roots

© 2023 Photo 1 Students

© 2023 Danish School of Media and Journalism

Print: Ecograf Gruppen

Printed in Aarhus, Denmark 2023

Special thanks to:

Gitte Luk

Søren Pagter

Lars Nørkjær Bai

To those who shared their stories, thank you for your trust and patience.

Cover photo by Toukir Ahmed Tanvee

Photojournalism

roots

The place we come from is the place we’ll go back to. Our roots will always be a part of us but we decide what grows from them.

This magazine explores ten stories showcasing the journeys people go on to be more than just their roots.

FOLLOWING THE TRACK

by Laura Collard

It is 3:25 and all we can see from the kitchen window is a thick darkness. Under the weak bulb above the counter, Ulrik pours yoghurt into a large bowl and sprinkles it with oats. His face is still crumpled from his short night. But there is no room for tiredness. Today is the 16th of May. It is the opening of the hunting season for male roe deer. It is almost 4am when the 57 year-old hunter throws the remainder of his coffee in the sink. It’s time to go. The night before he has prepared everything, so that he won’t waste any minutes in the morning. The cover of the rifle as well as his brown and green fluffy sweater await on the living room table. The rifle is

still in the safe. In the car, he has piled up his hunting clothes by order, from the thick woolen socks to some pants with branches patterns, ending with the camouflage jacket and his khaki binoculars. Sorting his gear with precision like this allows him to dress quickly and in silence just before entering the hunting field.

At 4:15 am, he turns off his car’s lights. The hunting spot is close by. Two sprays of mosquito repellent and 48 minutes later the sun rises over Strands‘s cold field, where Ulrik is lying as comfortably as he can with his rifle in the high grass.

KNOW YOUR NATURE

Ulrik Jacobsen is reflective, wise, soft and tough at the same time. He has been hunting for 40 years now. From as long as he can remember, he has felt the necessity to be outside. In the wild.

“I won’t live in a place where I cannot see the sea everyday”, he says, a few days before the first roe deer hunt, while touring around the yellow and hilly fields in his blue Seat Ibiza to search for animals. Before the start of the hunting season, he will tour almost each evening around the lands he rents from a local farmer. At 10 km/h and with his binoculars in hand. This habit allows him to learn more about the environment he is going to hunt in.

How many animals are living on it and what are their habits? He mainly observes from his car to spread as little of his scent as possible and not disturb the nature. Respectful is his main adjective when it comes to describing his relationship with the environment.

“You owe it to the animals. In the shot you take, in sparing the youngest and the females, in your way to enter the field. You are allowed to kill but you need to be respectful. Disturb the environment as little as possible.“

That’s also what the Danmarks Jægerforbund, the Danish hunters’ association, teaches the young hunters in their hunting classes. In Denmark, almost four percent of the population are hunters, according to Danish Ministry of the Environment. They are aged between 21 and 59 and are mainly men. They can legally start hunting alone at the age of 18 and can pass the hunting exam at 16. To obtain the permit to hunt, they will have to take classes that will prepare them for the written exam and a rifle test.

FAMILY PATTERN

For the beginning of the hunting season, Ulrik has taken a week off his pest control job. His life will mainly consist of an early hunt at sunrise, breakfast at 7, a nap until noon, lunch, walking the dogs, preparing for the evening’s hunt, dinner and then the last hunt of the day from 7 to sunset. In the Jacobsen house, everyone is used to it. The two dogs, Rolf and Hamer, lay in the sunny part of the living room. Birthe, Ulrik’s wife, a special education needs (SEN) teacher, makes pottery or watches tv lying on the worn-out brown sofa. Often, the now grown-up children, Johann, Zacharias and Asbjørn who also hunt, and Anna, who will complete her hunting exam soon, come to share a spaghetti Bolognese at 6:30.

Despite his busy schedule and as if aware of his own struggles, Ulrik is eager to spend time with his children. Showing them the way, not leading them astray, like his father’s absence in his youth did. “I think it is very important to tell my children when they do something wrong. I didn’t have that kind of presence when I was doing very bad things at 15,” he says, getting slightly emotional. Since his kids were born, he has worked hard not to repeat his own family’s patterns.

TRANSMISSION SEASON

The 16th of May at 05:54 am, Zacharias pulls his old red Toyota over into a small bushy alley near Ulrik’s hunting field. A timid smile on his face. His father grabs his shoulders and brings him into a hug, clapping his back as they talk about his kill. Last year, he traced roe deers during the whole season without getting any. Today, on the first day of the 2023 roe deer hunting season, he got an 18 kg one. Zacharias’s first hunt happened when he was four. Back then, it mainly consisted of observation and following the footsteps of his dad. He really got into hunting when he was 12. He would ask to go into the wild with his father more often than what Ulrik had planned. It grew into such a big part of his identity that he became wildlife instructor for Danmarks Jægerforbund (Danish hunters’ association) at Jagtens Hus in Kalø, and even fell in love with and married a hunter. His siblings have been raised around dogs, fields and rifles, too.

SMELL OF MOSQUITO REPELLENT

It began by asking his children to dice carrots all the way to skin a roe deer and mince it to make sausages. From an early age, Ulrik showed them how to be part of an environment and get in touch with themselves. “To sit alone in the middle of nowhere for hours away from civilization with no one to talk to and no phone distracting you will allow you to get to know yourself more”, their father says. He would teach them how to walk alone in the wild, trace animals, recognize which plants are which, how to train the dogs and cook, how to remain absolutely quiet, almost meditating. “Going into myself”, as he calls it.

Being outside in the nature allows Ulrik to be in tune with himself.

“Those hunting months will fill me up with energy for the rest of the year”, he says. And in winter when human disturbances and the greyness become too much, he will open his lemongrass mosquito repellent and smell it. And it will feel like the 16th of May again. The profound quietness of nature, leaves rustling in the wind, two cuckoos that talk back to each other, the tall grasses starting to turn golden, hundreds of buzzing mosquitoes and cows lowing in the distance.

