Vemödalen

My piece has been published at The Huffington Post!

Humanity has captured such beautiful moments in this world. A pearly droplet snaking down a leaf, the sun rising behind a tree, shards of sunlight reflecting off a pond. It takes half a second to uncover thousands of unbelievable photographs, each one more inspiring and vibrant than the last. One of the most intriguing photos I’ve seen is of a lightning bolt simultaneously striking an airplane and following the path of a rainbow. Another lovely one is the image of a leaf standing on a tree branch.

Vemödalen (n). the frustration of photographing something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist.

Sometimes, it may indeed seem like there are millions of wonderful photographs of the same phenomenon. I noticed this when looking at pictures of the Aurora Borealis. The auroras are dazzling lights that dance in the sky – a seemingly rare occurrence! So how can there be so many captured moments of them, each one as surreal as the next? And at one point, it becomes difficult to choose the photo I like the best – merely because there are so many magical samples to choose from.

A few of my friends are young photographers. When I asked them why they like photography, their responses were unanimous: because photos are a means of capturing and saving experiences that would otherwise be lost. But most of them were discouraged when confronted by the fact that thousands of similar photographs have already been taken. One of them told me: “It takes me days to take a photograph I’m proud of. But it takes me minutes to realize that it’s just one in a million”.

Sometimes, I wonder why people don’t have an identical attitude towards poetry. I’m very grateful that they don’t, but it still makes me wonder. After all, millions of poems have been written – each employing similar words, similar phrases, and reasonably similar ideas. And yet, I have never heard anyone say that two poems are the same (or even comparable in any aspect!). After dwelling upon it, I decided that it was because different writers have had different experiences, and will hence look at the same scenario in divergent ways, and will employ unalike tones. The poem will consequently flow in a different way. Moreover, the interpretation of a poem strongly depends on the nature of the reader; most of the time, two readers will construe the same piece in surprisingly unalike ways!

So… why can’t these explanations be applied to photography? I like to think that it’s because our eyes are superficial means of interpretation. At least mine are. To my eyes, different shades of yellow are identical, and there is little difference between salt on a black table and stars in the sky. But could there be another reason? After all, I’m not the only person who believes that there are thousands of photos that seem to capture the same essence – and there’s a reason the word ‘vemödalen’ is slowly assimilating into the English language.

It’s because we don’t invest the time into appreciating each photograph for its individuality. An hour ago, I typed the word ‘waves’ into my browser, and was presented with a cascade of different photographs, each depicting curling blue waves in an ocean. Under normal circumstances, I would have looked at the page at large, said ‘beautiful’ to myself, and then moved on. But there’s a fundamental flaw in that kind of thinking; and it starts with the words ‘at large’. On closer inspection, the photos were so radically different that it seemed a sin to cluster them all under the same heading. The first one depicted a turquoise, frothy sea, which reflected slivers of sunlight and burst into droplets upon touching the water. The second one was a photo of calm waters, mirror smooth, a beautiful blue, curling to the right. A few rows lower, there was a photo taken from the inside of a wave, which was infused with sunlight and was a living cave of its own. Each photo possessed its own essence, its own story, and its own accompanying emotions. There was fury, serenity, perfection, and magic. There was originality, and there was uniqueness.

At first glance, they may seem interchangeable. Some may say that they are – for aren’t all those photos showing a volley of water approaching a shore during the day? Yes, they are. But then again, doesn’t a set of poems portray identical emotions and strangely similar experiences? It just doesn’t seem like that, because we actually take the time to peruse its words and inhale its lifeblood. Unlike photos, we don’t take a cursory glance at it and hurry on to the next one.

Vemödalen: the frustration of photographing something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist. Or, in a parallel vein, the fear that everything has already been done. It may seem like there’s nothing we can capture that hasn’t been photographed before. But then again, each photo is unique in its own way, and has a feature that separates it from the rest. We just need to take the time to appreciate its individuality, just as we would for a poem.

Nevertheless, it’s comforting to know that we are all connected through our desire to capture our memories. Most of our photos aren’t gapingly different, but are still special – much like ourselves. We are similar, but we are not the same. When it seems like we have nothing new to add – because we think that everything has already been done – remember that we have our distinctive perspectives to contribute. And when it feels like we’re getting lost in a wave of indistinguishable abilities, remember to take down two photos capturing the same phenomenon – and appreciate the fact that at their roots, they are fundamentally different. 

Moledro…and the Power of Poetry

You can also read my article at The Huffington Post! 


Moledro (n). a feeling of resonant connection with an author or artist you’ll never meet, who may have lived centuries ago and thousands of miles away but can still get inside your head…

Moledro is the name of my literary magazine, which has released three online issues and has published poets, writers, and artists from countries across the globe. I started Moledro Magazine in November 2015, as a small project that would probably be confined to my new school. However, it has grown tremendously since then, and consists of a team of committed high school and college students. I had even decided to add a separate section in Issue 3, on the theme ‘The Shadows Stalking Society’. I’ve always believed in the power of words in initiating social change; this belief was heightened after reading the wonderful poems I had received for Issues 1 and 2.

