It’s been a while since I last posted anything. I have been trying to take things more slowly, to plan less, to cram less things into my days and to take time to just sit and read in my favourite chair, occassionally putting my books down to watch a bit of Line of Duty, Mad Men and Downton Abbey. I got so many books for Christmas and all of the presents I got for my birthday in March were books except for two. I have also been treating myself to some books from my wish list and my parents have been spoiling me with “just because” book gifts to make me happy. So I have had plenty of books to choose from lately and have read some amazing stories in the past few months. Hence, having been a bit too busy reading to write anything new for the blog.
Until a few years ago books about migrants and migration wasn’t really something I’d read. Then I moved to England and at UCL ended up 0n the “Word and Image – Migrant Literature and Film” course because I liked the interdisciplinary angle but also because it was something I could connect with from personal experience. I became really interested in how these stories raise questions about belonging, national identity and place attachment.
During my childhood my dad would take photographs of our family with his heavy, black SLR camera, carried on a strap around his neck with a strange pattern in black, orange and purple colours. I remember having my photograph taken with it on holidays to Greece and Sweden; having to stop in random places when he had found a beetle he wanted to photograph and the blurry prints of the shiny beetles when they came back from the photo lab; sitting down on a low wall near a beach in Greece, smiling back at the camera as we posed for him.