SAUSAGES AND DICED CARROTS

It’s in the fading sun of the late afternoon of the 16th of May that Zacharias and Ulrik take the dead roe deer out of the neighbour’s humid and warm cellar. It took two pairs of hands and a grimace to hang the animal from the carport of the Jacobsen family’s house. Zacharias got rid of the contaminated parts like the genitals and the bladder. He gets to the limbs, cutting them into parts. Then he skins the animal and separates the meat from the bones. The dogs eat their kibble loudly, while Birthe and her daughter-in-law chat on the porch. Out in the hunting field, the roe deers digest ivy lying in the grass, and the leaves rustle in the wind.

A sharp noise arises from the kitchen. Ulrik cuts the roe deer’s shoulders into cubes while Zacharias removes the nerve from the tenderloins. Soon, they will turn the meat into sausages to eat with diced carrots during family dinner. •

NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

by Mohammad Jaafer

Sometimes I decide to go to sleep because, in my sleep, I dream that I have the ability to stop this war. But I can’t sleep. And if I do, my sleep is dreamless and short, just four or five hours.

When I wake up, the war is still there.

For a long time, I had a dream that I would see my country develop into a place where all people live in peace and security, a country where all means of a decent life are available. The people of Sudan are simple; they love life, they love joy and happiness, they are social, they are connected by love, and they co-exist in all aspects of life. For better and for worse.

That is why the Sudanese revolution of 2019 demanded freedom, peace, and justice in the face of the government of the late President Omar al-Bashir. Sudan, under his rule, was deteriorating on a daily basis. After the revolution, the Transitional Military Council took power in the country. It comprises two military forces: the Sudanese Armed Forces and the Rapid Support Forces. After arduous negotiations, the opposition forces and the council agreed on a transitional period leading to the formation of an elected government. Three years ago, on August 17, 2019, the constitutional document that established a partnership between civilians and the military in Sudan was signed, and on October 25, 2021, the army overthrew the civilian government and suspended work on the constitutional document.

The current fighting in Sudan erupted due to the difference in visions about the framework agreement that was signed between the military and civilian components in order to form a civilian government.

Sometimes the conflict in Sudan feels more like a power struggle between two factions than a war.

Before the war, I felt something that I had never felt at all until recently. It is a sensation that I can’t quite put into words, Something like losing my homeland and leaving the house and my family. On the one hand, I wanted to stay. On the other, I wanted to leave. Due to my country’s deteriorating living conditions and political situation, I decided to depart. You can say mixed emotions.

I suddenly felt as if I had lost my family and friends, even though I had only left them to travel for a limited period of time, and I had no interest in how long I would be going. I was just concerned about leaving my country and moving to a new place where life was decent and good.

In one day, my family and I were literally divided into three parts, and each part of us was in a different place. My mother, my sister, who is two years younger than me, and my older sister’s husband are in the Emirates. They relocated to the Emirates in the middle of 2022. In Sudan, in Khartoum, are my dad and my 2-year-older brother. And me? I am in Denmark.

My sorrow is that I now realise that my country is not the safe and secure home I always imagined. Every day I feel sad to see the streets and the places I used to go to, destroyed. The Khartoum sky was replaced by clouds of smoke instead of the clouds of rain that people used to wait for and enjoyed in the autumn when the children played outside in the rain. Now, rockets instead of rain are falling from the sky over Khartoum.

Khartoum has nothing particularly attractive about it, so I never liked spending much time there. But now, I miss the city in which I was born and raised, in which I lived my life with my family and friends. I miss my motorbike, which I used to ride every morning just to get out of the house without thinking of a destination.

The situation in Sudan has become tragic following the war. The devastation and hardship that my home country has endured weigh heavily on my heart.

The loss of lives, the displacement of families, and the ongoing struggles for stability and peace have had a profound impact on my emotions. I am deeply concerned about the well-being of my loved ones who are still in Sudan, and the distance between us only exacerbates the feeling of helplessness. Leaving home and family behind to seek safety and a better future is difficult. Laden with uncertainty and challenges.

My experience of trying to overcome the difficult times I face in Denmark during the war in Sudan showcases both resilience and strength.

Being in Denmark now, far away from the familiar sights, sounds, and faces of my homeland, I feel fear, longing, and a sense of isolation from being in the loop of what is actually going on there.

Navigating my country during times of war adds an extra layer of complexity to challenging situations. The constant worry about my loved ones back home and the unpredictable nature of conflict weigh heavily on my heart. I am trying to face these difficulties by spending time with my friends and hanging out, and talking online to my family back home.

Going out and finding comfort can be a method to momentarily lessen the grief and yearning for my family and friends during these trying times.

Sometimes I explore the city, allowing myself to get lost in unfamiliar streets and alleys. A short respite from the haunting images of destruction I see in the news and social media. Remembering the vibrant energy instead of the chaos back home.

Another turning point was May 22. I went to sleep and then woke up and learned about the death of my uncle, Muhammad Mahmoud. He was on his way to rescue a house when he heard the mosque’s plea for help. When he arrived with his neighbours, one of the Rapid Support Forces shot him directly in the chest.

Uncle Muhammad was not only my uncle. He was my friend and companion. I only received kind words from this pure soul, who was drawing smiles and happiness into our family. Losing a loved one is never easy, and I have been grappling with a deep sense of grief. It feels insurmountable sometimes. My uncle’s presence and guidance were invaluable to me, and I find myself craving the warmth of his smile and the sound of his voice. During these moments I am even more reminded of the fragility of life and everything that you cherish in life.

Following my uncle’s death, I seek solace in parks and green spaces, where the beauty of nature provides a much-needed escape. As I stroll among the trees, their branches reaching the sky, I breathe in the fresh air, and my mind is momentarily freed from the burdens of war. Watching children play and families enjoying moments of togetherness, I am reminded of the simple joy that can exist even in the midst of turmoil.

However, a lingering sensation of longing persists even in these times of relief. When I see other people building relationships. I can’t help but long for the warmth and familiarity of my family and friends. While my outings offer momentary solace from the anguish the war has inflicted on my nation, they are only a glimpse of what I genuinely desire: The presence and assistance of my loved ones. •

THE WAITING GAME

by Md Mudassir Hossain

For 21-year-old Rosélle, the journey towards embracing her true identity as a transgender woman has been marked by a gruelling wait for hormone treatment. She feels that she is navigating a world that is still learning to understand and support gender diversity. The ticking clock amplifies her frustrations and anxieties, as each passing day becomes a reminder of unfulfilled aspirations and a race against self-discovery.