I suppose the greatest virtue of poetry is its accessibility. As long as one understands the nuances of a language, nothing can stop him or her from grasping the true meaning of a poem. Reading and understanding a poem is a wonderful way of emotionally connecting with a social issue. I distinctly remember a time when poetry opened new avenues to global and cultural awareness in my life. I had heard about an international, human rights poetry award organized by the Universal Human Rights Student Network in 2015, which aimed to raise awareness about the plight of European refugees and their fundamental rights as humans. As a teenager living a rather sheltered life, I would be unable to actually empathize with European refugees. Although I’ve read news articles and watched videos, they only provide me with a statistical indication of what is really happening. So, I eagerly waited for the winning poems to be posted on the UHRSN website—and was rewarded when they were. The poignant voices of people who had been refugees, whose family members had been refugees, and social activists hoping to mitigate this issue rang out loud and true. Reading about the young Aylan Kurdi on online newspapers let me know about the issue; but reading a passionate poem about him, and about how fortunate most of us are, really brought the pain of the refugees to life. There was one poem that touched me in particular: “For Aylan”, by Laura Taylor. It started off like this: “I just wanted you to know

your lovely bones have not been wasted […]”.

In a particularly intriguing article published in The Huffington Post, Tammara Fort talks about the prevalence of human trafficking—and how Sarita Callender, a victim of international trafficking, used poetry as her means of speaking up. Sarita’s poem, “Fus Ro Dah”, aims at breaking the stereotypes surrounding modern-day slavery. Moreover, it expresses the agony and horrors of trafficking, and how it can happen to absolutely anyone. I have been exposed to numerous books and articles regarding modern slavery. And yet, it was this concise poem that left a perceptible mark on my memory. Perhaps because a haunting poem is impossible to forget, or because its simple, honest words can be understood by all. Here are a few lines, which vividly describe the horrors of human trafficking ⁵:

I am woman torn from home, from all that was known.

I was a child in innocence, lost at their hands.

I was mother, sister, daughter, cousin, friend .... all gone.

But through it all I never gave up.

Furthermore, this incredible poem induces other victims to speak up against the atrocities they’ve been forced to accept. Its language is simple, yet inspirational—and has the ability to let a sheltered person stand in the shoes of another, physically distant person. It helps raise awareness about an incredibly serious and widespread occurrence, which is the most crucial step to initiating social change. Its straightforward language unites people across the globe—which is, after all, what poetry is all about. 

I would like to end this post by quoting a poem I read several years ago, sent to me by my grandfather. It was the poem that exposed me to the resentment Africans experience regarding racism. In fact, it was probably the poem that cemented my love for poetry—and made me realize that poetry is synonymous with social change. This is a poem written by an African child; it was nominated the best poem of 2005 by the UN:

When I born, I black

When I grow up, I black

When I go in Sun, I black

When I scared, I black

When I sick, I black

And when I die, I still black

And you white fellow

When you born, you pink

When you grow up, you white

When you go in sun, you red

When you cold, you blue

When you scared, you yellow

When you sick, you green

And when you die, you gray

And you calling me colored? 

Syria

Two options: not piano or violin class, but

staying home under a cascade of fire and blood,

or leaving to a swamp of terror. Staying home to see

the concrete collapse while eating a stale meal, or

flee the fire to enter its opposite—waves that

you believed would lead you to a better life. you are

a child, but your sparkling innocence has dissipated. you

were not pampered or spoilt like your counterparts, you

were not bribed with treats or gifted with visits from your

grandparents. you are not horrified when you get a paper cut;

you are accustomed to the fact that human bodies are

brimming with blood, that hatred unleashes it and makes

it flood the ground. you know that fire is not confined to a

hearth or candles on a birthday cake, you know that fire

is powerful, furious—that it can tear down everything

you care about within seconds. you know that saline water

is not limited to sunny beaches and sand castles. you know

that waves were not made for children to frolic in, that they

can tear down wood and quench fire. water can be wicked,

and you are too youthful to know that.

your peers believe that parents are an epitome of strength,

that they are made of metal and infused with diamonds. they believe

mum and dad are immortal. but you know better, even

though you shouldn’t. you know that seemingly strong

people can crack, that people die and that humans are one of

the weakest creatures on earth. maybe you can’t articulate it;

but you know, somewhere in your mind it is written down, and

you do all you can to forget it. you will regain some of your

innocence if you forget the fact that humans can be cruel,

that nature can be unforgiving, that lives are painfully mortal and

easy to break. but not as easy to destroy as your innocent

soul.