it wasn't supposed to be like this

it wasn’t supposed to be like this

THOSE WHO CONTINUED ONWARD Farhana Satu and Jacob Moscovitch

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THE PLACES THAT STOOD Maddie Davis and Lutfor Rahman

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THOSE LIVING IN BETWEEN Tristen Rouse

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THE PLACES THAT WERE Solmaz Daryani and Sabry Khaled

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THE FIRST TO BE UPROOTED Nic Antaya

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We could’ve had the best six months Make images, unprecedented Make ties, unbreakable.

Then it came in the night, That word — Pandemic.

It echoed in the room Everywhere Spread within days, contagious.

Everything shifted.

And so did we.

We made a new way Eight people One voice, one story.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this But then, it was.

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THOSE WHO CONTINUED ONWARD Most normalcy has halted and the expected bustling has simmered.

Still, the lives we live and the daily endeavours we dare to face allow us a sliver of humanity and a taste at the simple interaction we seek unknowingly. From nature walks alone and strolls with social distance, to grocery trips and bus rides, citizens of Aarhus carried on.

Farhana Satu and Jacob Moscovitch

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There is a leafless tree in front of my window.

Two birds work day and night to build their nest. Everyday, they put sticks together, one after another, slowly giving shape to the house.

Sunshine passes from the small gap between these sticks and the last dew drops of the winter morning make the house sparkle.

Through snowfall, heavy wind or continuous rain, nothing can stop these two, little black-and-white birds from building their home. I can sense someone whispering into their ears – “the show must go on.”

COVID-19 is occurring in Aarhus, just like the rest of the world.

Almost everything is closed here including schools and colleges.

A few days ago, it was difficult to find a seat on the bus, but now all

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the buses are empty during rush hour. I feel like they have become a melancholic love story at the office hour because of this lack of crowd. Bars are not shining at night. The train station, shopping mall, cafeteria, cinema halls, parks, public libraries, and museums are all lonely bastards now. There is a beautiful song of “DON’T” airing everywhere. Don’t touch, don’t get close, don’t feel, don’t fear, don’t shake hands…don’t and don’t … I forgot the last time I felt the warmth of human embrace.

Like those two desperate love birds, the people of Aarhus are still trying to maintain their normal life. Going outside and meeting people but covered in masks and

“I work at KFC and we ran out of napkins and paper towels today,” Rafael Krawczynski, 22, above, said.

“But, then why are there kids playing outside?”

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Rush hour on Aarhus buses, above, turned into a slient display of empty chairs. People gathered, right, to make bread over a fire and socialize, but still kept their distance for fear of getting close.

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gloves. Keeping a 2 meter distance and waving air-hugs. Visiting the grocery shops or taking an evening walk with their beloved pet — always with sanitizer. Children are still playing in the playground but not together. Bus drivers are on duty, having no day break. I often used to take the first door to enter and say ‘’good day’’ to the driver.

Now, we don’t see each other anymore. The front door near to the driver is permanently closed.

No one can sit in the first two rows.

Everyone is trying not to touch the seats or handles. Sitting separately.

Lovers are still meeting but not dating anymore. Shopkeepers are afraid of cash, only cards are real

now. Neighbors are still talking to each other but only at a safe distance. They don’t visit each other’s houses anymore. Gyms are closed, so more often people run on the roads each morning. I went to visit a friend and she said “please don’t touch anything.” I don’t see couples kissing on the roadside anymore like they used to do before this. Before, they were holding hands and walking close, but not now. Promising to be together forever. Life goes on, yet there is a silent, floating isolation everywhere.

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Last night, I said goodbye to my dearest friend without warm, tight hugs like usual. Still, we promised each other to keep in touch.

International Students are returning home every day but online classes carry on. I see a big, white dog playing with its owner every day, and I can feel the fearless relationship they share. We are all together but everyone is alone and separated — trying to continue their daily life somehow. I still sometimes see people taking photos together and uploading them to social media. Sharing love and care between each other, but never daring to cross the borders of distance.

- Farhana Satu

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“I just bought this to make a TikTok about winning back your girlfriend with flowers and toilet paper instead of chocolate,�Victor Heuckendorff, 25, above said.

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One man insisted we shake hands.

Most were hesitant.