From a young age, Rosélle felt a deep inner wish to express her true gender identity. She recalls borrowing her sisters’ makeup kit and even putting on hair extensions to look like a girl, unaware at the time of the significance of those actions. However, her sisters did not understand and discouraged her, telling her she was not a girl. It wasn’t until Rosélle moved away from home a couple of years ago that she fully discovered her gender identity. This brought her a newfound happiness from no longer having to hide who she truly is. Yet, she continues to face challenges in expressing herself through clothing and makeup.

To support herself, as she does not receive full subsidies from the Danish government, she works at a canteen. In her free time, Rosélle loves to paint and play video games. Recently, she moved to a one-bedroom apartment and painted the interior herself, now enjoying the colorful walls.

The frustration of waiting for hormone treatment weighs heavily on Rosélle. She believes that only through the treatment can she reach her full potential and truly align her outer appearance with her inner self. “I wait, and I keep waiting, but it feels like the more I wait, the more my body is going to develop in the wrong way, not in the way I wanted it to,” she says.

When I visit my family, I take on another persona. I basically untransify myself.

While Rosélle has come out as transgender to her friends, she has yet to share this aspect of her identity with her family. She recognizes the emotional importance of having someone who cares for and supports her, but she is currently not receiving support from her family due to their unawareness about her being transgender. She visits her family from time to time, but makes sure that she looks like a man. Fortunately, she has a Danish girlfriend, who supports her in everything she does and believes in her chosen path. Nevertheless, Rosélle cares deeply about her family and knows that they will eventually discover her true gender identity. Her plan is to first undergo hormone treatment and then seek to achieve success in her personal and academic pursuits, such as doing Japan Studies at the University of Aarhus. By demonstrating her success and happiness as a transgender person, she hopes to break the misconception that being trans leads to misery or self-destruction, thus paving the way for acceptance from her family.

Rosélle acknowledges that living as a trans woman in Romania, her home country, would be challenging due to widespread discrimination and inadequate healthcare support. However, her passion for Japanese culture and her desire to specialize in Japan Studies drives her to succeed both personally and professionally as a transgender individual.

Until then, Rosélle must wait for the next couple of years or so to complete her hormone treatment process. She envisions a future where her family accepts her wholeheartedly, embracing her as a successful and fulfilled person. •

EVERYTHING THAT GETS LOST IN BETWEEN

by Inés Verheyleweghen

In the streets of Langa de Duero, a Spanish village with a population hovering around 600 people, four men are carrying the renovated statuette of San Isidro, the saint of the farmers. The mass is over, and the procession follows. They go past the pale houses and their flourished balconies. Past some abandoned homes, too. The seventy people gathered don’t look at their feet while walking, but up to the sky. The choir sings and hopes for rain after more than a month of drought. In a land of farmers, God is still preached for a bountiful harvest. The festivities will last all day, but tomorrow the village will go back to its quiet. Visitors from Madrid, Aranda and Soria will return to their cities. But not Juan, Susana, or Pili. They’re living in Langa de Duero, a village that has lost half its population over the past seventy years.

In the fifties in Spain, the mechanization of agriculture led to a rural exodus. A phenomenon still ongoing. A book called La España vacía (The Empty Spain) written by the Spanish journalist Sergio del Molino seven years ago gave resonance to the problem of depopulation in rural areas. Following the release of the book, already existing citizen movements such as Teruel Existe and Soria¡YA! entered politics to defend the rights of the inhabitants of these regions. In 2020, almost 22% of Spanish municipalities suffered from a very serious demographic situation. In Soria, the province where Langa de Duero lies, more than half its municipalities are concerned. Langa de Duero is less affected than other villages but is still in a serious situation.

Pilar Cuerpo Sanz, commonly named Pili, keeps the keys of almost every village’s building. The 83 years-old woman takes care of the hermitage’s rosebushes and plays la brisca at the elderly centre every evening. When she was a teenager, she didn’t get the chance to study. Few men did, let alone women. She could work as a servant in Madrid or Barcelona or stay at home and help her parents. She chose the latter. During all these years, she has seen her village transform. From muddy streets to asphalted ones, she remembers the ladies sewing in the streets, the kids screaming and playing outside, and the houses left open.

El día de las matanzas (Pig Slaughtering Day) was once the happiest day of the year: sometime in January or February her father would kill a pig and the women would gut it and cure the hams. The tradition, due to stricter sanitary rules, is dying away. The cattle raising now happens in industrial farms and the households have no animals anymore, except for chickens.

Driving down the Calle Real to his home, Juan Leon de Blas Ayuso counts the uninhabited houses. From the village council and for the next 300 meters, it’s probably two out of three. Some of them are used during the summer, others keep their old storefront. Back home he swaps his car for his tractor and goes to one of his fields. He owns a hundred hectares of land around the village – twenty of which his father gave him. The 59-year-old man has witnessed two different eras in his life: the work that used to be done in two months can now be achieved in two weeks. When he had to choose his path in life, Juan had figured out one thing: He wanted to stay close to his parents.

Susana Santos de Diego came back to the village three years after leaving it for the very same reason. Her parents are no longer alive, though, but she is still here. For the last thirty years, she’s been slicing steak for the villagers. “I don’t get sad when I think about the depopulation”, says Susana, “I get sad when I look back at what the village used to be.” On Thursdays, the bus would drop off around

30-40 people from the neighbouring villages of the municipality. The butcher’s shop would be packed. The business would live off these customers, too. Now, most of them have passed away or are in elderly homes. “I started noticing the change ten years ago. Yes, there are still people living in the village now, but there’s no village life anymore,” Susana says.

Compared to other villages, Langa de Duero meets the basic needs of its inhabitants. There’s a pharmacy, a medical center, and a 24-hour medical assistance. There are two bars, from the same owner, one small supermarket, a butcher, and a fishery. Parents can bring their children to the nursery, kindergarten, and primary school. The elderly can meet at a community house. Farming, pork farms, vineyards and some factories provide work to the villagers. The bus service is too poor to solely rely on, though. Langa de Duero is an intermediate village trying to keep up. The arrival, since the beginning of the 2000’s, of immigrants from Romania, Bulgaria, and South America to work in the agricultural sector helps mitigate the population loss and keep infrastructures alive. But despite its rather favourable situation and some initiatives implemented by the municipality, the demographic tendency remains the same. Young generations leave to study in the cities and end up finding a job there. The inhabitants are mainly old people, and the birth rate is low.

