Shifting Grounds
© 2025 The Photojournalism Students
© 2025 Danish School of Media and Journalism
Published by DMJX Photojournalism
Cover photo by Dicte Sønnichsen
Index page photo by Kasper Krupsdahl
Print: Ecograf Gruppen
Printed in Denmark 2025
Thanks to:
Søren Pagter
Gitte Luk
Lars Bai
Copenhagen Photo Festival Politiken-Fonden
Aarhuus Stiftstidendes Fond
Sony Nordic All-Graphic
KaJ
And a special thanks to everyone who has shared their stories.
A documentary photography magazine and exhibition, Shifting Grounds, made by a group of 11 photojournalism students from the Danish School of Media and Journalism – DMJX.
In many ways we live in a time where our common future is more uncertain than before.
In these 11 stories we meet people, who actively try to shape their lives by persevering their culture or reshaping their living conditions.
WHAT BINDS US Anders
Lindstrøm
Berker NO MORE HIGH SCHOOL
LANDS Signe Bech Søholt
Loui Pedersen BEFORE THE RIVER MELTS Dicte Sønnichsen UNTAMED
BEHIND THE CURTAIN
Tobias Nielsen STATELESS
Peter Maunsbach BELONGING BY THE NAKED HILLS
Vikki Søholm MAMA’S GIRL Kasper Krupsdahl
Amalie Haun MANOR OF THE FLOWER CHILDREN
Rebecca Krogh BENEATH THE RED HANDS Frederik Kongsgaard THIRTY KILOMETERS AN HOUR
Students run back and forth along the corridors of the Faculty of Engineering in Belgrade, Serbia. The place is reminiscent of something from the Harry Potter universe and consists of long stone stairs that wind up through four stories with tiled floors hidden behind pillars. The building houses three faculties: Architecture, Civil- and Electrical Engineering. The faculty has been blocked by the students since December.
The Protests started after a canopy of the train station in Novi Sad, Serbia’s second-largest city, fell down, killing 15 people on November 1st, 2024. Since then, there have been almost daily protests.
The students have four demands that must be met before they stop the fight: that the full documentation of the renovation work on the Novi Sad train station be made public, that those who have attacked the students during the peaceful protests be punished, that protesters who have been wrongfully arrested are released and acquitted, and that the state budget for higher education is increased by 20 percent.
Students across the country have occupied universities, blocked classes and organised themselves to use the faculty as a base for the development of the protests.
According to the students, the accident in Novi Sad is a direct consequence of a chain of corruption that stems directly from the president. It has been the government’s responsibility to ensure that the renovation must comply with quality standards that have not been met due to cutbacks.
The streets are covered with red handprints to symbolise that the government has blood on its hands.
Saturday morning, adrenaline is in the air. March 15 is for the 15 deaths.
In front of the faculty, the citizens of Belgrade gather. Space between the groups of people is getting tighter, while they stand with homemade signs, all with the same message – that the government must take responsibility. Before the protesters move in procession up Bulevar kralja Aleksandra, mobile service fails, and the amount of people is uncountable.
Back at the faculty, some of the students gather in the auditorium. At 22:00, the president, Aleksandar Vucic, will do a press conference on the TV channel N1. Shortly before, the noise of whistles and air horns spreads in the auditorium. People shout and bang their hands on the table. To the rhythm of the hands, the students in unison shout a derogatory chant: He is so scared, he shits his pants with fear.
The president says that he and the government have understood the message and that something needs to change. What the changes will be, he does not announce.
The students burst into laughter, shout at the screen, and angry gestures fill the auditorium before the sound of whistles again drowns out the president’s speech.
“After March 15th, I’ve become more motivated. It all shows that we stand together, and we have the strength to show what we believe in. It’s more fuel on the fire for me. Everything we have witnessed lately has made me feel that I truly love my country and the people in it. Empathy is not dead; it was just buried under the apathetic values of the system,” says the student Teodora Milinovic.
During the week following the protest, it is announced that another victim of the Novi Sad accident, has died in hospital. 16 deaths.
The days of blockades in the faculties continue, and the students proceeds to fight for justice. The protests have created a wave of hope and unity throughout the country, and the students refuse to give up.
and
something to happen.