Although most remained inside, some people in Aarhus bid farewell to their isolation and entered the streets, seeking more than their homes could offer. Some needed fresh air, some needed a walk and some dared to enter the confines of a grocery store, but every individual sought one thing — love. “Love will counter fear,” Kasper Jacobson said. “Despite the grim faces and tense eyes wandering around, we need each other more than ever.”

I am a human, a man, and a loving person before I am a photographer.

My mind, often entangled in the complicated world of photography, connects to people first. Humans are all social creatures, but I personally long for human touch and a sense of reliance

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more than some. This desire remains constant with a camera in my hand.

Within every picture I make and every photographic encounter I have, I yearn for, and hopefully uncover, love. From a casual snapshot of my daily adventures to a highly-anticipated image captured on assignment for a publication, my eye combs through chaos and prioritizes light, color and above all —love. The love may be an embrace between lovers, family members entwined in each other or simply one person living life with a visible, tangible humanity and aura.

Normally, that connection forms from an elongated accumulation of instances: phone calls from family members, lunch dates with friends, small talk at

“Everything here has been pretty normal after that first day of crowds,” Simon Møller Dissing, left, said. During the time when they normally attend Friskole, Magda Lind-Wullum and Thilde Hoejen, above, catch up by Brabrand Lake.

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Olo, 67, left, is hopeful that summer will not see COVID-19. He has begun preparing his summer home for gatherings and events.

Following the pandemic announcement, that first weekend still brought a few customers. Some bars were closed and some, below, were almost empty.

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a coffee shop, or in-depth discussions with professors at school.

But, in these times, with elongated periods of prescribed loneliness, the connection falls short — sinking emotions and withholding the joy I normally operate upon. These instances, this highlight reel plucked and presented before you, are some of the final joys I felt while living and truly thriving in Aarhus, Denmark.

The sun was setting. After a spell of cloudy days, the light began to pour warmth across Brabrand and the trickling of people leaving City Vest struck me. I could hear the murmurs of a baby coming from what seemed to be an infant carriage overflowing with toilet paper; a rather resourceful commodity at the time. I hesitated. Then, a voice smacked my ears and I called out.

From at least 3 meters away this young family and I interacted. For the first time in days I fulfilled that connection. “Good luck,” Rene and Ditte echoed as we parted ways, both parties blinded by the sun.

The afternoon light kissed Victor Heuckendorff’s red roses and danced off the plastic package of the toilet paper. With his casual swagger and welcoming chatter, we had a notable conversation. “These are both for a TikTok,” he confessed with a chuckle. “The internet right now is making us more connected through humour, but in real life we are paranoid,” he said. “It’s so easy to fall right now but we need the light right now.” He hoped to achieve social media fame through this video-clip, but admitted his slim chance.

“How are you?” Rafael Krawczynski, dressed in red, asked as we walked past each other, failing to perfectly remain 2 meters apart. Moments later, he released a large sigh thus stripping his guard. “This is serious,” he said, shifting his tone.

“I had to change the soap dispenser in the KFC bathroom multiple times today.” He sauntered off towards his apartment, blasting music out of his earbuds and bopping his hands to the beat.

Skip to my final day in Aarhus. The bags were packed and the emotions were jumbled. 48 hours earlier, life became a haze, non-existent clarity scattered amongst a haul of fear, anxiety and stress. Then, filled with the light of the day, I called out to my dear friend, hurdling my torso out the open window of Emmasvej.

“I can feel the sun,” I exclaimed. That’s all I really felt that day.

I walked along Brabrand lake with my last remaining roommate that evening. I brought my camera, sort of as a shield of addressing him fully — all I really wanted to do was cry.

How could I hide that premature wistfulness?

The sky faded into blue, then black.

I woke before my alarm. The ceiling washed my eyes with a sea of dark blue. The dim white I’ve come to expect upon waking up fell to a rich navy. This is my room while I study abroad. This was my room. It’s plain, yet personal. Warm, yet cool. I loved to gaze out the big windows and poke fun at the small bed. I yearn for the chilly morning breeze brushing my face and the afternoon golden light dancing in my eyes. “One day,” I told myself as I closed my bedroom door for the final time. “I love you,” it whispered back.