Pili is joking around at the elderly centre. They used to be thirty women to gather and play cards. Now, they’re maybe ten. If the elderly centre didn’t exist, she wouldn’t mind playing cards at the bar, with the men. Pili would adapt to anything in order not to sink into solitude. For Juan’s father, the situation is different. Since the pandemic, he doesn’t feel like joining the men in the bar anymore. He eats with his son, visits him in the fields or takes care of his vegetable garden. “What scares me the most, that I think we will have to deal with in the future, is the solitude of the elderly”, says Juan. He thinks the village is going to become a “dormitory village” for the people working in Aranda. Or a village that will only be alive during the summers and some weekends.

Susana raised her three daughters in Langa. Two of them have left already, one of them to a bigger village, and the other to the city of Burgos. Laura, who’s 16, is planning to leave for her studies. “Here, you live in a bubble. And I want to see the world. But I think that later I would like to live two lives: one in the city, and one in the village.” Her older sister, Paula, left the village when she was 15. “My sister really struggled. She had only one other girl her age in the village. I was lucky enough to have six. When politicians talk about the “empty Spain” they always focus on the infrastructures and services, on the physical, rarely on mental health. Of course, which politician is interested in having a therapist here? There’s no one.”

From his window, Juan sees the kids playing in the primary school yard during the break. For the farmer, who has no one to pass on his land to, hearing the screams and laughs of the toddlers fills him up with joy. Seeing his dog, Bonnie, run left and right, following the ball behind the school fence, makes him happy too. After the break, the fifth and sixth grade have a business class. With only 33 pupils, the school must mix the different grades to have enough teachers. Part of today’s program is learning how to improve their marketing strategy. Two days earlier, they were selling homemade soap on a market in the provincial capital, along with other kids from other schools. They were the only ones coming from a village 90 kilometres away. Last year, they were disappointed when they realized they hadn’t made any profit. Indeed, the village kids had to pay for their bus journey. Their school principal, Iratxe Baizán Verdejo, had to seek financial help from the deputation. This year, no surprises. The transportation fees were covered.

“The many cultural activities we can’t attend because of the transportation costs, are probably the main disadvantage of a rural school. Our

education level is as good as elsewhere. In some ways even better because our teaching is very much personalized”, explains Iratxe. The primary school also receives help from the province and the European union for the development of rural areas. The money is invested in tablets, laptops, and interactive touch-screen boards.

The San Isidro celebration ends with the fanfare playing in the village hall. Behind the hill on which Langa de Duero is built, the sun is setting. The limestone rock formation deprives the villagers of the golden hour. About twenty people are attending the concert. There’s one toddler crawling in the room, and about six old couples dancing. Other villagers are observing or resting after the effort. When the melody of la jota rings out, the audience joins the dancefloor. The villagers are known for playing the traditional song on repeat. They lift their arms, snap their fingers and twirl around, without having to think. Their bodies carry the memory of all the times they have danced it. •

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. •

FINDING ME

by Zohreh Sadati

What happened in my childhood has been hovering over me for years. Facing it is an important part of my healing and understanding of myself.

I still remember the day that boy asked me to go to the basement of my father’s house with him. I was a child, only seven years old. There was a window on the right side of the basement, which had a long corridor that connected the courtyard to the exit door. Outside the basement were flowers, trees, and sunshine. I always enjoyed watching this scenery. The sun was shining that day, too, but I was not facing the sun and its light. I was facing the wall of the basement and later the room where the chickens were picked. I followed the boy and he asked me if I wanted to sit on his feet. I just looked at him and he grabbed me, and then I had this weird feeling of something in between my legs, and my dress didn’t cover my legs and back anymore. I couldn’t see him, but I think he had a smile on his face. I lost track of the time, but I remember I thought that it must be some sort of a game. I tried to understand what was going on, but I knew that I had never felt something like this before. He was about 15 years old, and I knew him. ⁓

Right after it happened, I didn’t talk to anyone, but after a couple of months I told some of the other girls, and they said that this had happened to them, too, but in different ways. I wish I could have told my family, but I didn’t dare to tell them. I was a child, usually having a lot of fun with other children in the family. I spent time with some boys from the neighborhood and played in the street in

front of my father’s house in my hometown in the north of Iran. My father was a serious man, second sergeant major in the army, and everybody knew that, so we were safe. I was full of energy and I just followed the game like a boy and was not afraid of anything. We had this game about touching the wall between our yard and the next. The game took place at midnight and the one who dared go all into the darkness to touch the wall, was the winner of the game. Sometimes I was scared, but also excited to do what the boys did.

I had a rabbit at the time, and after the incident in the basement I tried to discover the rabbit’s private parts in an attempt to understand my feelings about what that boy had done to me. I watched little children’s bodies for the very same reason. But it all left me none the wiser. At the time I also developed a dislike for going to the toilet to pee, so I did it in the hall on the carpet. But I didn’t tell anyone. I would sometimes find the sensitive part of my body, but for years I didn’t touch them with my fingers. They were forbidden places. I remember a man in the street showing me his private parts, and I was scared and ran away. Back home my heart was pounding, but I still couldn’t tell my mother anything.

I tried to drown in my loneliness, just playing with stones and spending time in the yard alone. I went barefoot, removed earthworms from the ground and put water in the holes dug in the ground so that the crickets would come out. I caught them with my fingers and put them on the trunk of the tree and watched them every day. One day I saw their dry skin left on the trunk and heard them singing on another tree. When I was nine years old, I started reading a book about the Imam’s Innocence, the Quran, and other religious books that I found in my father’s library. I looked for the meaning of life, something that would make me happy and release me. But I still didn’t tell anyone what had happened to me. And I was not released. ⁓

Accidentally I ended up in theatre when I was 16 years old, and making art liberated something in me. In acting I could show myself to other people. I started university in 2010 to study theatre. Five months into my studies I lost my father, and things escalated. I lost myself in a deep depression and tried to find a way to survive. I didn’t go to university and

I didn’t see the sun for six months. I stayed in my room all the time, smoking cigarettes. The doctor gave me diazepam and strong sedatives, and I used some of them for sleep. I couldn’t sleep at all. I was scared to go to sleep and die, and it all felt like long trances with many nightmares about my own and other people’s future and past. Before he died, my father had given me a notebook and suggested I write everything I wanted, so I started writing about daily life, and later I wrote poems. My first writing was full of sadness and no hope.