Mikey, Viggo, and Edwin playing with water, while Carl and Milo are cleaning the car on the other side of the wall. The car is a part of their identity, and as such, making sure the car is clean, is important.
Hampus and Abbe try to replace the exhaust pipe on Abbe’s car. The two spend most of their time working on their cars to make them stand out – especially important is to prepare them for the weekend.
In the weekends, they cruise to nearby towns like Arvika or Torsby to meet up with other EPA teens –hanging out, sozializing, and showing off their cars.
In Hampus’ car, Charlie (14), sitting at the passenger seat, waiting (im)patiently for the day he turns 15 so he can drive the EPA-tractor he has already bought.
In Sweden, the EPA tractor is more than just a vehicle – it’s a lifestyle and a community. For many young teenagers, it’s the first step toward adulthood. It’s late nights in parking lots, friendships formed around car hoods, and a culture built on freedom and a shared passion for cars.
An EPA tractor is a converted car, registered as a tractor, which can be driven from the age of 15 with an AM license and a maximum speed of 30 kilometers an hour. Cars registered before 1975 are called EPA tractors, while newer models are known as A-tractors – but the young drivers still call them EPA. It just sounds cooler, they say.
Every day, 9th graders from the small town Sunne, gather in parking lots and town squares. They chat, take snus, vape, and scroll through their phones. If the weather is good, they gather around their cars, and even when the temperature is below freezing, some of them still stand outside, wrapped in hoodies and flip-flops.
On Fridays the familiar sound of EPA bass blasts a mix of Eurodance, techno, and Swedish party pop, with simple lyrics about parties, cars, and teenage life. All around town, people are cruising in their cars. The destination depends on the weekend – and whether the police are patrolling the area. It’s illegal to have passengers in the back seat, but many ignore this rule. Some have hidden back seats with panels to hide passengers, while others squeeze three people into the front seat. They know all the local cops and can easily tell the difference between those who let them be and those who don’t.
At the square, the young drivers break into small groups. Some stick around the whole evening, only leaving for a quick dinner at home. Others just grab a Red Bull and some candy from the local COOP, just waiting for something to happen.
Thirty Kilometers an Hour is a story about youth, friendship, and belonging.
Since 1978, the Svanholm Collective has been home to children and adults who wanted to share housing, work life, clothes, and money. Today, there’s still a kindergarten, shared cars, organic farming, and communal meals on the menu. And even though much remains the same, questions about the future are pressing among the estate dwellers in Hornsherred.
80-year-old Tom Michaelsen has lived at Svanholm since 1997. He milks cows every morning and helps maintain the apple orchard to stay active and contribute to Svanholm, who has given him so much in life.
The scent of coffee spreads through the communal house. Normally, coffee is considered a luxury item that residents at the Svanholm must buy themselves, but on workdays, it’s different. It’s Saturday morning, and around 40 people stand outside the whitewashed communal house, all eyes fixed on Jakob – a bald man in work pants – pointing at today’s to-do list.
Svanholm’s newest resident – 35-year-old Maria Toft – adds a note. She’s leading the renovation of the playroom above the dining hall. Her green eyes glow with energy and ideals – the same spirit that, in 1978, brought a group of dreamers to buy the 420-hectare estate.
Today, the collective is made up of 65 adults and 36 children. There are also 12 electric cars, a private kindergarten, a forest, goats, 120 dairy cows and an organic self-sufficient farm. As Denmark now has more eco-communities per capita than any other country, Svanholm stands as a pioneer of the movement.
The idea of Svanholm first came to life through a newspaper ad in 1977, seeking people to join a farming and production collective near Copenhagen. Despite political resistance arguing that farming and collectivism couldn’t coexist, 83 adults and 48 children moved in on May 31, 1978.
In the early days, all residents contributed to a shared pool and received 400 DKK in personal funds monthly (equivalent to 54 euros) – regardless of their earnings. Today, the economy is partially shared as members contribute 80% of their income to the collective. This system was adopted in 2004 after long debates. It was necessary to attract new residents, even though it introduced more inequality. To move into Svanholm today, applicants must have a minimum annual income of 400,000 DKK (53,600 euros).
Denmark is the country in the world with most eco-communities per capital.
Anna is a trained farmer hired to help on the estate. She lives on-site but isn’t formally apart of the collective. She doesn’t know if she will be a full member of the collective and the common economy yet.
