I’m an activist, a freelance photographer, and I travel… A lot.
My apartment is in New York City, but I’m rarely there. My belongings are in my apartment, although most of it goes untouched. I mostly live out of a backpack and go wherever my heart takes me, wherever I feel like my camera is needed. Sometimes it’s a short bus ride across state lines, other times it’s a long plane ride across several time zones. When people ask where I live, I hesitate. I’m mostly just paying for a place to store my belongings, a place to sleep few nights a month while I’m in transition between trips.
Because of this, I don’t really have one location I feel comfortable calling home. I guess I am at home wherever I’m at. A week ago, my home was in Turkey. Today, my home is in NYC. Two days from now, my home will be in Wisconsin. After that, I’m unsure of where I’ll call home.
Almost everything in my life is unpredictable, unstable. The only constant is the resistance. The resistance of inequality and injustice, and the beautiful people who are a part of it.
I feel at home, no matter where I’m at, as long as I am a part of this resistance.