When I arrived in the Los Angeles, it was pouring rain. The few people leaving that hollow airport darted to cars to avoid getting wet, but not me. I strolled through that rain, allowing it to hit my face. I got into the car alone, no hug, kiss or embrace to set me on my journey. As I drove, one of my favourite songs began to play. The rain and my tears mixed seamlessly. Some will say I was in pain, yet in that moment all I felt was magic.

- Jacob Moscovitch

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“Some needed fresh air, some needed a walk and some dared to enter the confines of a grocery store, but every individual sought one thing — love.”

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The Earth is ancient and powerful. The mountains, hills, and trees all have eyes and memories.

They have witnessed many of the trials and tribulations of human existence — war, famine, disease.

It is possible to hear their voices and stories. Venture deep into the forest. Breathe in the scent of pine needles and animal musk. Feel the rough bark of the trees on your palms. Wait for a pause in the call of the songbird and close your eyes.

Listen.

Maddie Davis and Lutfor Rahman

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Near Marselisborg Forest.

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I woke to the light of the sun shining directly into my eyes.

And for a moment, before it all hit me like a wave of water crashing down over my head, everything was right in the world. I was in Denmark, the second happiest country in the world, in the middle of a semester abroad at the Danish School of Media and Journalism, doing a program that had been my dream for four years. But then I remembered.

Ever since COVID-19 spread its long, dark tentacles across Europe — and now, across the world — I’ve felt them slowly tightening around me.

For most of my life, I’ve been locked in a never-ending, no rules, fight-to-the-death battle with my brain. Although it’s no easy feat, I’ve become pretty well-practiced in the art of keeping my mental illness at bay with medication, routine, and staying busy.

But when something as disruptive as the coronavirus was added to the mix, it was like a sucker punch I never saw coming. And when I woke up after the knockout, I was in a place in my mind that I had been to many times but never wanted to return to.

At first I barely noticed. I was too busy with school, too busy with my friends, too busy making the most of the time I had in Denmark.

But when school was moved to online-only instruction for at least two weeks, when we were all told to avoid gathering in groups, and when it was strongly advised that we stay at home as much as possible, I finally realized the danger I was in. But it was already too late.

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Forest near the Moesgaard Museum.

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I wasn’t any more anxious about the coronavirus than the average person, but what really got to me was the gradual realization that for an indefinite period of time, there was going to be a lot more uncertainty and change than anything else. And while a healthy dose of both of those things is more or less a part of life, for someone like me that struggles with mental illness, too much of either — or in this case, both — can lead to disaster.

It became harder and harder to get out of bed. Individual days didn’t exist, and every waking moment stretched into what felt like one long hike through the desert with only one canteen of water and no oasis in sight.

My family often called to see how I was, trying to reach across the distance of over 4,000 miles to give me some comfort. Hearing from them helped, but every time I hung up the phone it was hard to forget that it felt like everything I had worked so hard for was slipping through my fingers like sand.

After I had spent four days alone in my room, more or less just switching off between staring out my window during the day and staring at the ceiling at night, I became so detached from reality that I was starting to feel more like an inanimate object than a person.

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I had almost abandoned the idea that I could somehow pull myself out of the abyss I had fallen into.

But on the fifth day, I opened my window and saw a flock of seagulls had gathered on the grass outside my room.

People who have had near-death experiences talk about seeing a bright white light as they die, but for me, with the sunlight in my eyes and each breath of fresh air, I felt like nature was bringing me back to life.

Maybe it was the fact that I was actually starting to go insane, or maybe it was because it was the first sunny day in Aarhus in recent memory, but I felt like nature — and those seagulls especially — were calling me to go outside.

- Maddie Davis

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Near Risskov Beach.

(Left) Forest in Brabrand.

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Near Brabrand Lake.

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I was freezing when I landed in Copenhagen. I was waiting for my train to get to Aarhus. I could feel the cold run through my veins.

As my journey started, I was looking out of my window at a totally new landscape. The landscape changed from a chaotic noisy ocean of people, to a strange silent isolation with everything in order.

Silence in a foreign place can be unsettling and unnerving. It is as if one just immersed oneself in the ocean cutting out all noise and the explosion of anarchy. It felt like a wonderland. Small farmhouses, clear skies with so much open space. The greenery throughout the land, stretching till the horizon. I was excited and it kept my fear in control. I have never been outside my country and photographs were the only reference to Denmark that I had.