Maria Toft finds communal meals to be a central part of daily life. Residents gather for dinner five days a week. Each household has its own apartment, allocated by family size, with Maria living in a four-bedroom unit with her children. Maria wants to ensure that Svanholm remains viable for future generations. Maria’s ideas for sustainability include courses on organic farming, community-supported agriculture, and even a potential green university. She stresses that diversity is the collective’s strength, and despite disagreements, the community remains united.
Maria has paint stains on her pants as the workday winds down. She looks winded from a full day of activity, but her eyes are bright. At 4 p.m., the Svanholmers gather outside the communal house to sing together. Soon, the lyrics from Skipper Klement’ s Morning Song echo across the courtyard.
Nadine is 24 and recently moved to a small village near Kalundborg with her new boyfriend and threeyear-old daughter Andrea. She is now pregnant with her second child, due in September.
Nadine sits in her usual chair beneath the dormant kitchen hood, chain-smoking cigarettes, her legs twitching with nervous energy. Later today, she’s due at a municipal meeting assessing her competence as a mother - a consequence of an anonymous report. Bureaucratic systems have long shadowed her life, and today, she’s forgotten her ADHD medication. Her thoughts spiral. She calls one friend after another, grasping for courage and reassurance. “Which caseworker did you have?” “Was she kind?” Nadine fears the municipality won’t take her side - that they will tell her she’s a bad mother.
Reluctantly, she gets up and steps into the annex at the back of the garden - her daily workplace. A mattress lies in the middle of the room, strewn with mail-order parcels from the budget fashion site Shein. Vivid, variously shaped dildos are arranged on the black sofa. She slips out of her leopard-print bodysuit and into red lingerie, inhales her vape, cracks open a Red Bull, and adjusts the webcam perched atop her computer screen.
That afternoon, she attends the municipal meeting. When she returns home, her anxiety has eased. The local kindergarten has written a letter affirming that Andrea is thriving and that there’s no cause for concern. Nadine unzips her overflowing makeup bag and spreads its contents across the coffee table - eyeshadow palettes, brushes, foundation-smeared mascara. With intent, she applies a new layer of makeup before returning to work in the annex.
Nadine spent her first three months in an incubator, withdrawing from drugs. Her mother was a heroin addict; her father, also an addict, died the day before her fifth birthday. Her mother placed her in foster care shortly after birth. Due to her mother’s substance use during pregnancy, Nadine’s brain never developed typically. Her school years were marked by bullying and a constant reminder that she wasn’t good enough. By fourth grade, she began skipping school, eventually drinking daily. When scared or sad, she would run away from her foster family. But they always knew where to find her - she fled to Copenhagen to seek comfort from her biological mother, a sex worker in Istedgade who spent her earnings on drugs. Still, Nadine always forgave her. She saw herself in her mother: the same temper, the same blonde curls.
A few days after learning the sex of her second child, Nadine visits her mother’s grave in Slagelse. Though she feels her mother is always watching, she still wants to share the good news in person: she’s having a boy - and his name will be Aslan. Named after the great lion in Narnia. At the grave, she clears away burnt-out candles and crouches before the mirror-like heart-shaped tombstone etched with “Helene Aggerholm. My beloved mother.” Before she became pregnant, Nadine would share a Breezer with her mother during visits. This time, she takes a cigarette from her pocket and places it in the gravel beside the stone.
Nadine works as a model on OnlyFans, a digital subscription platform for adult content.
“My mom did it out of desperation because of her addiction. That is completely different.”
In addition to her OnlyFans work, Nadine also works as a camgirl on the site DK Webcam, performing live in front of an online audience. A viewer can pay for a “private” session in which Nadine undresses and pleasures herself while the customer watches. Sometimes, they just want someone to talk to.
It’s hard to make new friends without speaking German. Young foreigners talk about being bullied at school by German students. They’re told to speak German. They’re told to go back home.
In the depths of the former DDR lies Görlitz, Germany’s easternmost city. Görlitz has today become a symbol of the political division in the country. Here, nearly every second resident votes for the farright party Alternative für Deutschland (AfD), and foreigners living in Görlitz experience xenophobia daily. One half of the city’s German population aids foreigners with integration and learning German. The other half protests every Monday against support for the war in Ukraine and against foreigners in the country. In the middle, the city’s foreigners try to navigate everyday life, hoping to build a stable foundation for a life away from their homeland.
