civil war.

Name: Anonymous Country of Origin: Syria Country of Refuge: Denmark

“I have four brothers and two sisters,” Neal Berneya says at the start of the interview, “Of course half of them are dead.”

He tried five times in Syria to stop being gay. He prayed. He fasted. He asked himself over and over: “Why am I not like my friends?” Even now, living in Denmark, despite many other refugees being openly gay, he cannot bring himself to come out. For our interview, he requested only to work through a translator of European origin and refused to be recognizable in a photograph.

Stories of these shocking losses plague the personal histories of Syrian refugees and since fleeing the war-torn country after his boyfriend, Nor, was accidentally shot and killed, he finds himself in a new sort of pain: loneliness. After trying to participate in gay culture in Europe, he resigned himself to a closeted life, finding instead of openness, open racism and xenophobia.

He came to Denmark nearly two years ago, after the war in Syria became too much. During final exam period at his sister’s university, they had planned to meet after her class when a bomb exploded just up the road from them. “It’s an image that doesn’t leave my mind,” he said of that day when he and his family decided to leave Syria. “I saw people dying in front of me.”

“It’s very painful actually because no one can be there for you when you’re lonely,” Neal says. “I don’t have friends who I can depend on or who I can talk to about what’s happening.” Above is Neal’s travel documents issued by the Danish government.

Studying Danish language in Jutland, he fears being outed to his family and friends. Despite assurances from his Danish friends that queerness is accepted here, he doubts it will be understood by his Muslim-majority community. He wants to tell his parents he’s gay but keeps telling himself, ‘No, not yet, not yet.’

Name: Neal Berneya Country of Origin: Syria Country of Refuge: Denmark

Name: Behoosh Kamaei Country of Origin: Iran Country of Refuge: Sweden The State of Iran outed Behoosh Kamaei to his parents when he was sent to prison for the crime of being gay. Homosexuality is illegal in Iran and can be punished with jail-time or even execution. Kamaei had managed to hide his identity from his family and friends but after being incarcerated for the better part of a year, they discovered the truth. Upon his release, Kamaei decided it was time to flee to Europe. The image to the right is a personal letter he wrote while applying for a nursing job in Helsingborg, Sweden, where he now lives, corrected by his Swedish teacher. In it he writes: “I hope I am accepted into this program because I have plans to study to become a nurse in the future.” All of this, he achieved on his own. “No one gave me any information,” he tells me, “no one told me this is this, this is that. I learned everything by myself.” 34

“If someone tells me something very bad I should maybe hug them or something but I’m not going to be able to react to it because I’m so used to it,” Neal explained. “For example, one of my Danish friends, her aunt died very recently. She was very close to her aunt but [she] just died because she’s extremely old. [My friend] got so angry at me because I didn’t know how to listen to her. People die of old age. Everyone dies of old age. It’s a fact.” It’s not just Neal who can’t relate to Danes; it’s a two-way street. “The things that I’ve experienced,” Neal said, “they’ve never been through it or had a similar issue, so even if I said something, they wouldn’t understand.”

community LGBT refugees lack in their new homes. “If you have a problem, there’s no government to say ‘Oh, we can help you.’ You can’t even call the police and you can’t go to your family. The only ones you can go to is this small community that you are very close to.” Now, living in a place free of war or overt state persecution, these refugees are forced to rebuild the lives they left behind. Without a clear path towards acceptance in either society, the pain is palpable. “Your past will haunt your dreams and your present will haunt your days,” Neal says. “Both of them are very bad [right now] so I don’t know how the future is going to go.”

Behoosh Kamaei, who fled from persecution in Iran, a detention center in Greece, and a pinball journey of stays in countries such as Montenegro, Serbia, and Germany before arriving in a refugee camp in southern Sweden, echos Neal’s narrative of frustration. “No one fucking helped me,” he said. “No one gave me information, no one told me this is this, this is that. I learned everything myself.” Despite starting a job in April as a nurse in a retirement home and learning both English and Swedish, he can’t help but feeling disappointed by what he’s found in terms of acceptance in Sweden. “If you tell someone, ‘I am gay,’” he said referring to Swedish immigrants and other refugees, “they’ll stop contacting you. They hate you and they’ll show that they hate you.” For Behoosh, his experience in Sweden feels just as exclusionary as Iran. Behoosh and Neal’s stories are not the most extreme or unique among the thousands of LGBT refugees in Europe. This tension they experience existing on the fringes of two already conflicting cultures only exacerbates the stress of integration. Neal, who was out of the closet and active in the gay community in Damascus describes the importance of the

