THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

by Toukir Ahmed Tanvee

Upon moving to Denmark from Bangladesh, I encountered a profound clash of cultures and grappled with homesickness and shyness. Through my camera, though, I realized that home is not merely a physical place but a feeling that resides within.

I recently moved to Denmark from my home country, Bangladesh, seeking new experiences and a fresh start. Little did I know that this journey would bring about some major challenges.

When I was accepted to The Danish School of Media and Journalism to study photography, I was ecstatic. I had never been out of my home country before, and I was excited to experience a new culture and learn new wisdom from the place.

When I arrived in Denmark, I was overwhelmed by the cultural differences. Everything was so different from what I was used to. The language was unfamiliar, and the people were friendly, but distant. I was an outsider in a strange land.

As I settled into my new life, I found myself confronted by the daunting reality of cultural differences. The customs, traditions, and even the language were vastly dissimilar from what I was accustomed to. These differences, though intriguing, left me feeling somewhat lost and insecure, and a wave of shyness washed over me. The fear of making social blunders and the inability to fully understand and express myself in this new environment magnified this wave, and it made me feel isolated and homesick.

I longed for my home, and the comfort of my native language. Memories of the warmth and familiarity of my homeland, the comforting embrace of family and friends, became a bittersweet reminder of what I had left behind and made me question my decision to embark on this new adventure. The longing for the familiar and the sense of belonging grew stronger with each passing day, but deep down, I knew that stepping out of my comfort zone was an essential part of personal growth.

In my quest to navigate this sea of unfamiliarity, I discovered solace in my practice of visual storytelling using the camera. Armed with it, I embarked on a new adventure within my adopted home. Through the lens, I found a way to observe and appreciate the beauty that surrounded me, transcending language barriers. Photography has been always a bridge that connected me to the people I encountered on a personal level. The camera served as an icebreaker, enabling me to engage with locals and fellow expatriates. Through shared experiences and shared stories, I found moments of connection, forming new friendships and building a support network that helped alleviate the weight of homesickness.

I would venture into the cobblestone streets of Aarhus, capturing the exquisite architecture, the vibrant colors, the silence of the space, the changing colors of time, and the tranquil parks that seemed to whisper tales of Danish history. With each of my photographs, I felt a sense of empowerment. I was creating a visual diary of my own journey.

Through my photographs, I learned to embrace my shyness as a unique perspective, an opportunity to observe the world with a keen eye. I began to see my own experiences as part of a larger tapestry of humanity, weaving together the stories of locals and fellow expatriates alike.

As I continued to navigate the complexities of Danish culture, The walls that once stood between me and the people around me started to crumble. I found comfort in the small victories - the ability to engage in conversations, the shared laughter, and the moments of genuine connection. With each passing day, I felt a growing sense of belonging. I have come to realize that home is not just a physical place but a feeling that resides within us. Denmark, once outlandish to me, has become a very significant part of my story giving me a new sense of belonging and a newfound resilience within me.

As I continue my path in this foreign land, I carry with me the lessons learned and the strength gained through my experiences. Shyness may have been a temporary hurdle, but the resilience it cultivated within me, is everlasting. With each passing day, I embrace the beauty of Denmark, the richness of its culture, and the diversity of its people. And in doing so, I discover the beauty within myself, as I continue to grow, adapt, and create a new sense of home in this land.

And so, with my camera in hand, I will continue to explore the world, armed not only with a sense of adventure but also with the unwavering belief that no matter where life takes me, my photographs will always serve as a powerful reminder of my ability to overcome shyness, connect with others, and find beauty even in the most unexpected places. •

My Grandmother

by Alexandra Corcode

Ana has lived her whole life in the village of Zoreni, Bistrița-Năsăud. She is one of the last Romanians who keep alive the traditions, culture, memories, religion, and slow way of living.

The morbid silence is only interrupted by the sound of a truck on DJ151, a road that carries heavy traffic through the heart of the silent villages scattered across its path. Zoreni, the village in which my grandmother was born and raised like many before her, is situated in a valley surrounded by hills covered with hazelnut forests and fields of wheat, corn, and grass. The only sound besides the rumble of the truck engine and the squeal of the tires is the echo of a rooster singing, indicating that people still live there. Spread along the main road, the houses of the village are hidden between trees and overgrown vegetation, often revealing only their roofs. In the center, there are two grocery shops across from each other, one of them also being part of my grandmother’s hay barn. Her house is white with red frames around the windows, a flower garden that surrounds it with a stone pathway that guides you to the entrance, which is hidden from sight. Right beside the entrance to the house, there is the summer kitchen where my grandmother, Ana, is cooking.

“I have made food all my life,” she says with a tone of regret, more for herself than for me. She continues to mix meat with freshly harvested garlic and onions from the garden with her hands, tasting the raw meat from time to time. She is making meatballs with “greens” for snacking between meals. The hot lard is bubbling from the heat, and she puts the meatballs into the oil. The room fills with a heavy smell from the frying, so heavy that it makes me dizzy, and the room fills with smoke. Ana starts to wash the dishes in a pot, not using dish soap, because she feeds the dog with the water from the dirty dishes. She is one of the last women living in Zoreni village.