⁓

I had two roommates at university. One of them, Elahe, was a godsend. She would hold my hand until I went to sleep, but in my sleep, I would be short of breath with nightmares. I did not have the strength to physically move, so she had to shake me and pull me out of my sleep and nightmares. Elahe stayed with me most of the time and took care of me outside the house until my mother suggested hiring someone to protect me in the street walking from home to university, because when I saw people, I would panic and sometimes I would scream in their faces. One day Elahe found me in my room with blood on my hands. I had cut my arms with a pointed pen and was crying, but I didn’t feel any pain, so after slapping my own face several times, I fell into a deep sleep. ⁓

After a few months some guy tried to make love with me, but it didn’t work out. One day, when my mother came to visit, I told her that I couldn’t have relationship with anyone, and she said that she understood completely. She owed it all to the loss of my father and stayed with me because she thought I might commit suicide.

I thought of suicide many times and I had nothing to lose. I had already lost myself. I had the idea that men only wanted me for sex and beauty, and I was at an age when my soul and body were thirsty for love more than ever. I drank too much, and I didn’t trust my friends. Some of them hurt me and used me, and after that I tried to commit suicide with pills. I didn’t know what was happening to me and I lost my faith in God. I couldn’t eat, I had problems with my stomach, I lost about 12 kilos, and my hair fell out. I saw various doctors, but they couldn’t find a reason for all of this, so I finished university and left the city with a lot of problems and depression.

⁓

I came back to my father’s house in 2014 after three and a half years, but I couldn’t stay there, because everything reminded me of him. Then I went to Tehran, and I called my mom to tell her that I didn’t want to come back home, because I didn’t love my home and I just thought she didn’t love me. She was confused and sad, but I told her that now I had to act independently and work and continue my life in Tehran. So, I decided to start a new life with a few things in my doll’s suitcase, a notebook and some winter clothes to stay warm in Tehran where I got a job as a waitress.

After being treated with medication until 2016, I recovered significantly. I worked at the restaurant for about seven years. That was my life. ⁓

When my father died, I lost my safe space, and this, along with the sexual abuse, has affected my relationships. I wanted someone to play the role of a father for me and treat me like a little girl. I wanted so hard to love a man, but at the same time my mind couldn’t separate them from my thoughts of a father figure. In Tehran, I tried to have sex with different men, and often after making love I said I couldn’t do it anymore. I was not looking for sex but for love, or maybe even for myself. One of the men kicked me out of his house before dawn. Another tried to tempt me to have sex on the floor, because he believed that the bed was for him and his girlfriend. I was chased away with anger and curses. I was hugged, accused of lying. Some of them said to take care of myself. Others that they still loved their wives or girlfriends.

I still had problems with my stomach, but a doctor in Tehran diagnosed me with Helicobacter. I had lost my stomach villi and my stomach valve due to stress, fear, food consumption, alcohol and cigarettes.

I lived in a house in Tehran from the end of 2016 until the middle of 2020. It was on one and a half floors in the basement of an apartment. I didn’t have enough money to pay for it, so my boss gave me this house to live in and reduced my salary. Somehow, I hoped that this house would cure me and enable me to accept or face my fear. I had no choice, I had to continue living in Tehran to fulfill my dreams. And then I decided to set beauty and elegance aside, not to touch my body hair, wear simple clothes and immerse myself in poetry and photography, but I still attracted men, and I didn’t know where to take my loneliness. I tried to paint, study English, and photograph people on the street and work in theatre and film for a while. One night, all the lights in the area went out and I didn’t know what to do, so I ran outside and into the street hardly wearing any clothes. I Panicked and called a friend for help. he told me to just talk to him on the phone while going into the house, then light a candle and wait for the light to come back.

I started reading photography magazines and tried to go outside for street photography to get back on my feet again.

In 2020, right in front of the same small apartment, a man attacked me with a big machete and stole my mobile phone. The attack caused serious mental damage, so I left my home and work with all my belongings and went to my friend’s house in Tehran. I spent about five months with panic attacks and did not leave the house.

Eventually I feel that I am finding a way to find peace. But I am still vulnerable, and my panic prevents emotional connections. A few things I have been able to do to disrupt my mental pattern are to quit chewing gum, not watching the clock or television, or using white sugar. I immediately remove from the cycle what becomes a habit. When my fear comes to me, I often talk to myself to convince myself that I am present in the now and nothing is threatening me. If the intensity of fear and panic is strong, I can’t speak at all, only my eyes are open and staring at one point. Sometimes small things break me and make me sad, like a loud voice or verbal or behavioral abuse. Most people don’t want to hurt me, but it happens. I’m afraid of myself and the path I’m on. If I lose someone and maybe feel that people don’t care about me, my anxiety comes back full range. But I have accepted myself and the love I have for those around me, those who take care of me. Still, when fear and loneliness dominate, I take refuge in things that calm me down.

Recently, I have been thinking of someone who once kissed me, and I kissed him back in a street in Tehran. It was snowing and everything was covered in white. It was neither too bright nor too dark for me to be afraid. My heart was open for him, and his arms were open to hold me. I saw him as a human being. My body needs to learn the truth and trust the heart of another person. Love is important to me. Although I can’t always tell what is vulgar, evil, strange, bad, or good. The reflection of my childhood is hovering over me. Telling the truth about it is my priority. •

WAITING FOR WATER

by Tomáš Pacovský

Two hands under the table squeezed each other for approval. This was the sign. Vlastimil and Lucie Hegr were buying the house, which marked the beginning a journey the couple decided to embark upon in the Czech village of Václavice. A village in which Lucie used to visit her grandmother as a child. Also, a village still dependent on its own resources of water. But what they did not expect, was to run out of water. Except one day they did. And then a few years later, in 2021, Václavice was put on the world map as it became one of the battlefields of an international dispute over the extension of a nearby Polish coal mine and its potential effects on the region, regarding among others water supplies.