Name: Pouya Mohammadi Country of Origin: Iran Country of Refuge: Denmark Pouya Mohammadi’s life changed when his neighbors caught him having sex with his boyfriend at home. Growing up in the southern city of Shiraz, Iran, homosexuality was punishable by execution, or at least social ostracization, and for a wealthy family like Pouya’s, neither was an option. Within days, Pouya’s uncle brought him to the Turkish-Iranian border and arranged a trip for Pouya to start a new life in Denmark. He was only 15. Since that day three years ago, Pouya has integrated into Danish society. First, through living in a refugee camp, then by transferring into a traditional Danish school, learning the language and earning high marks in math and science. Despite his success and the sporadic financial help from his relatives, Pouya has not seen his parents or younger brother since he left. His father, who travels often to Europe for work has made no attempt to visit. When asked about how he copes with the emotions of abandonment, he says he often needs a hug, but it just isn’t possible. 36

Claudia sits in the waiting room . She is very exhausted. She had been screaming all morning and now admonishes herself to be more quiet.

SÆLDE On a little farm on the northern German countryside a group of people manage their lives autonomously.

By Kristina Steiner

“Are you not a stranger any longer?“ she asks while taking two small steps towards me. She has slim, short brown hair and light blue eyes. I am not sure what question to answer. How long are people strangers? What makes them become friends? Claudia looks at me with full attention. Her eyes are questioning. Outside I can hear a cow. She tilts her head a little bit to the left, still focusing on me. Her eyes winden. I know I have hesitated for too long. Tears come to her eyes. Her mouth opens and the first steps of a soft scream leave her mouth. “I mean, I have been here for some days,” I manage to say. A total lack of understanding flashes in her eyes. Confusion. More tears. The scream comes again. “I mean, I would say, we are friends now”, I say. Silence. Ease. A few more steps. She reaches me and gives me a hug. “You are a friend.“

In 1987, Peter Richert bought the farm to live and work here totally self sufficently. He gave the farm the name “Saelde”. In the Middle Ages Saelde was a replica of the Roman fortune Goodess “Fortuna”. It also means that if someone tries to act always in the right way honour, fortune and salvation inevitably will come to them.

t’s the first warm day of spring this year. Here on the farm Hof Saelde the first little calves were just born. The little farm is in a valley in a nature conservation area in the northern Germany. It is as far away on the countryside as you can get in densely populated Germany. When you leave the highway in the middle of nowhere, you take a road over the countryside, and then the next smaller road and then a smaller road, still, through the forest. After the forest a little valley openes up and in the middle are some houses and the farm.

Angela who has trisomy takes care of the chickens. Jan-W. Who is tall and strong needs to work a lot and helps in the stable with the cows a lot. Thorsten who has autistic qualities and who has a lot energy works in the fields and the forest. Birigit who has very subtle senses takes care of the shoots in the glashouse and plants them. UBui is the only one eccepted not to do anything particular to managed daily life. Though he paints a lot colorful stripes on white paper which he folds most acurately. Angela who has trisomy takes care of the chickens. Jan-W. Who is tall and strong needs to work a lot and helps in the stable with the cows a lot. Thorsten who has autistic qualities and who has a lot energy works in the fields and the forest. Birigit who has very subtle senses takes care of the shoots in the glashouse and plants them. UBui is the only one eccepted not to do anything particular to managed daily life. Though he paints a lot colorful stripes on white paper which he folds most acurately.

In the beginning there where five or six”inhabitants” besides the farmer’s family. Fries, Michael and Bubi moved to the place first. Within the first few years, the number of inhabitants grew to nineteen. The farm is an institution for mentally disabled adults. Here the farmer’s family, the mentally disabled people and their caretaker live, work and eat together. “We never thought about conventional farming. We always knew we wanted to do ecological farming,” Johannes Richert says who is Peter’s son. As a farmer he now manages the farm. Corn and other food is grown to feed the animals: cows, pigs and chickens. Cows are milked on the farm. From time to time a male calf or a pig is slaughtered in the small butcher’s shop in the neighbouring village. On the farm’s mill the corn is ground and in the farm’s oven bread is baked. The well provides water for drinking, showering, watering the plants and all other needs. In the greenhouse, the garden and the field’s corn, vegetables and salad grows.

Angela who has trisomy takes care of the chickens. Jan-W, who is tall and strong needs to work a lot and helps in the stable with the cows. Thorsten who is autistic and who has a lot energy, works in the fields and the forest. Birigit who has subtle senses takes care of the shoots in the greenhouse. Bubi is the only one expected not to do anything in particular. Though he paints many colorful stripes on white paper which he folds. Even though the group works and lives together, there is a strong hierachy on the farm. On the top are the inhabitants who still have parents and who go home every weekend. Still having caring parents is envied by those who don’t. In their case the farmers or the guards spend some time with them. Going to the superstore is one of the most valued activities during their free time.

