Online Exhibition:
What We Brought with Us
Academy in Exile supports scholars and cultural producers at risk and advances academic freedom through its fellowship program. The exhibition What We Brought with Us presents images of objects carried by some of Academy in Exile’s fellows when they fled from their countries of origin to Germany where they were hosted by University of Duisburg-Essen, Freie Universität Berlin, Forum Transregionale Studien and Institute for Advanced Study in the Humanities (KWI) Essen.
This exhibition was developed by Academy in Exile, organized in North America by University Alliance Ruhr, University of Cincinnati, and Goethe-Institut, and shared here with concern for those who are forced to live in exile as a result of oppression by authoritarian regimes around the world.
To view the catalogue of the exhibition please click here. Furthermore, Meyers Gallery has a virtual 3D tour of the exhibition here.
Child’s shoe
The shoe belonged to me when I was a little girl. I found it among my mother’s belongings when she died. When I went into exile, it was one of the few things I took as a memento of her. The other shoe is lost.
Sock
Some time ago, a dear friend from London sent me a nice pair of socks as a gift. One day, when I was packing up for a trip to Geneva, I could find only one of the socks. No matter how much I searched, the other one did not appear. Later, it transpired that the missing sock was in my hometown, Istanbul, apparently forgotten there during a visit. Today, one of the socks is in Essen and the other in Istanbul. I feel that I’m not so unlike these socks myself.
- Fırat Erdoğmuş
Venetian silk purse
I thought I might be arrested at the airport in Islamabad. I put my travel documents in this fancy purse and flashed it around at immigration. The officials started whispering to one another, “Why does she keep her things in such an expensive purse?” They barely glanced at my travel documents and escorted me to the VIP lounge for tea while I waited for my flight.
Keypad phone
This is the phone I brought with me when I left Myanmar last year. I kept it because it’s a poignant reminder of life under military rule. After the coup of February 1, 2021, many people, including me, had to buy keypad phones. Most people use smartphones to access the internet and social media, and so switching to keypad phones would not be our choice. We are forced to use them although they have smaller screens and fewer technical features. Using these kinds of phones hasn’t really made our lives which are under constant physical and digital surveillance that much safer. Popular social media platforms and texting apps like Facebook, WhatsApp, and Messenger are banned and have to be used with virtual private networks (VPNs) that most, if not all, of us once knew nothing about. VPNs are only installed on the smartphones we keep at home. There are many reports of the security forces viewing people carrying keypad phones with suspicion and ordering them to produce the smartphones they actually use.
Notebooks
A friend gave me one of these notebooks as a present. I brought it with me to Berlin simply because it happened to be the journal I was keeping at the moment. I recall jotting stuff down on the plane without being even dimly aware of the significance that it would later hold for me. The rest of my journals are still in Ankara, lying in a dusty drawer in our apartment. I take some pleasure in thinking of them, their pages yellow and the ink faded, as if they were crafting a quiet place for themselves in Turkey.
Books
When the protests started in Syria, I moved to Delhi. Then Muslims were targeted at the university, and I fled without papers to Jordan. It was hard to choose which books to pack. The day I left for Berlin, it was Edward W. Said’s birthday, so I said to myself, “Let me take those.” The books used up my luggage allowance. Now my library is scattered around the world.
Ultrasound
When we set off, this ultrasound was the only object we had that belonged to our unborn daughter. Our journey did not end when we arrived in a safe country, but rather months later when she was born. When we first took her healthy form in our arms, it was only then that we could say, “Here we are.” More than for us, this journey was for you, our precious daughter. As a letter from you to us and from us to you, this ultrasound was the only thing that we couldn’t leave behind.
Toy bear
At the age of six, I become a homeless child. One day during my scavenges, I found this bear on a garbage heap. That was in the late ’90s, and from then on, he has accompanied all my steps. He was with me when I left my Roma community, when I obtained my Masters in Media and Communication Studies, when I had my same-sex marriage, and when I defended my doctoral dissertation as well. More than thirty years later, I showed the toy to my husband. Ever since we met, he has called me Miśu, which means “bear” in Polish. It was he who noticed that the bear is sitting on a pile of newspapers. He said, “Miśu, it is you!”
