If you go to the Southbank in London now you will see a collection of poems, hanging. Stand underneath them and you will hear the voices of the refugee poets whisper to you. You will feel the wind blow hard and crunch the papers in its teeth. It will feel like you are standing with ghosts. I took my lens to the words that pulled me in most and each time the page curled and shied away from me, pages of freedom unwilling even to be captured by my camera. Poems that spoke of birds and peace and love. In the face of adversity, in the face of terror when all we know to cling onto has gone, do we only then speak up. Only then will we put our pens to the page and tell our story, the real one.
Someone said to me recently that they were surprised when they heard that the last words of a corporate business man was, I love you. That as death hurtled towards this man and he couldn't pull his life off the tracks, that all that mattered was love. I was not surprised. We are all human beings, just in different costumes. We are all playing out the roles we think we should, none of it matters, not really. If you lost everything you had, would you have the courage to fall deeply out of yourself and into yourself. Would you have the courage to see your words.. black on white. Would you stand as a ghost behind me as my lense found the paper of your soul.
Hang your story,
Have your life.