In this polarised cityscape, the daily lives of foreigners quietly unfold. Nataliia Buikov fled with her son from Ukraine after the war began. Though welcomed with donations and shelter, she has struggled for years to find work, while raising her son, who already has grown roots in the local school. Across town, Syrian refugee Mohammad Kheir Moussa navigates a new language and life with humility and hope, while longing for his wife and children who are stranded in Lebanon. Meanwhile, volunteers like Viktoriia Sheliia, a Ukrainian refugee and psychologist, work tirelessly, creating safe spaces for refugee youth facing bullying and alienation. They are told to “go home,” even though Görlitz is their new home.
In Görlitz, these daily struggles play out against a backdrop of crumbling buildings and rising political extremism, standing as a reflection of Germany’s identity crisis, where the question of who belongs remains unresolved.
Mohammad Kheir Moussa studies German five days a week. He arrived alone in May of 2024 after fleeing from Syria through Russia. Mohammad wants to learn the language, get a job, and pay taxes, so he can provide for his family and contribute to the German society.
In the German federal election, 46.7% in the Görlitz district voted for the far-right party Alternative für Deutschland (AfD), nearly every second resident voting for AfD. Görlitz is one of many cities in East Germany where support for the far-right AfD has grown by 10.9 percentage points.
“There’s an expectation that you speak fluent German, without an accent,” says Nataliia Buikov, who has struggled to find work despite three years of language classes. She experiences a low tolerance for hiring non-German speakers and a general saturation of Ukrainian refugees in the city.
Görlitz is Germany’s easternmost city, located by the Neisse River, which forms the border with Poland. The bordercity is known for its well-preserved historical architecture, ranging from Gothic to Art Nouveau, which was largely spared from wartime bombing.
Since the COVID years, a demonstration has been held every Monday in Görlitz, expressing frustration that the German state is neglecting its responsibilities to its own people in all areas. Both young, middle-aged, and elderly people participate regularly.
Casual xenophobia is a recurring part of daily life for many foreigners. On the streets or trams, they experience lingering stares and overhear Germans speaking ill of them – unaware that they understand.
The Akha people have lived in the mountains of northern Thailand for generations, but their presence is not recognised by the state.
In the heavy, humid air of the mountains in northern Thailand, the noise from the brushcutter slices through the dry corn stalks covering the hillside. The sun is high, and the heat presses down on the fields. Here, 55-year-old Maxdo Mayeur works tirelessly alongside his wife, Akum, and their eldest daughter, Abeh. Maxdo, a refugee from Myanmar who fled due to the danger and lack of opportunities caused by the civil war, grips the nine-kilogram brushcutter tightly. He clears maize stalks and fertilises the avocado trees. Akum and Abeh collect the cut branches and place them by the roots.
His hands are hardened by labour, and his skin is leathered by the sun. But he finds a sense of pride in what he does.
“I don’t have the option to work anywhere else, but I’m also happy doing this,” he says.
As stateless people, they cannot obtain formal employment without the right papers. Statelessness is widespread among the Akha people and makes them invisible within the system. Historically, they have lacked access to healthcare and the ability to send their children to school. Although rights are improving for many, they still do not apply for everyone.
Maxdo, Akum, and Abeh have obtained a 10-year temporary residence permit. This grants them access to the healthcare system on equal terms with Thai citizens. Their eight children are also affected by statelessness. Although the youngest were born in Thailand, they have no automatic right to citizenship.
The family is fortunate thanks to a local agreement between the school, the district office, and the Akha community, Maxdo’s children have been given the opportunity to study. His three youngest children attend the local school and can attend additional education in the big city of Chiang Rai.
“It’s important that they can go to school. I hope they can have a better life than I have,” says Maxdo.
Maxdo work six days a week, from sunrise to sunset. His family and him have no other choice. As refugees and stateless people, they have found a form of stability through their labour a way to get through everyday life.
At Maxdo’s house, scooters are parked everywhere more of his children are home than usual. For the younger generations, the future holds opportunities their parents never had.
The Akha culture is strong, but under pressure. Young people now see opportunities beyond the mountains, but they also know that their parents depend on them. Maxdo fears that if many leave the community, their identity will gradually disappear.
