Exploring the personal spaces where history took place. I find passport photos in wallets, in drawers, in photo albums. I find, one, then four, then stacks of them. Images of my mother, my father, some with dates written on the back and short messages they would send to each other when they lived apart. I find more with a three week old girl, it’s me, my mother’s hands under my dress lifting me up to the camera. I find sets of two, my sisters; duplicate dresses, duplicate photos. The passport photos are everywhere, yet the memories are distant of the lives I have lived, the places I have dreamt, the stories that are being told. The constant travels and the various identities I have lived, have led to artificial memories. Where is home? And who am I? My identity has been across the world and formed in front of the eyes of others and I cannot recall it. I am the product of the collision between the many cultures that exist in my family and how does a piece of paper, a document define who I am? Should it define anyone?

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