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HOME PROJECT the publishing cabin





PROJECT January-May 2013 Made in Flekke



My favourite movie of all times is and has always been The Wizard of Oz, in which a sixteen year-old Dorothy discovers that there’s no place like home, even if home is a black and white farm in the middle of a black and white field in Kansas. Because home isn’t just a place, home is a feeling of belonging, of comfort, of safety. As a kid, I could watch that movie for hours on end in the comfort and safety of my own home, and that movie, a videotape recorded from TV, commercials included, was also home. When I was 17, I was granted a scholarship to study at UWC Red Cross Nordic and from that moment on, home has been many places and many people. And that homey feeling is my most precious belonging. Coming back to RCN seven years later, now as a teacher, I decided to ask people in this tiny community what home means to them. I asked for images and little stories to go with them. And this is the result.



We used to think of memory as a tricky thing. And we were right. Everyone remembers the things that happened in different ways. Every moment, every feeling and every bond remain in our memories, and in our heart. And just like that, we build our story. After 50 years, I don’t know how I am going to be or what I am going to think. But after 50 years I know exactly how I am going to remember the two best years of my life. I remember there was a moment when it didn’t matter where I was from or if we knew that we’d probably never see each other again, but still, we built together the most extraordinary path no one had seen before. I don’t know what it was, but it was tremendous. I remember we were stronger than anything together, that we could freely fly over what life was supposed to be. I remember that we were only echoes of our history. And still, we decided to build up a new story upon it. I remember we didn’t know what the future got to give and we couldn’t wait to find out. I remember we were stronger together when some things came to an end, but we were fascinated by the new beginnings. I remember we failed many times, and we saw no light at the end of the tunnel. And still, we had the strength to get up and carry on every single time that happened. I remember sometimes we felt everything was broken and we couldn’t fix it. That everything was difficult and we couldn’t overcome it. And still, instead of broken we became stronger together because we knew that we had a life ahead and we didn’t want it to live it without each other, even if we know we were going to live it miles away.

And in 50 years ahead, in 50 years ahead there is an adventure I didn’t think was possible. In 50 years ahead, there are the greatest challenges I’ve ever faced. In 50 years ahead, there is immense love to the people that have proved that they mean something and that I have told that I need them within me. In 50 years ahead, there is not only life, it’s our life together aiming for this one unique objective. There was a time when I was happier than I’ve ever been. Something happened, I can’t explain or put words on it, but after all I don’t care because I know there is a place that keeps all our memories and dreams. There’s one place where everything started. There’s one place we were happy together. There’s once place where the only thing that mattered was the pure bond of some very different souls. There’s one place that we once called home. And it doesn’t matter if after 50 years I don’t know where you are. Or if you are the same as the person I once knew. I have never doubted a second that if I know you’ll come back one day, then I can wait forever. Even if you come and knock on my door in 50 years, then I will never regret that I waited my whole life for that very moment. And then I will know we didn’t lose the track. And you were always there, within me. Just like the moment our paths took different directions. In 50 years everything will change, but the memories of the best time of our lives. In 50 years, I’ll feel exactly the same I feel in this very second. In 50 years you will still be my friend, and after 50 years UWC will still be this special place we used to call home.



When we travel, it’s easy to remember home as more than what it is. Sometimes, it’s grey there too.



Pic. 1: The little boy is my little brother who is extremely naughty and loves guns. FYI, as small as our eyes are, we’re experts at aiming and shooting.

Pic. 2: Cookie Break Vietnamese Style... (shhh, it was actually during a History class!)



It’s not even my own corner. But I treat it like I would my own corner. I come and leave, usually at my convenience. I laugh and eat and talk. I sometimes even take the clothes I think are really cool. There are days I have even fought over clothes that are not mine. I needn’t worry about manners, I can say WHATEVER. And usually, I also end up hearing “whatever”. Even the dayroom is close to this corner; no more long treks to get that carton of milk that is rightfully mine. For me, home is where I can be comfortable. And Ashley’s corner over these two years has been just that.



La casa de la abuelita. Every other weekend the family gets together at my grandmother’s house. We eat together. We talk talk and laugh together. And by the end of the night, we fix every problem in this world together.



You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. You are the guy who’ll decide where to go. Dr. Seuss



The nostalgia of being abroad was inherently recovered from the very moment I found a second home in Silkeborg, Denmark. The warmness, comfort and kindness of this Danish family brought back to me the value and sense of family I had missed for some time. Forever thankful for the companionship and time spent with the Uldahl family. SkĂĽl!



Home for me is many places: Canada, Australia, Norway, the list goes on. My home is made by the people I share it with.



She asked me today, “what is home for you?”, and I looked at her and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t answer and went to my room, what is home for me? What it is home for you? And what is home? Where is home? Is it the place where you are coming from? Where your family is? The place where people speak your language? The place that I feel more connected to? At the end she told me, “the place where you are you”. And then I looked at the Norwegian sky, and knew where my home is.



In the long winter months most people prefer to stay indoors, hibernating from November till February. Braving the cold and going for a walk with my parents when the light is at its brightest in the day, that is my idea of home.