Everybody works and helps the community in their own way. This enables people to live as independently as possible. They produce food of the highest ecological standards and are even able to sell their products.

Angela takes care of the chicken. Mucking out the stable, feeding, checking the chicken’s health and collecting the eggs are her responsibilities.

Jan-W relaxes while mucking out the cow stable.

“Do you come again Wednesday?“ “Today is Wednesday. First, I come again tomorrow which is Thursday.” Being invited to come on a Wednesday is a honour. Every Wednesday at 11.00 a.m. the truck from the city comes to bring what the farm can not produce by itself: tooth brushes, cleaning things and so on. The truck is expected in total excitement. There is no other topic of equal importance the whole week than the food truck, if it will be on time and what it might bring. Even the most lazy inhabitants help the driver passionately empty the truck. “Thursday. Okay. But on Wednesday too?“ 44

XXLLADY By Klara Zamourilova

“I am wondering if it‘s worth it to follow my dreams and be myself when I just keep hearing that I am an ugly and fat bitch who should not be allowed to walk in the streets, or worse, to be a model.”

t‘s a rainy Friday evening in Prague. It‘s getting dark outside, the streets are empty, there‘s no rush. Silence dominates the room. Rain drops beat on the window. The silence is punctuated by voices and laughter coming from the next room. There, in front of the mirror, Sarka is preparing for her shoot. The makeup artist stands in front of her, applies lipstick. “Can I do it myself? I just know how to draw the lip shape that suits me the best,” Sarka says. She likes to be in control. The make-up is finished. It is time to dress up for the pin-up style, choose jewellery and high heels from the big suitcase she brought herself and then the shooting can start. Every light is set to shine in the middle of the room where she is standing in the red spotted dress, enjoying the moment. No directions from the photographer are needed; Sarka is experienced. She enjoys the relaxed atmosphere. Twenty pictures of different poses and she takes a break. Time to put on different make-up, change her dress and go back to the white background for more pictures.

Sarka had only a few photo shoots last year. She chooses photographers precisely and she wasn‘t convinced by portfolios of those who wrote her for cooperation. They wanted to shoot pin-up because of her alternative look, and it wouldn‘t bring anything new to her portfolio, she says.

“I was surprised that photographers wanted me for photo shoots and about the fact that different men started messaging me that I am beautiful.” - Sarka

Sarka is a 29-year-old alternative plus-size photo model. She still sees herself as an amateur model even though she has more than five years of experience. It started when her friend, a photographer, was looking for a plus size model for her project. They photographed together and Sarka was surprised by the results. And she wasn‘t the only one. After posting photos on social media, her self-confidence started rising and since men keep complimenting her through social media, it has become the main way she would meet them. Sometimes it‘s a match, but other times they only wrote to humiliate her or offer sex. Sarka refused to take these comments personally. Instead, she responded with humour and that‘s the last thing people expected. “They think I am a poor, lonely woman that nobody wants and I will be happy if they even text me. When I respond to sexual comments or pictures with humour, they are screwed up.”

Man: “I would like to fuck you, today!” Sarka: “Sorry, but one question, has this way of meeting women worked at least once?“ Man: Hmm, no, but if you don‘t want, I will not shit myself from denial.” Sarka: “You know, even that my first reaction was denial.” Man: “Hey, go to the fitness centre you ugly fat ball!” Hobby – a pleasure or a sin? Her confidence came from modelling, which helped her to look at her body in a different way and to start loving herself. She promotes a body positive approach through social media and, for some women, she is an example of a self-confident, strong and independent woman. However, she still has to deal with a world of prejudice every day. Sarka works in a bank from Monday to Friday. After work is

Sarka gave her rats Greek names, because she loves how they sound. She takes care of Fobos, Xuthos, Vulkanus, Volturnus, Ifikles, Wirtus, Daimon, Orion and Erebos.

the only time she can take a rest. For her, it means going home and playing her favourite computer game, texting friends or taking care of her nine pet rats. When talking to her, it is easy to see how much she loves rats. Her apartment reveals that passion for them is overwhelming. Huge, forty-pound bags with rat food lay on the ground near several big cages, some of them empty with one in the corner full of different kinds of rats - white, grey or pink and furless. On a closet in the middle of the room, several trophies from rat competitions are displayed. With years of breeding experience she is skilled and active on social media helping others improve as rat breeders.

Sarka takes her rats to a rat competition and helps there as a results clerk. Her role is also in deciding about points for quality of fur, paws, rat temperament etc.

