Memory & Trace

By Maša H.

I’ve been continuously creating a dialogue between my mother and myself. In this way, I keep her alive—I keep her close.

This is one of my most cherished and loving photographs of my mother holding me. I know the story well—how deeply she longed to have a child, how long and painful my birth was. This photo is more than an image; it is a tribute to her tenderness, her open heart, and her unwavering love.

Through her, I learned softness. I learned how to love with depth. And in this work, I honor the gifts she gave me—many of which still shape who I am.

I love you, mama.

The Dialogue

Family

By Maša H.

In recent years, the theme of family has become central to my work, growing stronger with each move across countries and through different chapters of my life. The distance—both physical and emotional—has made me reflect more deeply on what family means, especially after the loss of my mother. Grief has taken many forms: from numbness to sadness, from anger to rage. I have come to realize that I lost my family as it once was. This collage features one of the few rare photos of us together, taken shortly after the war. I layered it with personal fabrics, papers, and textures to express not only the visible but also the invisible threads that bind memory, loss, and identity. Through this piece, I try to make sense of the disconnection, and to honor what remains.

End of the Days

By Maša H.

I have experienced longing in many forms—but the most painful has been longing for loved ones. Whether during the isolation of the pandemic, the dislocation of migration, the quiet loneliness of pregnancy, or the many moves across cities and countries, the ache remained.

I longed for simple things—phone calls, voices, presence. I felt jealousy toward those who had their loved ones just a street away, or a city apart—not separated by borders, and oceans. I missed my sister with a depth that words often failed to hold.

My experience moved through waves—rage, anger, sadness—circling back again and again as I tried to understand the silences and distances that had grown between us. I questioned why my primary family dissolved so completely.

But over time, I have come to accept even the hardest absences. In that acceptance, I’ve begun to learn the quiet, powerful lessons of release. Though I still carry a soft, sacred longing inside me, I hold it gently now—with respect. It continues to teach me about love, impermanence, and resilience.

Longing

By Maša H.

While I was expecting my son, I was consumed by fear and uncertainty. His father had just moved to another country without a visa or secure job, and I didn’t know what our future would look like. I carried the weight of enormous responsibility—trying to hold everything together for my family while navigating my own inner struggles, my changing body, and the loss of freedom that came with it.

Pregnancy is often portrayed as the most beautiful phase in a woman’s life. And yes, there are moments of beauty—but it can also be deeply complex, painful, and isolating. This piece is for those who have walked through that shadowed path of pregnancy—whether as migrants, single mothers, in relationships, or simply those whose experiences didn’t match the idealized version we so often see in the media.

Our stories take many shapes. And they all deserve to be told.

By Eslem, 25

I am the days

The days of my life that have not yet happened

The days of my possiblities, my destiny.

And what is the limit of this destiny?

Where is the line? At the end of the days.

My death day. When I met death I was ten.

One of the woman in my life was gone.

I saw her as she lay on the road.

She was not my mother, but I loved her as if she was...

By Veronika, 47

I usually frown in my childhood photos. In this picture, I am showing my oversized teeth in a huge grin. My uncle and I are pulling my hair up in the air. He looks so young, with a wedding band freshly on his ring finger, waiting to be pulled down a year later. His wife – ever so beautiful – poised, majestic, seated next to him wishing she wasn´t there – on a bench at a porch of our cottage in Polabí. She always had bigger dreams, higher hopes. Now she is stuck at my grandparent’s who never really liked her, my cousin peacefully asleep inside her bump. She is gently reaching for an elegant champagne glass, deep in thought. Voloďa, one of my father´s best friends, a Russian Jew, a nuclear physicist, is smiling at me, content. He always brought a lot of Vodka and spring onion with him. I never understood how adults could like that. Little did I know then that he had to leave his wife and kids back in Moscow, to marry a Czech lady to be able to emigrate from the oppressive Soviet regime, to have another son with the new lady, to later remarry his Russian wife to be able to bring her and the family to Czechoslovakia. I learned all that much later. I was just happy to have my belly full, sitting next to my uncle, and be where I was because it was – for a few more years to come - a safe haven.

The Year of White Walls

by Michelle Mapplethorpe

september;
hospital ward. nurses.
one strips me naked, the other gestures to a scale.
they measure my insecurities —
not underweight enough,
too tall to be understood.
mother blames me.

ten books in a tote bag — no more.
no one tells me how long I’ll stay.
no words upon arrival.
white walls — how well they speak to me.

rooms locked. cameras angled at toilet seats.
I run — fast, screaming.
the colors of autumn evade me.
I kick at dry leaves.
I fail. the lord must know.

how foolish, in this moment,
to meet a mother’s eyes
when both her children are insane.
I blame myself.

december;
chemistry classroom.
sweat beads on an eighteen-year-old forehead.
the dead of winter.
eyes refuse to open, though they try.

a communist desk gripped
by the palms of a child in an adult body.
head spins — wheel of fortune.
faint. faintly remember.

the floor, my only companion — cold, still.
I crawl toward a cushioned seat.
climb. collapse. silence.

march;
police station. a crime.
report it. report it well.

metal bars echo my sighs.
small room. one plant. no light.
a psychologist. a police officer
swinging on the threads of my mind.

came to be a victim,
left a liar.
report says:
false accusation — the red-haired girl is a rat.

june;
lunch break. bathroom stall. a sandwich.
colder days have passed.

flush. the smell of survival —
urine and soap.
words of mockery.
how pitiful the red-haired one has become.

I take a bite.

august;
living room. sunlight tracing scars.
skin pale. dare not step out.

TV laughter — hollow, mechanical.
white walls again. silence.

the phone rings.
“have you eaten?”

have I eaten?
when was the last time I have eaten?

I go to sleep.

Longing

Personal Images: Expecting