Dupatta
I consciously packed this dupatta. My grandmother, my mother, and my aunts all wore wide dupattas. The dupattas were scented differently, though. All of them might wear the same pattern and color, yet one could detect the difference. My grandmother’s always has a peculiar mustardy smell, my aunt’s a bit nutty, and my mother’s smells of something that I have not been able to decipher. Perhaps it’s the smell of love. I carried this wide dupatta to remind myself of the smell of love that awaits me somewhere.
Torch
My grandfather gave me this torch when I left home. I was only eleven, and he gave it to me so I could find my way in the dark. After the government crackdown in Turkey, I had to leave the country. I took the torch as a memento of my grandfather when he died. He was my favorite person.
Amber with embedded insects
Whenever I pack my suitcase to move to another country, a country about which I know almost nothing, I toss this necklace into the corner of my bag. It’s been there for more than a decade and seen six countries. Am I attached to it? Not really! It neither signifies anything nor even conjures up a particular memory. I only touch it once before departure when I’m packing, and one other time when I arrive at my destination. It has become a banal personal ritual. It serves as a tactile reminder that I’ve entered a new country and left one more behind. The first time I held it in my hand as a gift, it brought to mind the cruelty of containment. Now it conjures up the state of being always on the move. I like having it, though. It’s a constant reminder that home is yet to come and that some people have to move fast enough to stay put.
Glasses stand
I bought this nose-shaped glasses stand in April 2015 during our visit to Yerevan for the centenary of the Armenian Genocide. The nose belongs to Yeghishe Charents, one of the greatest poets and political activists of Armenia. Born in Kars, Charents sought a yergir (homeland) in his works as a way of healing the traumatic loss of home. Here, this object—which, back in our house in Turkey, used to be a souvenir from Armenia—gained significance for us as a symbol of hope that we could make a new home in exile.
Queer flag
I got this flag from the Jewish section of Gay Pride. I marched joyfully, but fascism is rampant in Poland, and a bill in Parliament goes so far as to actually ban such events. In fact, they are referred to as “Equality Marches.” Equality is precisely what my country is lacking right now. Yet the joy of rebuilding Jewish, feminist, and queer Lublin has not been abandoned altogether, nor have I been crushed by persecution at the hands of Poland’s minister for education and science. Lublin was once a hub of Jewish, Ukrainian, Protestant, socialist, and atheist thought, and outstanding queer writers went about their work. Just think of lesbian writer Narcyza Żmichowska, author of Gothic novels in the nineteenth century, or Józef Czechowicz, gay poet of the interwar avant-garde! I took this flag with me to Berlin so as to recall the pluralism that is under threat in Poland. I dream of intercultural hospitality returning to my city, my country, the planet.
Pictures of an old man with a cat and a hand-embroidered scarf
These two prints have always decorated my walls in exile. They remind me of my home and the people I miss. The scene of an old man and a cat symbolizes peace, tranquility, and colorfulness in a country associated with conflict, war, and radicalism. The scarf was made by the small hands of internally displaced girls in Kabul to help support their families.
Fur
This is a piece of fur from my dog. I have this one shirt with me that I have never worn since I left the country. One day, I took a closer look at it and saw the fur of my dog on it. I felt that this is the only memory of him that came all the way with me. I put it in a container and kept it with me. I really miss him.
Coffee cups
I had coffee with a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. We drank from disposable cups, but I kept them anyway. They’ve traveled with me from country to country. I didn’t know if I’d see my friend in two or three years, or ever again, so I preserved these cups. War turns human beings into disposable things.
White fabric
Before I left, my mother wanted to be sure that my luggage with a broken zip wouldn’t burst open, so she tied a white cotton cloth around it.
Kitschy photo
When I came to Germany, I planned on staying just five days. Now it’s day 1,653 in exile, but who’s counting? As a joke, my friend sent me this photo of where I used to live. It’s so kitschy. When you look at it, you have to laugh. You can’t get emotional.