Being loud and not being afraid of it Social media is a huge part of Sarka‘s life. Most of the time it is fun for her to be active, read comments and talk with others, but, sometimes, everything turns against her. If she has to deal with haters and humiliating comments every day, it can be too

much. “I have a club of haters. They always get photos from my private account somehow and repost them with mean comments. I always count how long it will take before the haters speak up,” she says. Even if Sarka looks balanced and happy now, she has not been strong her whole life. Sarka‘s problems started in elementary school. As an obese child she was bullied by her classmates. Even her mother wasn‘t really supportive when it came to the question of Sarka‘s body, telling her over and over she should lose some weight because only skinny people are beautiful and successful. In addition her parents sent her to a summer camp for obese children. Sarka hated being there and the only result was that she became more stubborn about the weight issue. Her problems continued through high school. At 17, she started dating a boy and moved with him from Prague to the city of Olomouc, far away from her parents. And things only became worse from there.

Sarka lives alone and due to previous experiences, she wants it to stay that way for some time. She doesn‘t want to be dependent on anyone.

After five years of modelling, some of the photographers became Sarka‘s friends. Photo shoots are a way to see each other again.

“I was so afraid to come back from work, that every time I reached home, I just threw up. My weight went down to 54 kilograms.“ - Sarka

“I wanted to continue my education at the University of Olomouc. I tried to study for examinations to get accepted,“ she says,“ but it was impossible with him on my back. He did everything to stop me from studying. He was also telling me repeatedly that I am not smart enough to study at university. In the end, I wasn‘t accepted.” A ban to live her own life Her boyfriend realized that he, himself, wants to study and, in order to do that, he needed money. He convinced Sarka to start working, so she found a full-time job in a pet shop. She received a salary each month in cash; when she came home her boyfriend took all the money. “It happened that I only had about 20 Czech crowns (less than Euro) per day to live on. So I bought two rolls every day and that was it. But a bigger problem appeared in my head. I was so afraid to come back from work that every time I reached home, I just threw up. My weight went down to 54 kilograms.“ It was difficult to change her life after four years of abuse from the person she loved. Thoughts about breaking up occurred to her often, but she was afraid. “I was used to violence that was focused at me. But he also hurt my animals. He took my ferret from the cage and started to choke it in front of me.”

One day, Sarka visited her best friend after months of being banned from going outside. While sitting at a pub, a text message came up on her phone: “Where the hell are you? I am hungry, come home and cook for me!” When her friend realized what was going on, she helped Sarka understand that she doesn‘t have to live like this. She convinced Sarka to stay at her apartment that night and, with her help, Sarka finally moved away from her boyfriend the next morning. She stayed in Olomouc for a while, but because of her ex-boyfriend‘s stalking she realized she couldn‘t start a new life in that city. Long way towards self-awareness „Sometimes life is really hell, and even the strongest can‘t cope,“ she says. “If you still follow your own way of life and your own opinions, others will explain to you, how much of a pathetic, useless person you are. Listening to this from childhood, from unknown people or even family, destroys me. It can either kill or strengthen a person. I am not sure what it’s going to be in my case. Sometimes I just sit on the ground, hand in the cage with my friendly rats, and read the opinions about me, wiping tears. Is it really so bad to be different, to have your own goals and your own code of conduct? Sometimes life totally sucks. Then you should paint a smile on your face and go against the crowd again.”

THE SCARS WE CARRY By Ebrahim Elmoly

Frederikshavn camp, Denmark. March 2017. Abo Yassin’s scar comes from the time when ISIS militia tried to eliminate him by exploding his car, back home in Iraq.

bo Yassin is a 55-year-old policeman who worked at the police department in Iraq. He was responsible for collecting information on the Islamic State. On February 28, 2015, ISIS tried to eliminate him by exploding his car. He got injured and they kidnapped his nine-year-old son. They threatened to kill his son and sell his kidney unless he paid a ransom of 5,000 dollars. It took him three months to collect the money needed. When they gave him back his son, the all family left Iraq immediately and flew to Turkey. A few days later, they embarked on a boat to Greece. They walked through Serbia, Macedonia and Hungary and finally took a bus to Austria. “It was a long and dangerous journey without sleeping and eating.” They reached Denmark and were planning to go Sweden but the police stopped them at the border. They gave them two options: ask for asylum in Denmark, or in Germany.

But seeking asylum in Germany could take some time, and they could be arrested. 56

“We face many injustices. Abo Yassin’s said For example there are five of us living in a small room, my youngest son has to sleep on the floor. We would like to move in a flat, but the employees only give flats to the people they like and they don’t like us. They want me to pay 2,000 kr. for every family member and wait six months if we want to move to an apartment. But we can’t pay, we don’t have money. I’m devastated. I am paying all my montly chronic medication for my wife and I with my grant money. My teeth hurt every night and I take a lot of pain killers all the time because my next dentist appointment won’t be for four months”, Abo yassin said.