With a rooster crowing in the background, Václavice really paints a picture of an idyllic village. A few dozen houses, some quite old, others brand new, in a little valley all stretched out alongside a long road, making it the third longest village in the Czech Republic.

For a closer look, particularly into well maintained as well as rather messy gardens, they offer a sight not so common these days. Wells. One might think it is a relic of the past. Quite the contrary – it is a necessity. Václavice belongs to just a few percent of villages or

towns in the Czech Republic without access to public water supply. Despite it being like this for dozens of years, in recent times, locals have been battling a shortage.

“I thought somebody was either taking a shower or doing the dishes. And suddenly, there was no running water,” recounts 45-yearold Vlastimil Hegr, a father of three, who almost 20 years ago moved to the village with his wife Lucie. She adds, “The boys went to pee behind the bush so we wouldn’t have to flush.” A story like this is not uncommon.

“My neighbour had shampoo in her hair when the water stopped. She had to go to my house to finish her shower,” recalls Iva Červená, a 61-year-old chairman of the local council as well as the manager of a recycling company, who fell in love with a local picturesque halftimbered house 15 years ago.

And the disruption of the local idyll continues. As you climb the hill surrounding Václavice, you get a view of this massive concrete structure and a monstrous pit with a moon-like landscape. These two sights are a power plant and a coal mine, located only a few kilometres away, on the Polish side.

According to the governmental organisation Czech Geological Survey, the Turów mine is one of the reasons for the declining water levels, alongside water usage and climate change. Those have been observed in the region since the 1980s. Even if the mine’s impact, specifically on Václavice’s resources, has not been proven, the locals began to worry the mine might be taking their water. Especially if the mine expands. And that is what Poland plans to do.

Nonetheless, the opinions throughout the village vary. Some even question whether a nearby sand mine on the Czech side can play a role, even though that has been denied by local authorities. What is certain, though, is that the village of 500 people think twice before using water. “One realises its value. Even how much one spends on washing and so on,” Mr Hegr points out. He estimates that the family uses less than 3,000 litters of water per week. As opposed to an average Czech family with an access to a water pipeline, who uses 4,000 litters according to the Prague Waterworks and Sewerage Company.

MIRACULOUS WATER

As the May sun shines and temperatures mark the approach of summer, lunch is being served outside at the Hegr household. While Mr Hegr is constructing a trampoline with the help of his son Vojtěch, Mrs Hegr is joined by their two daughters, Naďa and Julie, in the kitchen. “Do you want some of our miraculous water?” Mrs Hegr offers. She is referring to their drinking water. A container of which can be found in their kitchen on a little stool, reminiscent of an altar. When the light shines right, it reflects through the water and onto a wall.

Six such containers were empty just a few days back. “We don’t have drinking water in our well. So, each week, I drive to a local natural spring,” Mr Hegr explains. He loads his van with a wheelbarrow and six blue clear containers of 90 litres combined – enough for a family of five for a week. The drive is not too long, and once he parks his van, a little path leads him to a spring in a forest. The sound of a light wind and leaves rustling is interrupted only by Mr Hegr filling up the containers. As people walk past, he greets them. “The spring has a nice history, it supposedly has a healing effect. And it’s interesting to talk to people, it’s such a diversion,” Mr Hegr explains a tradition, which started during the pandemic and replaced going for drinking water at their parents’ in a nearby city. “But of course, it takes time.” The Hegr family is a rarity, the majority of the village buys their water from the shop.

LOTTERY GAME

Living with water in Václavice used to be like a lottery game. While some had enough water, others were struggling. While some had water good enough for cooking or showering, others would open their wells and find yellowish water smelling of rotten eggs. Mr Hegr’s survey for the local council revealed that about a third of the participating households had a bad quality of water.

“This thing, luckily, I haven’t had to use in a long time,” Mr Hegr says and points to a large 1,000-litre water tank. The past months have been full of rain, so the village is doing fine when it comes to water. But Mr Hegr also made sure the family is not left to chance, and goes on to explain an elaborate system of pumps and water tanks, which makes sure the house utilises water from both the well and from rainwater. “It sounds DIY, and now it’s running automatically, so it’s okay, but of

course it was annoying to build,” he says. “I don’t know how it is with others, but I think that once there’s enough water, one forgets the struggles of the past,” Mrs Hegr adds.

LIVING IN AN INDUSTRIAL ZONE

A little further up the village, Matouš Kirschner, a local farmer, tends a small herd of cows, sheep, and geese. His farm is also home to a horse, bees, and chickens.

“During the dry years we had no pasture, no grass. The hay I had for the winter, was gone in August or September. I had to kill some of the cattle because of that,” Mr Kirschner says as he looks in the direction of a 9 metre-deep well which has not been used for years. As of now, there is about 40 centimetres of water. Luckily, the farm has a second well.

Despite only coming to the village in 2000, Mr Kirschner could observe the decline in water levers since then. “When we didn’t have water, it had to be brought by the firefighters,” he says. But the struggle for water has never made him question his place or the farming itself. Mr Kirschner talks passionately about local life and about farming in general. He comes off as a very down-to-earth person, at one with nature. “I moved to the village because I wanted to be close to nature, to animals.”

And just by looking around, he is close to both. But he is also close to the mine, the power plant, and a few wind turbines which are also located near the village. And not all locals, Mr Kirschner included, seem happy about those, either. “I sit down for a meal in the kitchen, and the windmills flash into my eyes. It bothers me,” he complains, “The mine. The windmills park. Farmers who use chemicals. Sometimes I feel like I live in an industrial zone.”

Denis, a small kid whose father is completing his community service by helping Mr Kirschner, jumps away slightly as an old machine loudly crushes corn into ground grain for animals.

“So far, we have enough water but it is not good. We had to buy a water cleaner, and it still not 100% good. They have been promising us a water pipeline at least for ten years,” says 68-year-old local resident František Beneš.