John Szarkowski, the director of MoMA, writing about the famous American photographer William Eggleston once stated that “…. the poem or picture is likely to seem a faithful document if we get to know it first and the unedited reality afterwards….” I was a stranger to this country and started matching pictures from Denmark with what I was seeing in front of me.

This February, Denmark had received the most rainfall in the country’s history. The weather has been cold without the sun on most days. I had visited the sea on my second day of arrival and it made an impression on me, like a wet hand on a sheet of cloth. Not firm, yet present.

I started getting used to my new life in this new country, new friends, roommates. We bonded over kebabs in cafes run by people from Turkey and the Middle East. I was battling out of the grasp of the awkward silence that had gripped me, when the COVID-19 pandemic broke out.

Because of the pandemic my roommates were called back to their home countries.

All of a sudden, I was companionless in my apartment. In the previous week, these people had made me feel better whenever I was low.

They had become my support system. With these new friends leaving and the country in lockdown, isolation grappled me even more.

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The entire apartment was empty and silent with only the constant sound of the refrigerator and the ventilator. Occasionally birds would chirp. The sun was still hiding, and it was dark and gloomy — almost reflective of the days that were.

Before my friends left, we went back to the sea and swam naked in the cold freezing water. The sea attracted me in this hour of isolation. In this melancholic time spring arrived. Nature started to grow and prosper.

Cherry blossom blossomed everywhere, colouring the trees red and white. The sun was shining longer, clearing the dark skies.

The evening light of the sun cast a golden hue in my room. I started to go out to the sea, and photograph nature.

I travel everyday 45 minutes towards the sea to observe spring decorating nature like a bride. Going back to nature helps me find beauty around me in this unkind and isolated time.

As Charles Dickens once said “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

- Lutfor Rahman

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THOSE LIVING IN BETWEEN Lily was the first to go. She fought to stay, arguing that she had spent too much time, too many tears and too many dreams on studying at the Danish School of Media and Journalism to go home, especially when precautions were already being taken in Denmark to limit the virus’ spread. Her home university was adamant. Refusal would result in the loss of financial aid, the backbone that props up any American college student’s hope for an education.

So, she went home. She went home, and I started making pictures. I turned my lens on my fellow students—my new friends—during a time of stress and uncertainty when many of them would be called back to their home countries and forced to leave Denmark.

We had received strict orders from our mentors regarding the pictures we could make. Continue social distancing practices. No entering subjects’ rooms or places of work. No in-person interviews.

Maintain our space whenever possible. I did my best to translate that into the photographs, often forcing myself to stand far away from them and use a long lens to create an artificial closeness.

That was the most difficult part. When smiles turned to tears and laughing turned to longing, I could not hug my friends. I could not touch them, and I could not comfort them. And they could not comfort me as I processed my own emotions.

This is what the virus took away from us, long before anyone had to go home.

This project began with the desire to document my fellow students during this time—a time when they were caught between one home and another. Like many projects do, it quickly evolved into something else. As more and more people left, and as I received my own phone call ordering me to return to the United States, this series became something much more personal than documentation: it became a way to say goodbye, to wonderful people I may never see again.

Tristen Rouse

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Lily Burris, USA (left)

Lena Zaubzer, Germany

My university is calling me back, and frankly, I’m beyond upset about it. When this all started, it seemed like such a small and distant issue. In less than 24 hours, I went from having a choice on whether to stay or go to being told I had to be home

by Friday. It was a nightmare. I feel like I’m giving up so much.

Since my first semester, I was waiting for this experience – and now I have to say goodbye to people who could become friends way too early, instead of making the memories everybody told me about. I am staying and crossing fingers that the worst part of the crisis will be over soon, but I know that a lot of these people I started to get to know better will probably not return. It makes my quarantine time even worse to think about that and always leaves me with a feeling of emptiness.

I’ve been planning to do this semester abroad since high school, and now I feel like the world is working against me so hard. I got to make all these wonderful memories and get to know all these amazing people.

Now I have to leave them, and I really shouldn’t be seeing them and saying goodbye to them. But we’re all kind of breaking the rules. I think the rules matter less when something hurts your heart.