“I wasn’t ready to put my family in jail. In order to save them, I chose to ask for asylum here in Denmark in December 2015.” After a month, Abo Yassin had his first interview with an investigator. He asked him about his experience how his life had been put in danger. during the second interview, nine months later, he asked similar questions. The third interview, in January 2017, only last 30 minutes. It didn’t go well because the interpreter couldn’t understand Abo Yassin’s Iraqi accent. After that, his family’s asylum request got rejected. “We have many evidence, but the authorities didn’t even look at them. They say Denmark is the country of human rights, but where are the human rights?” said Abo Yassin’s daughter.

“We call it the water clinic, because they tell us we’ll be okay if we drink a lot of water”. Yassin is the oldest son of Abo

Yassin’s ankle is permanently damaged because of the long time he spent walking across Europe to get to Denmark.

Yassin stands in his room in Frederikshavn camp, Denmark

Yassinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s family was rejected twice from the immigration authorities. They will have the final meeting with the judges in a few months. They are scared it will be rejected, as many of the refugees who come to Denmark are forced to go back to their home country.

Onthe other side of the world, anther refugee named Adnan and his family took a huge risk by taking a boat to Europe. After a first failed attempt, they tried again to reach their dream to come to Europe. Adnan is the a father of one son and two daughters. has seen one of his daughters die in front of him after a bomb fell on his house. Adnan was hit with shrapnels in his chest and legs, he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t use the stairs well or walk or do most daily activities. 58

Adnan and his son Abderhman in their flat in Cairo, Egypt.

Yassin. He has had a small back problem since birth. because he walked from Greece to Denmark carrying his younger brother, his problem got worse, up to the point where now he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t walk, sleep or deal with his life normally. Yassin got treatment in Denmark but he had to pay for his back strap with his own grant money.

children are terrified when they hear planes flying over their house. “It’s not easy for me see them like this. What future will they have here? They need professional help, and here there is no help,” Adnan father says. Adnan and his brother-in-law tried to leave Egypt a second time and managed to board the boats. However rough seas broke the boats, and when it seemed like there was no hope for them, the Greek coast guard forces rescued them. They were again detained, this time in Greek prisons, and might face deportation back to Egypt.

The police, under orders from the security establishments, kept them and other Syrians detained for three months in arbitrary conditions. They say they were mistreated and threatened to accept their deportation to Syria. Those who accepted were allowed to speak to their families or to NGOs to collect the money needed for their flights back to Syria. The police accompanied them to the airport. 60

Adnan says that “deportees from Egyptian prisons were detained again once they reached Syria”. The conditions in the jail were quite bad. Cells were 8 x 1.6 meters or smaller and accommodated more than 40 people at a time, including children, in a space meant for no more than 15. Adnan says they were treated worse than animals. After they were released from prison, the Egyptian authorities gave them new non-renewable visas valid for 30 days only.

“Our children have seen, in Syria, what no human being in the world can handle,” says Adnan. “Some of them scream at night from nightmares. Some of them are losing hair.” After experiencing air raids in Syria, the

Part of Adnan´s family watching telvision in their home in Cairo, Egypt. Six of October.

Adnan is living in Egypt in an 80-square-meter apartment with 21 other family members. he is also the main bread winner among them. Adnan and his family first planned to move to Egypt and then to cross the Mediterranean to Europe, but they were stopped by the police before they could board into a smuggling boat going to Italy. After they were arrested, Adnan and his family appeared in front of the prosecutor but were released because of a lack of evidence of illegal immigration.

MIXED

GENERATIONS

In Helsinki, Finland, with a rising housing shortage for the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s youth, the Rudolf Seniors Home is currently offering three students housing for reduced rent in exchange for spending quality time with the elderly. By Christine Simon

The men meet every second Monday and talk about different topics, like their professions in life. Mikko usually joins the philosophy group where they discuss topics such as the meaning of independence.

ikko Sinisalo stands in the hallway in front of Raja‘s door. He rings the bell. The door opens and she welcomes him in. He joins her at the table and she offers him orange juice. Raja Tiili, 68, is in a wheelchair and Mikko helps her lifting her head up. Raja smiles. She tells her story. She came to the elderly home around three years ago directly from the hospital, where she was being treated for rheumatism. ‘‘It‘s good to have the nurses here to help me”, Raja says, ‘‘because I coudn‘t live by myself anymore.” Raja is happy about the students moving into the seniors home. In her opinion, they are clever and nice. She likes spending time with them. Usually they just have a chat and they help her if she needs something but, unfortunately, they don‘t always have the time. Raja has always wanted to become a teacher, but she liked her job at the bank so she never did. When she was young, she also worked at an elderly home in Hamburg, Germany. In late 2013, the project ‘‘Oman Muotoinen Koti” (A Home That Fits) started. The main idea behind it was to prevent 64