But that doesn’t mean the younger generation is rejecting their culture.
“The world is changing, and the new generations can’t live exactly like their ancestors did. But that doesn’t mean they don’t value their culture. They adapt, while holding on to the traditions that still make sense to them,” explains Signe Leth, Senior Advisor on Indigenous Women’s and Land Rights in Asia at IWGIA
Signe also sees a growing trend of young indigenous people becoming more grounded in their identity through a process of revival.
“I hope they’ll hold on to the traditions and remember to come home,” says Maxdo.
He knows the future is uncertain, and that the decision belongs to them.
“The most important thing is that our story didn’t end with me and that i was able to pass it on to my children, and i can see that some of them are passing it on to theirs.”
“I don’t know what will happen. My children will have a different life, but I hope they remember where they come from,” he says.
Perhaps they will have a better life in the city and have the life Maxdo never had.
They don’t have the papers that would give them an official place in society. But they have their land, their family, and their faith.
There’s no guarantee that future generations will continue this way of life. But right now, that doesn’t matter. Right now, they are together. And that’s all that matters.
“I inherited the traditions, the clothes, the language, and the way of living from nature from my ancestors,” he says.
Sonja and her rowing team, Fípan Fagra, by the harbour of Klaksvík. Rowing is the national sport of the Faroe Islands, and these women train daily for almost half a year leading up to the big championship this summer. For many young women, the sport plays a key role in their decision to stay in areas where few others in their age remain.
Emy and Kristin in front of the new handball arena in Tórshavn. The men´s national team is the pride of the Faroe Islands. Tonight almost 5% of the country’s population is attending the match against The Netherlands.
“Here, everyone knows each other. The neighbor ladies are like my aunts more than just neighbors. A quick trip to the store can easily end up taking a long time because you end up chatting with people along the way.”
A girl runs through the rain on her way home from football training in Klaksvík. Although rowing is the national sport, football is most popular. 12% of the population are members of a football club, the highest rate in the world.
Maibritt and Marý from Skála on a night out with their friends in Tórshavn.
Klaksvík harbour by night. Known as the fishing capital of the Faroe Islands, the town is also home to a large community of Baptists. For the young people in Klaksvík, the Christian gatherings are among the few social spaces available.
Faroe Islands, 18 small, isolated islands between Norway and Iceland, commonly known for sheep and whaling. But here, on these wind-swept isles in the North Atlantic Ocean, one social issue is talked about more than others: young women are disappearing. They leave the country to study and work abroad – and they don’t return.
This project is about those who consciously have chosen to stay. Their connection to the country and their village runs deep. Strong enough to make them want to shape a life around the hills, where women their age are more the exception than the rule.
The Faroe Islands face a gender imbalance, with nearly 10 percent fewer women than men. The problem is most pronounced in the small villages where some of them are left more or less empty of entire age groups.
When the women go, so do the children. And when children disappear, so does village life – welfare services, social events, cultural life, and future. Yet, among those who stay behind, certain communities are thriving. Here, the key institutions are sports, Christianity, and strong family bonds.
For years, the Faroese government has tried to reverse the trend –tried to get women to stay. And in some cases, it has worked. Investments in infrastructure, like tunnels that connect the islands better, and the introduction of new educational opportunities, have made it more appealing for women to remain and pursue their careers and shape a life of their own at home.
Rannvá, Miriam and Ester from Klaksvík by the harbour in Leirvík. The three friends are graduating from highschool this summer, and like so many young Faroese, they are faced with the reality of having to leave the country at an early age to pursue their education. Soon, they will be separated; each one of them are planning to move abroad to study, though none of them knows exactly where yet. Still, all three are certain about one thing: they will return to Klaksvík afterwards.
In a remote corner of the Arctic near the Russian border, three young men find clarity through hard work, wilderness, and sub-zero solitude far from modern distractions. Here they begin to understand who they are and who they might become.
About an hour and a half outside the town of Kirkenes, in the far north of Norway, lies the farm Leite. There, Tobias Daugaard-Petersen lives with his wife, their two children, and their sled dogs. Alongside them live three young men from Denmark. Tobias has owned the farm since 2017. He is a trained soldier and, before moving to Norway, he served in the Sirius Patrol. The three boys work for Tobias in exchange for room and board. Tobias finances the farm himself. He works as a veterinarian in the surrounding area, and while he’s away, the boys carry out the farm tasks on their own most of the time.
