A project about alternate destinies,
about the prospects of a given path
being drastically altered.
Initially this project started five years ago,
though I didn’t realize until much later.
Back then I was working on day-to-day
stories and articles for the Danish daily
Politiken, but after a while it became
something I did for myself.
Over time, the camera stayed at home.
My lovely mother got involved,
and later the rest of my family.
These are stories about
identity, dignity, love and the
existential search that takes place
when people become refugees.
The room was dimly lit, small and full of people.
Young and old huddled up, hiding in silence.
It was his birthday today. He used to own
a factory in his hometown before everything
was blown up. He would talk about this.
Not brag, but mention it. Perhaps reminding
himself of a former glory. Now he was a fiftysix
year old man who lived in a foreign country but
spoke nothing but Arabic. His children already
spoke some English and Danish. They were also
hiding. When he entered the room, his face lit up.
They all shouted and congratulated him and
then they gave him each a flower. One by one
approaching him with a hug and a flower until
he had a full bouquet. He then posed with
the flowers and had pictures taken which
he would send to friends and family. He smiled
so much he could barely see and his cheeks
turned red.
She got married when she was twelve. Her grandfather arranged it as head of the family and though it pained him to do so, it was done to insure the safety of the greater family.
She moved into her husband’s house on an Afghan mountain side along with her new brother in law and his wife and two children. The two men were Taliban veterans and opium addicts. They would beat their young wives with wooden logs and whatever else they could think of. They would beat the children and make them collect water from the river barefooted across the snow covered mountain plains. During the nights she would quietly comfort the other wife and the children and tell them to have hope even though there was none.The two women understood each other without words and they cried together in the dark. Hoping for an American bomb to come and release them from this life.
One day after a severe beating, her father received her back home by car. Her husband had send her away in case she might die from her injuries. She woke up in a hospital with a punctured lung unable to walk. Her father had taken her from city to city, hospital to hospital until someone told him there might be hope. When she regained the ability to talk and walk she left the hospital in the arms of her father and shortly after she left the country on a horseback never to return. Her grandfather had paid for her freedom and disappearance. He had then uprooted the entire family to live under ground as refugees in their own country. Never to have an address again and every week at a new shelter.
Today she lives in Holstebro, Denmark, with a new name and with her brother who is nine years old. She still wishes that she could have said goodbye to the other wife. That she could have told her what a strong woman she was. Taken her far away from these men and the mountain. Given her just a single night of rest and given her hope. For she herself has hope now. A hope she wishes for all women.
She drew an arrow in the sand.
Again and again carefully through
the same line, and behind her
two men had mounted a weathered
wooden table scouting in opposite
directions along the deserted
country road. As if to welcome
any kind of distraction.
The boat had capsized and the
little girl sent him a wild look
before she disappeared
through her adult lifejacket
and her silhouette sank
with mad gestures down
into the dark. Now he sat in
Nordborg, Denmark,
but she stayed with him.