youth homelessness and give students in Helsinki a place to stay. The homelessness among students in Helsinki is a huge problem and rent for apartments in the city is incredibly high. The solution for this problem was to let students between the ages of 18-25 move into a seniors home under the condition of spending at least three to five hours per week with their elderly neighbours. They have their own apartment with a kitchen and a bathroom and pay up to 250€ in rent, which is almost half the amount someone would pay for an apartment in town. As a result of this project, there is a decrease in loneliness among the elderly people and the students. After one year, they had the funding and help from the city to test this project in the Rudolf Seniors Home, which is located on the Laajasalo Island in eastern Helsinki. Death as a relief The idea for this project came from an elderly home in Deventer, Netherlands, where six students live without paying rent, as long as they spend around thirty hours per month with their neighbours. That project was more focused on

Twenty years ago Esko Halme, 68, moved in. When he was younger he was a sailor and went to England and Sweden. He loves helping the home, especially taking care of people and cleaning the yard.

After finishing school in one year, Serafina would like to study something related to animals or children, but she‘s not sure yet.

the fact that elderly people are lonely and integrating the generations can help allieviate that. In January 2016, the first students moved into the Rudolf Seniors Home. When they posted the announcement on Facebook, 312 applications came in. Mikko is one of the first participants. At 25 years old, he is studying political science at the University of Helsinki and he is currently in his first year. Mikko saw an advertisment of the apartment so he applied.

students living in this building,” Mikko said, ‘‘because there are so many elderly people and only three students so there isn’t enough time to see all of them. It’s nice because some of the elders say it’s different with us than with the nurses because, of course, they are working here, and we’re just the neighbours, so we meet and talk to them. That gives them a feeling of a normal communication.”

‘‘On the living arrangement”, he said, ‘‘It gives you some perspective in life that you wouldn’t get otherwise.” For instance, Mikko talks with them about dying but as a peaceful transition, not as something they fear. ‘‘It would be nice to get away from this world someday, is what they tell me, but not as a sad thing. Some of them are over 90. They have seen a lot of things in life.” Yet still, other elderly people don‘t want company. They‘d rather be alone. But most would be happier if students would spend more time with them. ‘‘It would be good to have more

Mikko has a housing contract for one year but it may be extended. He hasn‘t figured out how it will continue yet because he is turning 26 this year and the project is officially meant only for 18-25 years old. Sharing experiences together Tyyne Vähänissi is 94 years old and has been living in the elderly home for more than 10 years now. First, she moved in with her husband. But when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer‘s he moved to a specialized facility next door. For four years now, she‘s been on her own. Tyyne thinks it’s wonderful that the students are living here. ‘‘It’s nice to meet 67

them but it’s sad that they don’t have that much time to visit me,” Tyyne says. ‘‘It brings some kind of change in here.” Tyyne loves to eat out and last summer she ate pizza in the garden with the students. ‘‘It was a wonderful day,” she says. Nowadays she doesn’t really join any group activities but everyday she goes out for a walk regardless the weather. ‘‘The best thing is that I can talk about other topics with the younger ones, because with the older ones we‘re mostly talking about how many pills we were taking that day and things like that,‘‘ Tyyne said, ‘‘so it‘s nice to talk about different things.” New students arrive Serafina Eljaala, 18, moved in on December 1st of last year and, so far, she likes living in the Rudolf Seniors Home. She is the fifth student living in the home and is still going to high school. Serafina moved away from home because she didn‘t like it there and has many issues with her parents. She discovered the project through a friend on Facebook. In her opinion, it is different living in here than in an apartment in the city. ‘‘People in Finland are so quiet. They never talk, they never smile,” she said, ‘‘In my own house before, I didn’t know any of my neighbours. I didn’t know their names, because they never talked to me. But here, I know my neighbours. They always smile at me and we stop to talk for a minute if we run into each other. That’s nice.” With the elderly people, she said, they usually paint, bake or sing together. Once, they even went to a jazz concert. Serafina is the only student who also visits some of the elderly people in the building next to where she‘s living. Here, a lot of them have memory problems. Usually Serafina goes to visit them with a staff member. ‘‘This [experience] is very rare,” Serafina says, ‘‘not every 18-year-old spends their afternoons singing with elderly people.” Fading Memories Serafina sometimes visits Hilkaa Valkonen, who is 86 years old. Unfortunately, Hilkaa can‘t always remember her. She‘s been living in the elderly home for about 20 years, and most of the time, she walks around alone or with others. When Hilkaa was young she used to work in different places during the war and after that she was working on a farm, taking care of animals. Hilkaa says that she is actually just waiting for death to come because, to her, life isn‘t that beautiful anymore when you‘re old, but maybe the young people can make it better. Tyyne and Mikko get along very well, they once went to the Modern Art Museum in Helsinki together and after that also to a restaurant, which was the best experience with the elderly people for Mikko. ‘‘I could really see that she was enjoying going there.” mentioned Mikko.