Tobias takes the boys in because he needs the extra help, but also because he wants to offer them an opportunity, he himself longed for when he was their age. They gain access to a culture they wouldn’t otherwise experience at home. The boys carry responsibility – not just for their own actions, but for actions that directly affect others too.
When they’re not working, they go on survival trips, learning to survive completely alone in temperatures as low as minus 40 degrees without any help. Many of the trips and skills they learn from Tobias are what make them want to stay. For many, it makes their future lives easier –and this is rarely their last Arctic adventure. They often continue on toward the Sirius Patrol or venture deeper into the white wilderness after their stay.
“You first have to become someone before you can become something.” That’s exactly what matters to the boys. At Leite, they have time to truly think things through. Childhood, problems, friendships, heartbreaks, everything.
The snow crunches under thermal boots. The sound of snowflakes gliding across the frozen river is like crystal glass shattering in thousands of pieces. The white snow covered landscape has disappeared into darkness, and the river is only lit by the northern lights dancing across the sky. It’s Villads’ last night before returning to Denmark. The boys are sharing a beer with Tobias on the river one last time to give Villads a proper farewell.
“It’s not goodbye – you’ll be back,” one of the boys says after a quiet pause.
They talk about the moments they remember best from the past year together. Like when Julius broke his ski on day two of their five-day wilderness trek.
Villads says he’s sad to leave. Not just because he won’t get to see the ice set and melt into water that they can swim in again next summer, but because he’s going to miss Leite. Villads leaving because he’s out of money. Once home, he’ll apply to the Sirius Patrol. He’s been inspired to do so by many conversations with Tobias about what’s important in his life.
Justice Jones (21) on her horse Pepper at practise. Justice is from Canada and moved to Colorado to be a part of the CMU College Rodeo Team.
In the American West, girls are raised by their fathers to be self-reliant. From a young age, they learn how to drive a pickup truck so they can later haul their horses in a trailer. These are girls whose biggest wish for their 21st birthday is a handgun. Girls who have been on horseback for as long as they can remember, and who aren’t afraid to get dirty or put in hard work. They are deeply connected to the land and to the nature - and they are all members of the same College rodeo team in Colorado.
Wylee Mitchell is 20 years old, red-haired, and dreams of having her own talk show. But most of all, she’s afraid of guns. Even though she comes from a family that always have been hunting, the thought of killing for fun makes the hair on her arms stand on end. Still, she owns a pistol. It’s sealed in a box in the back of her trailer. If she ever needs it, she knows where it is and how to use it. Her stepfather taught her that when she was seven years old. Where Wylee grew up, the nearest town was far away – So, if something needed to be done, you had to do it yourself.
Like Wylee, most of the 16 girls on the Rodeo team come from remote rural areas. Some were raised on ranches, others in small towns surrounded by fields or mountains. All of them far from the cities. Among cowboys, cattle, and ranchers.
The Cowboy culture is deeply embedded in the American identity and self-understanding. The tradition traces back to European immigrants who came to America in the 1800s, dreaming of a better life. Among those who settled far from everything, on the edge of the world, a unique pioneer mentality developed. Self-sufficiency for one’s family came first, followed by the support for the local community. Isolated from the rest of the world, they built a life based on hard work, community, and independence – values that still today shape life in the prairie towns where the rodeo girls come from.
For the girls who came to college because of rodeo, it’s not just a sport. It’s a way to stay connected to their identity and the culture they come from. Rodeo shaped them to be independent and taught them responsibility. Every morning the alarm rings at 5 a.m. for feeding. Then comes school, back to ride, feed again - and then bed. Same routine, every day.
Blackhawk Arena, Salina, Utah. At a College Rodeo. The girls usually drives 7-8 hours to compete during the Rodeo season.
In a world of increasing globalization, where young people move to cities and society drifts from traditional values, the Cowboy culture is under pressure. The girls are not worried about global politics - most of them have never left the country or have even seen the oceanbut they do worry about the land that their families farm, the right to keep their sport alive, and their dream of raising their children the same way they were raised.