THE WAITING

“From the stories we heard, there used to be a spring here somewhere. But we never found it,” Mr Kirschner says. “Later we were told it was destroyed by tractors many years ago.” And it was when Mr Kirschner was revitalising an alley connecting the farm with the Wohlman Cross, a local spot of pilgrimage, that he noticed a rather wet place on the land. “We started digging and then all of a sudden, surface water from the surrounding area began to flow in,” he says, referring to an unexpected moment of finding a long-lost spring. As of now, there is water at least one thirds of the year. “Might not be ideal for humans, but if there’s a thirsty deer or a fox, they can go have a drink.”

Now waiting for good weather and enough water is replaced by waiting for a water pipeline. A piece of infrastructure that has been debated for years and years. Now its

construction seems to be afoot – even though people are sometimes reluctant to believe it.

“But they should start digging next year,” confirms Mrs Červená, the chairman of the local council. It will be funded by Polish money. Money which was paid out as a compensation after Prague and Warsaw got into an international, media-heavy dispute about the expansion of the mine and the extension of the mining until 2044.

“But I mean, if they flood the mine in the future, like the other mines in the area, I can go there with my sailboat. Well not me, I won’t live to see it, but maybe my children or their children,” Mr Hegr says jokingly. And truly, there are plans to fill the huge pit with nothing else but… water. The very thing the region is struggling for. But people will have to wait for that, too. •

LOSING TRACK

by Owen Ziliak

Persistent emptiness. Daily regret. I didn’t know missing someone could hurt this much.

My months long breakdown started when I left Aarhus Airport. Literally. Running on three hours of sleep, I was overwhelmed. On my way out I thought I had missed customs, somehow forgetting that I had gone through passport control in Amsterdam. Tight-chested and on the verge of tears, I frantically texted my parents to make sure I wasn’t going to be arrested as the bus pulled away and took me into Aarhus for the first time.

I didn’t think it could get worse than those first few hours. But I was in for an experience I had not prepared myself for.

YEARS

Being away from my girlfriend, Jaclyn, for a couple months at a time was nothing new. It was a long enough time to really miss her, but I never felt like it made our relationship difficult. She has always been a big part of my life, and even when we were apart it felt like she was always there. I expected these six months to be the same.

We had started talking and became romantically involved just before the pandemic. At the time I was still doing acapella, playing baseball and interacting with friends every day

at school. Due to lockdown, I was forced to be online in order to talk to anyone outside of my immediate family. Jaclyn and I talked all day, every day. We called every night, watched movies on FaceTime and occasionally wrote letters. And when prom season came around, I plopped down on my gray futon, she on her white bed, and donned a corsage and boutonniere while eating takeout we had ordered for each other. Suddenly unable to see the people I once saw on a daily basis, the connection that we had was exactly what I needed at the time. While lockdown as a whole was something I’d never want to go through again, I sometimes look back on it fondly because of how it shaped our relationship. But I did not recognize the pain it would cause me down the road.

MONTHS

The following months after my arrival in Denmark were filled with nothingness. I can’t remember anything from the month of February. Eat. Sleep. Work. Eat. Sleep. Work. Eat. Sleep. Work.

My time abroad was going just how I had planned it, and at the time I thought it was a good idea. But I had no fulfillment.

I was alone. My motivation to explore the place I would be calling home until June was nonexistent. The allure of going abroad felt like a lie. There was no place I’d rather be than home.

This wasn’t my first time away from friends and family for an extended period of time. The summer before I had spent two months by myself and built the same routine I planned on having in Denmark. Eat. Sleep. Work. Eat. Sleep. Work. I loved it. Every day was something new, and I thought this would be the same.

Spending the majority of time talking to one person is healthy if there are others around you that play similar roles in your life. Jaclyn was an outlet for me, both mentally and physically, and she has helped me get over all the bumps in my life since we met. But she has always been the only one. When I arrived in Denmark I quickly realized a harsh truth. She wasn’t going to be able to be there for me in the same way she was when I was back home. We could still call three to four days a week, but the physical distance and time difference made her a much smaller part of my life.

In the blink of an eye, I’d “lost” the person that kept me honest and moving.

WEEKS

My struggles continued into April, and my poor mental state bled into our relationship. We texted more and called less, going through the motions instead of being constructive and improving each other.

As time went on, I felt like I was in the dark about how Jaclyn was feeling, and the spark we had was getting dimmer. Jaclyn and I agreed. It felt like we were killing time until we got to see each other again in the summer.

My surroundings at the dorm were an indication of my hard times as well. The painted white brick walls remained empty, reminding me of all the things I had forgotten back home that would have filled the space. The shiny pink duvet is something I’d never buy myself, and I never would have used it if the last person living here hadn’t cleaned it and left it behind. I hated it, but didn’t care.

I thought making small changes was pointless. “A new duvet isn’t going to make life better,” I told myself.

The only sentimental item that I brought from home was a small booklet of pictures of Jaclyn that she had gotten for me just before I left for Denmark. It serves as a reminder of how things were and how things will be once I return. I wish I had more.

It took me a while to realize what was going on. Back home I was someone that could deal with a lot of adversity and come out just fine on the other side, but even the smallest things began dictating my mood. If I woke up with the sun coming through my window, I would have a good day. If it was overcast, I wouldn’t. Things that used to not matter, suddenly shaped who I would be on a daily basis. Almost every morning I woke up regretting how I went about the day before. I felt like I was wasting time. As I got dressed and made breakfast I swore that I’d go about the new day better. But I rarely followed through.

DAYS

After I returned from doing a project in Skagen, Jaclyn and I talked about the state of our relationship. It was late on the second night back and with class in the morning I didn’t want to stay up, but we ended up talking until two in the morning. It was a difficult conversation to have, made worse by being forced to communicate through a screen while on the verge of falling asleep.

But I was petrified of what would happen if I hung up.

“It is hard when we’re barely going to see each other over the next few months,” she said in a text.

“We’re gonna make it work. I’m gonna make sure it all works,” I responded.

“This isn’t working for us, though. What we’re doing right now,” she texted back.