I’m devastated, exhausted, anxious, stressed, overwhelmed and so many other things. I want to stay, but I can’t so I’m really hoping I get to come back. Somehow, that doesn’t seem very likely.

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I often call my parents to keep them updated and get to know what is going on at home. My mum was a little bit worried about me when the whole corona thing started to become serious, but she is fine with my decision to stay. I am sure I would have thought more about going home otherwise. It feels like everybody in my life tries to be positive and so do I. But at the moment, I just feel like corona stole my semester abroad.

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Denicia Dixon, USA I have mixed emotions about how I’m feeling and dealing with everything. My biggest concern is actually making it back to the States and not being able to get in. You see, I don’t have that much support back home. I support myself. So, it’s kind of like I am making all these decisions by myself with the help or opinion of no one. I have dual citizenship because I was born in Canada and raised in California. All my documentation says that I am a Canadian citizen. My mother lost my American proof of citizenship and it has been hard to obtain ever since. I may have to go to Canada. I’m not stressed or panicking, just a bit scared. But for some reason, I just know that this will all work out and everything will be just fine.

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Dasha Vilchinskaia, Russia There is a Soviet documentary about psyche. The movie consists of various experiments, some of them showing how the decisions we make depend on other people’s opinions. So, in one experiment, a group of kindergarten children is shown two toy pyramids, a black and a white one. Every child in the group apart from one boy was told to say that both of the pyramids are white. The teacher starts asking them the question: what color are the pyramids? The children respond: both are white. And when it comes to that boy, he is looking absolutely confused and replies: both are white.

These are children, but the funniest part is when the same experiment is held on the adults. The result is the same, a mature man, clearly seeing a black and a white pyramid follows the group and says that both are white. I remember seeing this documentary when I was a sophomore and questioning myself, how on earth is it possible to lose common sense so easily? Today, with this whole corona situation, I am not questioning myself anymore.

Today, I am one of those kindergarten boys looking at the pyramids and hearing everybody around me say that both are white. Two weeks ago, my British friends and I canceled our trip to Berlin. We got scared. Not of the virus, but of the possibility that we’d be put on quarantine after we came back. I guess this was the first time I saw two white pyramids.

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Lisa Favazzo, Australia (left)

Damon Rowston, Australia

As I write this, neither the Australian government or my home university has demanded my return. It would have been safer to stay in Denmark than to stay in Australia. But, a few days ago my roommate burst out of his room after a long conversation with his mum. “What [would] we do if somebody back home got sick and we weren’t there?” he said. At that moment, COVID-19 went from an abstract threat to a constant alarm flashing red in my head.

I wasn’t forced home from Denmark. I’d had many recommendations to come back, but in the end, it was me who made the final decision. They’re predicting that coronavirus cases in Australia will skyrocket. I read that they’re predicting that Australia might get as bad as Italy when winter hits. With many older relatives, staying in Denmark would’ve stopped me from getting home to see them if push came to shove. I don’t think I could forgive myself If I stayed.

My mum and sister are both nurses. My mum works in a small GP clinic that caters mainly to elderly people. I called my mum and made her promise me she won’t take work in the public system. She’s not the kind of person who would sit back and watch her community suffer if there was something she could do to help. My sister works in a public hospital in regional Western Australia. She’s only 23 and she’s my baby sister. If she needs me I want to be there.

As I’m writing, it’s my fourth day in quarantine. While adapting, I’ve come to process what’s happened.

As short-lived my exchange was, holistically the experience was positive. I met some extraordinary people, had a pathetic attempt at learning Danish, travelled to Germany and Amsterdam and ate yummy pastries. It was an experience that’ll boost my overall character, taking from both the positive and negative.

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Jacob South Klein, UK I know I’m a hell of a lot safer here than back at home. This isn’t about me, though — my perceived feeling of safety is directly tied to the safety of my vulnerable family members. My grandad, my dad. The guilt would eat me alive if I knew I’d passed the virus on to either of them.

It’s bizarre that something so simple as being cooped up indoors by yourself can feel so alien. I’ve gone from seeing the same group of friends daily to suddenly not seeing the same people for almost two weeks. Some of them I won’t see again at all. That feels like a kick in the teeth, even though I only knew some of them for less than two months. I should have got to know them for a lot longer, and instead, it’s been taken away.