When Nathja became pregnant with their son, they returned to Denmark after half a decade of living and traveling in the U.S. They dreamed of giving him the same grounded childhood they had known. But suburban life in Smørum left them feeling disconnected and longing for their former adventurous selves.
At a time when the ideal of the “good life” is beginning to shift, new ways of being a family are emerging. As the pace of life accelerates and everyday demands increase, so does the longing for freedom, flexibility, and genuine presence. More people are beginning to question the current norms: permanent housing, full-time jobs, accumulating material wealth. Instead, attention is turning toward mobility and simplicity – not as an escape, but as an active challenge to a daily life that feels too constrained.
Nathja and Nicolai Alstrøm live with their son Nohr in a tiny six-squaremeter Ford Transit. They shower behind the tailgate, share one bed with their dog Zoey, and store essentials in every crevice. Their minimalist, unconventional lifestyle might seem incompatible with modern family life, but for them, it’s been vital to their happiness and connection.
What was meant to be their first real home together ended up feeling more like a house they didn’t belong in. A few years after moving into the old villa in Smørum, their deep connection had faded, and they eventually decided to separate.
Months later, giving it one last try, they sold the house and explored apartments in Copenhagen to be closer to family and free up money to travel. But it was Nathja’s growing dream of full-time van life that sparked a turning point.
Though initially skeptical, Nicolai warmed to the idea as Nathja shared stories of other traveling families. “What’s the worst that could happen?” she asked. “We can always come back.” The following year, with a baby on one arm and tools in the other, they converted a van in just 21 days.
Three years and 85,000 kilometers later, they’ve explored 32 countries. They wake with the sun, and Nicolai spends the morning with Nohr before going to work – in a camping chair outside the van. Meanwhile, Nathja and Nohr explore the outdoors, as they typically wake up with new surroundings to see. By afternoon, the trio reconnects and spends time together as a family.
Plans are rarely made more than a few months ahead. Whatever the next year may bring they’ve learned to keep asking: Are we still thriving? Are we still living the life we dream of? Daring to pursue that – and, in doing so, becoming more fully themselves – was ultimately what brought them back together.
Nohr is never separated from his parents unwillingly – in contrast to his early days in daycare, which were marked by tears and homesickness. Today, he’s homeschooled through interest-based learning.
Nohr practices math using Pokémon figures and develops problem-solving skills by building marble tracks on the beach. His parents closely monitor both his academic and social development, and twice a year, he is formally assessed to ensure that he is learning similarly to his peers back in Denmark.
The family usually camps in nature but occasionally stops at campgrounds to connect with other traveling families. There, they exchange tips on homeschooling, travel routes, and van life.
Conscription in Denmark is facing major changes. Starting in 2027, the training period will be extended from four to eleven months, and the number of conscripts will increase to 7,500 annually. The initiative aims to strengthen the armed forces and ensure better preparation for operational tasks. Additionally, conscription will be fully equalized, with both men and women subject to the same rules and obligations.
The days at the barracks start early. At 5:45 AM, the conscripts are woken by the piercing sound of whistles and shouting. What follows is a strict schedule filled with physical training, drills, and lessons throughout the day. For most, it’s an abrupt change from civilian life, where mornings are typically more relaxed.
In the heart of the Bornholm landscape, where the stillness of the forest is broken only by the echo of gunfire, young men and women step into a world of discipline and camaraderie
Here a batch of the Danish conscripts have to wrestle for the spots to become a fully educated soldier.
Within four months, few of the conscripts feel satisfied with their current education, but from 2027 the education be prolonged to eleven months.
For now they have to take what they can get from the voluntary military service, and those not among the limited 21 conscripts selected for the full education, must return to their civilian lives once again.
Although the four months has come to seem short, the service might become more than just an obligation.
Located on Bornholm, the barracks at Almegård statues as one of the most strategically important military locations in Denmark acting as the first line of defence against eastern threats.
With recent expansions to the Danish military, the question isn’t about economy, but to find and recruit the personel to educate the overflow of conscripts.
“War has always been something abstract to me throughout my youth, since we’ve never had it close to home here in Denmark,” says Mikkel one day. He continues: “You don’t have to look far to find the seriousness anymore.”
The current international tensions within the NATO alliance, and especially Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, have acted as a catalyst for many young people’s motivation to sign up as conscripts.
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11/02/14 12.01