For days I wondered if the end was near. I hadn’t been single since before COVID, which felt like decades ago. The weight of my thoughts about how I would handle the rest of my trip and returning to school was unbearable. This experience, while agonizing, snapped me out of my trance. For the first time I had to confront the fact that I had trapped myself in my own mind, keeping myself and my relationship from developing. The constant negative feedback loop I had been in since I touched the tarmac, was destroying the most valuable thing in my life. Eat. Sleep. Work. Eat. Sleep. Work. My time abroad went just how I had planned it, and it was a terrible idea.

Following days of discussion and self-reflection, life began to change with Jaclyn. Open communication led to us becoming more in tune with each other’s wants and needs, which we had lost over the past few months. The ability to find ways to express myself outside of her through solo activities, took away the need for me to be talking to her all the time. Lingering in bed became a thing of the past, as each day I had something to do. My ability to find happiness and fulfillment while far from her benefited both of us.

ETERNITY

Our problems were not solved overnight and things still aren’t perfect, but my behavior has transformed. I talk to my parents and older friends more often and make sure that what I think makes me happy is something that transcends distance and time.

I was able to find ways to fill the empty spaces of things I would usually do back home. I challenged myself to experiment with new methods of cooking and flavors to distract myself from the favorite items I couldn’t find or was being priced out of, such as authentic Asian and Mexican ingredients. Instead of video games I listened to more music and started to learn about the intricacies of production and storytelling within it. While I was still missing what I could do back home, I slowly found ways to bridge the gaps between my lifestyle in the US and my lifestyle in Denmark.

Back in April while thinking about what I had gained from my time in Denmark so far, I struggled to come up with anything not related to school, or a better appreciation for the things I had back home. But after my conversations with Jaclyn, I realise that I learned something here I likely would not have learned at home: The value of greater dependence on oneself, rather than others. •

A GAP FOR LIFE

by Leon Joshua Dreischulte

The Danish Folkehøjskole is a unique educational system without grades or age limits - just young people learning how to follow their passions

The sun is almost at its highest point, and from the black heated school roof there is a nice overview of the courtyard. Faded wooden benches with students relaxing, leaning their heads on each other‘s shoulders, surrounded by a juicy green meadow covered by faded dandelions. On the black tarred school roof three Belgian boys, Maximilien, Raphael and Marcellin, are lying on an air mattress enjoying a beer. Almost too picturesque to be true, and almost too beautiful to be in a school. This is what a day may look like in a folkehøjskole in Odder, a small Danish town, 30 kilometres south of Aarhus.

LEARNING FOR LIFE

This kind of school system was devised in 1844 by Nikolai Frederik Severin Grundtvig, a Danish writer, poet, philosopher, historian, pastor, educator and politician, who was the pioneer and founder of the folkehøjskole. Grundtvig was a staunch democrat and believed in the importance of democratic participation in education and society. He called for folkehøjskoler to be open and inclusive educational institutions that welcome people from all social classes and backgrounds. Through the exchange of ideas and active participation, students should be empowered to form their own opinions and participate in democratic processes. Grundtvig’s ideas have had a significant impact on the development of folkehøjskoler in Denmark and have given them a unique character. Today, these educational institutions continue to serve as important platforms for lifelong learning, cultural exchange and democratic participation. By putting Grundtvig‘s principles into practice, they empower people to realize their full potential and play a more active role in their communities and society. Raphael Bierna, 19, one of the Belgian boys on the school roof says, „We are living with each other in our own world and this is just incredible. I would advise everyone to try this magical experience.“ Raphael is in the video class and at the moment he is shooting a video with a small group of other students.

EMBRACES ALL AGE GROUPS

A folkehøjskole is a non-formal residential school offering learning opportunities in almost any subject. Most students are between 18 and 24 years old. Gie Mosekær Svinth is 25 and in her fifth gap year. She was a bit worried that she would feel old and boring here before she started. But in the end she´s really glad that she chose to come here. She doesn’t feel the age gap very much, since they are all in the same place working together. Gie was also worried that she wouldn’t get any friends, but she met so many amazing people and have had such a great time here. She wants to study at VIA University College, a Multiplatform for Storytelling and Production, so she started here to be in the Film production class and use it for her application. She learned a lot and this spring she got as far as to the admission test at VIA and is now waiting for the results. Most people start studying at a younger age, but Gie was not prepared until now and she is grateful for all the life experience she´s achieved. Especially here at Odder folkehøjskole.

PREPARING FOR PERFORMANCE

One hour before classes end for today every student is busy with different practices. at the very end of the corridor from the sports hall various instruments can be heard behind the door, percussionand drums especially loud. After the students had time to rehearse various songs in different groups, they now present the results to the teacher who correct some details. A slight pressure is noticeable as they prepare to perform the songs a week later at their selforganized festival. Except for a few rhythmic changes to the percussion and adjustments to the volume of each instrument, the song comes close to perfection, says the music teacher.

KITCHEN DUTY

6 pm in small town Odder, hundreds of young people, hungry from playing pool, sport activities and cuddling are waiting in a queue for the last buffet meal they get today from the daily catering. Chili sin carne is waiting for empty stomachs to be filled. For some the priority ratio is rice, chili and cream, but for many of them its cream, rice and chili. The People having the kitchen duty this week are slightly displeased. Kitchen duty is not their first choice, but to alleviate the suffering, pop hits are often played on the bluetooth speakers and some of the students are dancing while doing the dishes. To most students kitchen duty is the only thing they don’t like at the school.

PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT

It is obvious that this is a place where people learn but also develop personally at the same time. No one is forced to learn anything. There are no grades or exams. But everyone can develop and expand their personal potential. Whether it‘s perfecting performing the song „Killing me Softly“ as a band or studying the principles of psychology, everyone pursue their personal interests.

But the most significant thing is that people forget what happens outside this institution. It is a small world of its own in which each person is acknowledged, but also a small bridge between the past and the future. It is a fruitful time to develop optimism for all that is to come. For Naira Thomsen, 21, the time at folkehøjskolen was also a confirmation that people respect her, „As an adult, you get the chance to grow without the pressure to perform. You get to experience a tight and trusting community that is rare elsewhere. Of course you don‘t make friends with everyone equally. But the friends you do make almost become family. Despite being openly queer I have only met acceptance and understanding.“•