My own university has started putting pressure on me to return.

I’ve told them in no uncertain terms where to stick it, for a variety of colourful reasons. The Danish are getting this right, the British are not.

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“When smiles turned to tears and laughing turned to longing, I could not hug my friends. I could not touch them, and I could not comfort them. And they could not comfort me as I processed my own emotions. This is what the virus took away from us, long before anyone had to go home.�

Essays edited for length and clarity.

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THE PLACES THAT WERE Solmaz Daryani and Sabry Khaled

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The playground of a school in Aarhus remains empty, 6 days into the lockdown.

‣ Sødalskolen, 6 days into the lockdown.

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Lying in bed in my dorm room, I cough with fear and rising fever.

I get lost in anxiety of coping with stress and uncertainty of being affected by the corona virus. It’s just a few days before Denmark’s Prime Minister announces to impose a lockdown against the pandemic.

Gazing at my dark window with great concern and getting caught up in the panic of what might happen, as my body temperature rises, I think of my parents in Iran who haven’t left the house for weeks. Thousands of kilometres away, yet so intensely connected to my people never like before I get worried about my father’s upcoming hospital appointment. He suffers from the Parkinson’s disease. I think of how the world has entered this point and what is the first thing for me to do the following morning?

Amidst doubt and concern I contacted a doctor and made sure I wasn’t affected by the Corona virus. But I decided to go into self-isolation to make sure I don’t spread the flu. During my social distancing, I realized how the pandemic profoundly affects daily life: there is a before and an after.

Recovering from the flu, time like this remind me of the truth that the pandemic isn’t a memory of our pre-industrial yesterday, but a historical moment that raises questions. With complex answers from different government and people’s behaviour throughout the world.

In this pre-apocalyptic new version of the world handguns and toilet papers have become a scarce product, public employees sent home, teaching has become virtual, Friday prayers are cancelled, borders closed, streets and schools are empty. The comfort of being in the presence of others might be replaced by a greater comfort with the absence.

Empty spaces are the new way of being in the world.

It is, in fact, a reflection of this special time in which we live. The act of isolating or separating oneself from others that makes this deep-rooted desire of human presence, more felt.

It’s 5 AM in Aarhus, the 20th of March. Holding my phone, I try to call my parents in Iran to hear their voices as they celebrate the Persian new year, or Nowruz - in isolation and far from loved ones. Nowruz means a new time or rebirth, and it is a time of coming together alongside family, friends and loved ones. A chance to rejoice a long and deep history in which Iranians would celebrate this infinite chain of rebirth, renewal and new beginning. Social distancing or not, Nowruz passes, and we move forward with it.

- Solmaz Daryani

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4 days in

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On 13:00, no one is seen at Aarhus BSS, 12 days into the lockdown.

People abandoned indoor sports facilities for the frsh air activities, 12 days into the lockdown.

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As the walls of the house were closing in, the distance between people became wider every day The first time I heard about corona since I arrived in Denmark was three weeks ago.

I was having breakfast with a friend and the first case was confirmed to be of a man who just came back from a skiing vacation in northern Italy. Despite the alarming news everything continued as normal but there was a growing feeling inside of me that this would change.

My neighborhood in Aarhus has always been quiet but never that quiet, for the first time it was silent that afternoon, so I was wondering where all the afternoon movement had gone? Why aren’t the neighbor’s dogs barking? And no music coming out of any window? I asked myself while I had my afternoon coffee on my tiny balcony.

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Quarantine brought my curfew memories from Egypt back. Years ago, I experienced curfews many times whenever the government forces couldn’t control a situation when things got out of hand, which was quite often.

Fear was the drive that kept me and others home after 6 pm, fear was seen in the tanks patrolling the streets that smelt like blood, it was also heard in the silence and emptiness of the same streets and in occasional gun fires. an enemy as visible as this changes you, and what changes even more is the fear of something you cannot see.

It’s hard to imagine what will change. It strikes you to observe what has changed when passing the deserted streets, shops, classrooms and parks. This emptiness speaks to how everything may have changed forever.