I, JINAN While far-right ideologies in Europe are on the rise, an ongoing debate about identity is taking place in Denmark. Determined and proud of her religion, Jinan represents the diversity of what it means to be Danish. By Capucine Chandon

t’s 5:40 in the morning. Jinan slowly shuts the front door of the apartment. Her family is still asleep. She tightens the straps of her backpack against her shoulders and starts walking towards the bus stop. The dark blue sky is beginning to lighten in the horizon. The train to Ålborg is very quiet when it departs the central station of Århus. Jinan starts reading a text for her upcoming class but quickly falls asleep. She only slept a few hours last night, but she is used to it now. It takes her more than two hours every morning to reach the university of Ålborg, where she studies sociology. Jinan grew up in Gellerup, a suburb of Århus where 85% of the inhabitants are of foreign ethnic origin. Gellerup is one of the poorest neighborhoods in Denmark and has been labelled as an “especially vulnerable residential area” by the Danish government. Her parents were Palestinian refugees in Lebanon and arrived in Denmark in the early 1990s. At school there were few Danes in her class. She never had a Danish friend growing up, until she went to university and realized she was one of the only Muslim in the auditorium - the only woman wearing a hijab, too. That’s when she realized she had been living in a bubble all her life. That’s also when she discovered that people outside of her community had many preconceived notions about her religion. “Muslim women are usually portrayed as dumb and oppressed. I’m pretty sure a lot of people who see me in the street think that my father beats me, that I’m not allowed to study and that I’m married to my cousin. They don’t understand that a woman can choose to wear a hijab, because she wants to practice her religion and believes in something bigger. That’s something that’s very strange for most of the Danish people, because they are a secular society and don’t believe in anything.”

“I think I can be a very well-integrated Danish citizen while being a Muslim and wearing my hijab.”

In March 2017, the European court of Justice ruled that companies can ban their employees from wearing the Islamic headscarf, and will no longer be charged for discrimination if they do. “My mom is afraid I won’t be able to find a job because of my hijab. But I told her that I will find a job where the people will accept me as I am; that means, with my hijab.” In France, the headscarf is forbidden in public spaces such as hospitals, schools and universities, and the debate on whether or not it should be forbidden has also reached Denmark. “You know, it always starts with small things. A few weeks ago they decided to end the women-only day at the swimming pool. Now they want to ban the hijab, and then they will forbid us to pray during our breaks… But how far will they go? By implementing all these restrictions, our community will feel more and more excluded, and the gap between the Muslims and the Danes will only get bigger. And then we will never solve the integration problem in Denmark.”

A year ago, while she was waiting for the bus on her way back from university, a man suddenly came at her and started shouting at her; insulting her and telling her to “go back to her own country”. He stood so close to her she could smell his breath. Petrified, she looked at her phone, trying not to cry. When he finally ended up leaving, the people at the bus stop came to ask if she was okay. “It was a few days after the attack in Nice”, she remembers. Sadly, this wasn’t the first time she came back home and burst into tears. “Being a Muslim in Denmark can sometimes be difficult, but when I feel like people don’t understand me or that I can’t express my feelings to anyone, knowing that my God is right here by my side makes me feel stronger. I never feel hopeless because I know there is more than that”.

Jinan says she feels responsible for advocating her religion and showing the real face of Islam, apart from the narrative that is carried on by the media at the moment. In her everyday life and her interactions with other people, she thinks it is her duty to try to do something to change this negative image. Her hijab is a way for her to assert her identity and to overcome stereotypes about her religion. “Every morning when I step outside of my home wearing my hijab, I think about what I will do today to be a good person and to bring joy to other people. Just a smile can do so much.” By wearing her hijab and being open about it, she hopes society will change their mind about Muslim people.

“I’m pretty sure a lot of people who see me in the street think that my father beats me and that I’m not allowed to study.”

“We’re a bunch of Muslim girls out there who feel like we are just like everyone else, living a normal life. We study, we are active in our community and do our best to interact with people and be a part of the society.”

Jinan doesn’t feel totally Danish, but she doesn’t feel totally Palestinian either. She feels somewhere in-between.

The sociology department of Ålborg University is situated in the north of the city, and it takes Jinan one more bus ride to arrive on time. During lunch, she and her friends gather in the cafeteria of the university and debate whether or not to attend their course in the afternoon. It is one of the first days of spring and the return of the sun tempts them to wander along the shore.