The concept of home is very wide.Very inclusive, and very flexible. But anyhow, some things are hard to replace. This is a mix of pictures showing different aspects of home: Two siesta-slumbering parents and a happy brother surrounding a birthday cake. Then, a snapshot from my kitchen when preparing crackers, The view from a friends sofa. Me and my best friend in our most commonly used picnic spot, a skype date in the living room and so, other homes. A home is so very many things, and it is so very important.



Generations together in old and new houses. Istvån’s family with their new and with his new, and his father’s old furniture in Budapest.





On the left side, you can see one of my favorite places. This picture shows a sunset at the river Rhein near my place, where I always went for running with my dog of simply for a walk with my best friend. I never noticed how wonderful this place is, until I was confronted with leaving it. The next pictures shows me in front of my house. I live in a preppy, little village with only 3000 inhabitants (for German standards very tiny and little, for Norwegian ones quite a small town) and typical neat front yards. The people living in my street are mostly old couples or families which children have already moved out, so my siblings and me have always been the source of noise in our street. The most beautiful place in our house is not even inside. When it turns spring or early summer (in summer it is way to hot), we often have breakfast at our terasse where you can look into our garden. My dad loves to care about the green, his wish is it to maintain the “English golfing grass”, but this changed a lot since we have a dog who’s favorite hobby it is to dig holes so deep to reach Australia at the other side of the world. I love my place and I am really looking forward to sit in the cool shadow of the house and have a nice German breakfast with dark bread, a cup of coffee and delicious honey from our neighbour’s beehive.



Home smells like gasoline, home smells like fruit. Home has an asian face. Home speaks Italian in the subway, and Chinese in the suburbs. Home is... home.



While being far from home, this word associates more with running my course towards that sweet place. The way of getting there is usually the most interesting and enjoyable part of the feeling of home. Until I arrive at home, I’m on a distant road, however, looking at the roads surrounding my home farm always arouses some kind of grateful craving. No matter where I am, these narrow dusty Estonian countryside roads still lead to the only place I dare to call my home.



This is a picture of my old school. This is the place I lived for 5 years. Three years of secondary school and two years of high school. It was taken from the window of my room on the graduation day of secondary school. This place witnessed my growth from 12 to 17. I studied all day long in the classroom, I cried for the loss of a backpack in the corner of the garden, I was invited to jog with my favorite teacher in the playground... I never knew how to say goodbye to this land until the day I had to leave. The answer is: it will always be in my heart. It will always be the destination of my dreams. This is what home means to me.



Home is on a little mountain range in southwestern Germany.

Where my family comes together and the ‘kids’ build beer coaster houses.

Home is my province and my dialect. I know I am home when I take the subway and the announcement is in Swabian. Picture taken in Berlin: “Nice here. But have you been to Baden-Württemberg yet?”

Home is where I lie on the grass, take a deep breath and re-charge my batteries.



Home is the place where the mop was invented. Home is the place where nonsense is sense.



It is my home, not just a room :) It feels so right, while at the same time weird to realize how much this room actually means to me. Everybody talks about the RCN experience, but I’m not sure how much significance they give to rooms. And yes, it is a real restriction of space, but nothing in the entire college belongs to you except the wooden square box with a bed. And this bed is in a room, where four other people live. So, I guess it is very important to feel comfortable to come to “your place”. Do I feel comfortable? I don’t think that’s the right word to use in my case. It is more than comfortable! Maybe I should try to find a single word describing my feelings about my room, I mean our room? I would never have thought that it is possible to get so close to people from other cultural backgrounds, I was afraid of misunderstandings. And there were misunderstandings in the beginning, but I guess it was them that helped our room to become a home.



The first thing that comes to my mind when someone says home is my family and the house where I grew up. It is the only place I feel I belong to. It is a place where I am with the people I love the most. It is a place where I can speak my mind. It is a place where my mind feels so free. It is a place where I can think so clearly. It is a place where I can eat what I like. It is a place where I play what I enjoy the most. It is a place where there is always someone to depend upon. It is a place where I never feel lonely. It is place where there are people who believe in what you believe. It is a place where I enjoy every breath I take and every step I make. It is a place I love to be. It is a place I miss a lot. It is place I call home.



My grandma has always said that “home is where the heart is”, but that statement had never meant as much to me as it has since I’ve moved to Norway. When I went home over winter break, I spent the holidays with my family at our houses in Washington, DC (pictured on the left) and in Brooklyn Heights, NYC (on the right). I couldn’t help but take snapshots the entire time I was home —my attempt to encapsulate the overwhelming feelings of “heart” that hit me as I wandered down the hallways where I grew up and looked out the windows that I had always taken for granted. Home really is where the heart is, and for me, these pictures say a thousand words.



Home is where I grew up, and where my mother still lives. A connection to my past; rooms, much changed and yet so familiar, full of memories, nostalgia. But home is also a small apartment in the city with a parking lot view. Here I felt at home for a few days around New Year’s, having whole days to myself, working, reading and making music. Through the window I could see kids playing with firecrackers on the parking lot in the afternoon; an urban, concrete playground. Far, far from Norwegian fjords. But there was a sushi place around the corner.



If I were asked to name the chief benefit of the house, I should say: the house shelters day-dreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace. Gaston Bachelard



Open Undisguised Regenerating Heart connecting - Poppy Our best piece of poetry Midnight stolen glances Endless otter tales Ibsen Sleeping

the publishing cabin 2013


What is home for you? A scrapbook by UWC Red Cross Nordic students and staff.