As slow quarantine days were passing, The walls of my Aarhus apartment were closing in, I went out on the wide streets looking for fresh air and momentary company of the few pedestrians, long walks without seeing anyone. For days I walked the streets of the city trying to find traces of the people who were there when I first walked these streets hearing their laughter as a distant sound but disappearing every time I tried to locate it. I saw the empty corners and squares as absent portraits of the people who walked here close to each other a few days earlier with no fear hanging above their heads, trying not to give up to their dignity. And not measuring the distance if they spotted someone coming in their direction.

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School, 6 days into the lockdown. ‣ Bazar vest, 7 days into lockdown.

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Downtown Aarhus, 7 days into lockdown.

‣ Student dorm laundry room 6 days into lockdown,Denmark closed it’s borders for one month and many International students left to their counties.

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The spaces felt meaningless and lonely, the streets were colder than they usually are, and the thoughts running through my mind were heavier than usual, too. And I couldn’t help but think about the future of this, I keep coming to the same questions, Will we recover from this? How we will be able to force everything back to normal?

A sudden nice afternoon wind pushed a dry leaf towards the bushes as I watched the sun set for another day. A beautiful scene disrupted by a whirring helicopter coming from behind my building disappearing slowly into the horizon which made think, this too shall pass.

- Sabry Khaled

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“there will be light at the end of the tunnel, we don’t know how long that darkness will be but we will get through it.”

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6 days into the lockdown, people have been really anxious about the Coronavirus and also worried about everything that it’s standstill.

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THE FIRST TO BE UPROOTED Nic Antaya

COVID-19 displaced myself and many others. Normal life was no longer normal.

I was living in Aarhus, Denmark studying photojournalism in the spring of 2020. I planned to stay until June. However, my plane was returning to the U.S. In March. Three months early.

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My 6:15 morning train from Aarhus to Copenhagen Airport.

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“Keep good spirits, bud,” the Kansas man said to me on the plane.

How could I keep good spirits?

I struggled.

I was ready to continue growing as a photojournalist and as a person. I wanted to stay with my friends.

It made me realize how quickly things can change. It’s not the first time I have uprooted my life and returned to my home state of Michigan.

The memories feel so distant and fleeting.

Everything has been disrupted by COVID-19.

The Last Day. March 16, 2020 I wasn’t exactly sure how to process the fact that I was leaving. In the matter of a few moments, I had a return flight home.

The final minutes I spent in Denmark did not feel like they were going to be my last. There was no buildup. It makes me wonder if I could have done something to stay.

But, it was already out of my control.

Two friends joined me on a bus around 5:15 that morning toward the train station to make the 6:15 departure. Despite being advised to stay at least 2 meters away from each other, we embraced one another for a final farewell. I boarded the train.

I had an entire row of seats to myself. Not only that, I had the entire train car to myself to sit with my thoughts.

As the train neared the airport, the employees moved me to the front of the train. I joined a cab with a few other passengers spaced apart from each other. I watched their eyes dart around.

It was strange to enter such a large airport with so few people.

As I checked my bag for the flight, the woman assisting me told me of the airport’s slowing traffic.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I’ve had better days,” I responded.

“I think we all have,” she replied.

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I moved forward to the security line. Empty.

Some of the employees were on their phones to pass time. They were bored. I talked with one of them, who said only 144 people had passed through their line in 5 hours.

After passing through security, the sense of fear increased. I began to see more people wearing masks. Echoing off the walls of the airport, a message rang out every few minutes: Attention all passengers: due to the coronavirus outbreak, passengers are requested to not stand close to each other and not to gather in groups… We thank you for your understanding.

I was curious to know where people were going.

I met a fellow American who was studying in Denmark. His parents came to visit. Due to COVID-19, they were leaving together.

We shared a similar disappointment over the situation we found ourselves in.

I met Gillian B. and her daughter, Isabella. Her husband and two other children were walking around looking for toys to get before the flight.

Originally, they came to Denmark in January

“It’s where our jobs and lives are right now.

We have more hope that we can just resume life there,” Gillian said about returning home with her family to Shanghai, China.

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because it felt safer than China. The family was returning to their home in Shanghai, China, where they said it felt safer to be than Denmark.

“It’s where our jobs and lives are right now. We have more hope that we can just resume life there,” Gillian said.

Looking around, half of the stores were closed.

The wait for the line of the coffee shop was non-existent.