Jinan is a member of several associations who want to promote a good image of Islam and take active part in the Danish society. One of them is called DMU (Dansk Muslimsk Ungdom), an organization for Danish Muslim Youth. Its main goal is to reach out to young Muslims and to show them a clear and modern way of practicing their religion. “I know many young Muslims who are trying, but they think that education and opportunities are not for them. A lot of them feel excluded and end up shutting themselves out. Many of them don’t even know the religion. They received an Islamic education, but they don’t know what the religion really is about. We want to show them how God could help them. We also try to tell them that they are not just Arabic, they are not just Turkish they are Danish Muslims. They need to understand the Danish society to be able to grow as individuals, and we want to help them through this process.” When Jinan finally reaches home in the evening, her niece Mariam runs towards her and jumps into her arms. Looking at her with pride, she gently caresses her hair and says: “I love her. She really knows what she wants.”

“It’s beautiful to think there is something bigger than you looking after you, protecting you.”

HOME T H E B E ST P L AC E I N T H E WO R L D Morten, Fred and Margit are the only people who live on Birkholm, an island less than a square kilometer in size in Denmarkâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Southern Funen Archipelago, calling an unlikely place home. by Kaveer Rai

t’s eight in the morning and the sun is barely out. However, like every other morning, Morten has began working. Standing waist deep in sea water by the shore, he carefully checks for shrimp in the nets that were laid the previous evening. Adjusting his glasses, he looks at Fred who is now standing upright on the edge of the harbor, gazing at the noisy seagulls. They are waiting in anticipation. Morten puts his thumb up in the air and Fred responds by carefully climbing down to his motor boat and without a word the brothers look into each other’s eyes and nod in approval before they sail into the ocean, leaving behind tender waves and a few disappointed seagulls. Morten (78), Fred (73) and his wife Margit (67) are the only permanent residents of Birkholm, a tiny island of the southern coast of Funen is far away from the urban hustle. 0.9 square kilometers of green grass offers a temporary home to migrating waiting for the spring to fly north and rabbits can be found making solo food hunting trips on every corner. Silence decorates the island with its charm, once every afternoon, a postal boat makes the 25minute sail from Marstal it is the only transport that connects the island to the mainland.

While the brothers have gone fishing, Margit stays at home, preparing fish. She is enjoying her coffee by the window with a view of her favorite pheasant that migrates from India turning the pages of an old magazine. She seems to have found a companion in an old doll from her mother while she is alone in the house and needs someone to mumble to. It is noon and the brothers ride home on their quad bike for lunch. A strange camaraderie has been set between the two. They seemed synchronized in their actions and compliment each other without uttering a word. Silence is a quality both the island and the brother’s share. Spending all their life here might have enveloped them as one. “I went to meet my extended family in Spain and I was really excited about it, However, it did not last when I returned. The smoke and dust simply ruined it.” says Fred. He also talks about how nothing changed in Birkholm since the flood in 1872. Pointing at a wall mark he says, “that’s how

“It’s one thing to visit a city for a few hours, but living in one might not be my cup of tea. You have to be resourceful when you live here, and I like the challenge” - Margit. high the water was and it lasted for a day.” He feels glad they have made Birkholm their home and grateful it has remained beautiful since the day they were born. He raises his glass, “It’s home, the best place in the world”, Morten nods in agreement. Today is not that day 12 years ago when Fred had difficulties breathing, after a consultation over the phone, a helicopter was sent across with a doctor on board. “Today there is no medical personnel on board, and now the government is talking about cutting down the fundings further.” says Margit, shaking her head in disbelief.

BIRKHOLM

DENMARK

Margit remembers how terrible she felt every time they had to miss meetings and family occasions because of the weather, that used to happen often. The trio consoled each other with the promise of making it to the next one while getting lost in watching TV or playing board games. “It’s one thing to visit a city for a few hours but living in one might not be my cup of tea. You have to be resourceful when you live here, and I like the challenge”, she says. The brothers have no desire to leave the island, and they fear the day they might have to, but Margit has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. After a thoughtful discussion the family now made up their mind to move to Tåsinge, a city near by for better care and help during the old age. When will that moment arrive?. They haven’t quite decided. “While we can still catch shrimp and eels and enjoy a good match of handball and laugh, the old age has to try harder to move us away from our home. I know the day may be near, but today is not that day” says Morten. ■

HEIMAT Editor: Giulia Frigieri Photo Editor: Lukas Kreibig Copy Editor: Jennifer Riis Gotrik Cover photo: Ebrahim Elmoly

Lukas Kreibig

Capucine Chandon

Christine Simon

Kaveer Rai

Nicholas Pfosi

Klara Zamourilova

Jennifer Riis Gotrik

Giulia Frigieri

Thanks to Jesper Voldgaard, Lone Theils and Lars NĂ¸rkjĂŚr Bai. International Photojournalism 1, Spring 2017 Danish School of Media and Journalism Aarhus, Denmark Kristina Steiner

Ebrahim Elmoly