One consequence of Romania’s high migration rate, which ranks it among the top 20 countries worldwide in terms of emigration, is the phenomenon of ghost villages. These villages were once bustling with life and activity but have been left abandoned due to the mass exodus of people seeking better opportunities and higher living standards elsewhere. Those left behind are mostly women aged 70 or older, as it is common for husbands to pass away earlier. These women represent the last generation of Romanians who keep alive the traditions, culture, memories, religion, and slow way of living. Not influenced by the internet and globalization, they manage their households and small farms by themselves.

As I watch her cooking, she seems to be in a trance. She looks as if she has gone back in time to when she would cook for dozens of people who were building her house when she married at 17, or when she was cooking for her kids. Cooking was her way of taking care of people and showing them respect, but now it makes her melancholic and brings back old memories.

“The corn is not the same,” she tells me, turning the meatballs on the other side. “I tried to make corn pie the other day with eggs and raw milk from a neighbour, but I used the corn flour from the shop. It was nothing like the pie I was making with my flour. Nothing is the same anymore, even the air makes you sick.”

She puts the plate with the meatballs on the table, which still has crumbs from breakfast, and then sits on a chair. The air is very humid and dense with the smell of fried meat, but even though the door of the summer kitchen is wide open, it does not help.

The summer kitchen is an addition to the main house, used as a bedroom, kitchen, and living room. It is the main place where visitors are welcomed, but also serves to keep the main house clean and tidy in case of guests. In the past, the summer kitchen was a busy place, but now it’s empty, and Ana is left alone with her memories. The summer kitchen has a large wooden window that overlooks the yard. From it, you can see the stable, barn, pig and chicken coops, and the small flower garden in front of the house. Sitting at the table, my grandmother gazes over her yard through the window as if waiting for someone to come, but nobody comes anymore. It is uncommon for her to have more than one visitor per week, other than the usual man who comes to help her with her chores for money and alcohol. This week, it was the teacher’s widow who’s come eating an ice cream. They talk about the death of one of the neighbours and how inappropriate his daughter was dressed at the funeral and how she went screaming for her dead mother in the garden. Then suddenly she changes the topic to my grandmother’s garden: the potatoes are not out yet, and both women are concerned that if it doesn’t rain soon, their harvest will be highly compromised.

Ana is 79 years old, was born in Zoreni and cannot remember a previous generation of her family that has not lived there. She was the oldest child among the three kids in her family, and being the oldest, she had the responsibility to take care of her parents for the rest of their lives, which she did. Like the other girls in her village, her parents arranged her marriage with a man 11 years older than her. Not having power over the decisions that would define her life, she showed resilience and made the most out of a rude mother-in-law and the two cows received as a wedding gift. Despite her siblings going to university, she was not allowed to go to school, which often made her stay silent during the verbal and emotional abuse she received from her alcoholic husband, whom she had three children with. But she found pleasure and happiness as a milkmaid. Collecting the milk in the village allowed her to not only meet and engage with people but hear news and forget about daily problems in her life. It also allowed her to travel to other villages and sometimes to Bistrița, a city only 60 kilometres away, which she has visited only a handful of times ever. In contrast, I have already lived in three countries at the age of 22. Having everything she never had and much more, I grew up wanting to be like her, cooking fresh chicken soup with homemade traditional noodles, warming the freshly milked milk, waiting for the person I care about and love so deeply to wake up. Ana, my grandmother, is the only person that I ever connected to on a deeper level. She has taught me how to be in sync with nature, how the weather is wired to the body, how to talk to the animals and feel them when they need food or water, or just some love. The thought that this fairytale hosted in small clay houses will slowly disappear in every little valley of Romania makes me grieve the future loss of the country’s identity and a connection to its past.

Ana gets up from the table and walks outside from the summer kitchen, touching the house with her fingers as if she is dizzy, all the way to the yard. When she sits on her chair leaning on the fence, she is welcomed by over forty chickens that chirp and jump on her lap. She grabs a few of them and checks if they have eaten enough, asking them why they didn’t eat and murmuring other loving words that I can’t hear. Sitting there, we talk from time to time, but she mainly speaks her thoughts aloud or has short conversations with the chickens and the dog, hearing the door from the shop situated in her own yard opening and closing. Since the shop opened again, she is happy that she has a place to drink her morning coffee and hear what has been happening in the village, but also more people come to the outside toilet in her yard, and she talks to them from her chair as they pass.

The silence is broken again by the sound of a rooster singing in the distance. My grandmother sighs and says, “People don’t come here anymore. They forget about the life we have here.” She looks out the window again, and I can feel the sadness in her eyes. I know that she is not just talking about herself or her village but about an entire way of life that is slowly disappearing. •