I was surprised to see the currency exchanges operating. Kashief Saeed said it didn’t bother him that much.

As an employee for 3 years at the exchange, Kashief described COVID-19 as, “a little bit scary because we can not see the germs on the money.” Typically, he would see 10-15 customers an hour. Now, he only gets one.

Working my way toward the gate, I encountered Peter Maack stocking vending machines. He wore rubber gloves while doing so.

“Better safe than sorry,” Peter let out.

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Hand sanitizer stations were scattered around the airport and used frequently. Sean C, an American traveling home, used one and we talked. He almost went for a handshake.

The plane was nearly empty. I counted 31 passengers on a plane intended for roughly 180 passengers. It surprised me to see people sitting directly next to each other. So much for social distancing.

There was laughter a few seats behind me, despite the strange feeling of the near empty plane.

At that time, I was still processing the fact that I am leaving Denmark indefinitely. Either it hadn’t hit me yet or I’m getting used to moving around so frequently.

I later realized it simply hadn’t hit me yet.

Upon landing in Amsterdam, the loudspeaker announcement added to the eeriness.

“We hope you can be reunited with your loved ones.

Stay safe, stay healthy.”

There were even more face masks being worn in Amsterdam than in Copenhagen.

It was finally time to board my flight back to the U.S. I was so used to being surrounded by the culture of Denmark that being around Americans felt like a culture shock. There was small talk amongst the passengers.

It seemed there was less fear among the Americans, at least from the precautions being taken. A few passengers wore masks.

The long day tired me out. I rested my eyes.

I counted 31 passengers on the plane with roughly 180 seats.

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My father picked me up from the Detroit Metro Airport.

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I couldn’t help but think, is anyone on my flight infected? It felt like the riskiest place to be was on this flight itself.

I was startled to be poked at and woken up by the man next to me.

“Do you want my ice cream?” The Kansas man asked.

I politely declined.

We later talked and exchanged stories as to how we ended up on the flight. I shared the news of my university calling me home due to the pandemic.

I’ll always have my memories but I can never truly go back. I’ll never be the same. Things won’t be the same.

The world has changed. All I can do is keep my head up.

To comfort me while my world felt upside down, the Kansas man placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Keep good spirits, bud.”

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it wasn’t supposed to be like this Nobody factored COVID-19 into their plans. That goes for everybody in the world, and it goes for the eight of us. It was March 11, 2020. We had just finished the research phase on our magazine assignment — pitches were due in the morning.

Late that night, when most of our presentations were done, texts and calls poured in from sources and fixers telling us to turn on the news and postpone our stories. By midnight, most of us had lost weeks of planning.

Come morning, we came together and pitched a different idea to our professors. Instead of eight stories connected by a one-word them, we would tell one story in multiple parts. It would focus both on the developing reality of COVID-19 and our reactions to it. In our presentation, we phrased it like this: “We, as visitors to Denmark, are left in a state of limbo. Some of us were asked to come home by our universities. Some of us face worse situations back home than we do in Denmark. Regardless, we knew that we needed to document COVID-19 where we stood in the moment: our temporary home, Aarhus.”

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Our pitch initially had four chapters: the oncebustling spaces of Aarhus that now sat empty; the people who nevertheless ventured into the streets, either out of a lack of caution or a need for essentials; scenes from nature to remind us that beauty can exist in a not beautiful time; and portraits of those like us — international students stuck in limbo between one home and another.

A fifth chapter was added early on, as one of us was forced home almost immediately, and documented his journey for this magazine.

Since then, half of us have been called back to our home countries. As a unit working across time zones, we designed and finalized the magazine while in quarantine. This magazine is both our collective statement on COVID-19’s impact on our lives and a timestamp of Aarhus, Denmark as it went through this challenging period.

This wasn’t the journey we planned. This wasn’t the magazine we planned. These weren’t the stories we planned.

In short, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But this is the story that needed to be told.

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Many thanks to Mathilde Bech Gitte Luk Lars Prevelakis Bai Søren Pagter Mads Greve

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Tristen Rouse

Nic Antaya

Farhana Satu

Solmaz Daryani

Jacob Moscovitch

Maddie Davis

Sabry Khaled

Lutfor Rahman

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F20 - International | DMJX 2020