Blerta Kambo

Sometime in August 2019, I made my way through London streets dragging two large suitcases. I miscalculated many things, it was late, and a man stopped me. He said “Miss, are you ok? Do you need any help?”. I thanked him and refused politely. Just as he left, I caught a glimpse of my reflection on a window store. I looked scared, like a ghost who had lost its ghostliness. I knew where it came from, a trauma from a “voluntary departure” when I was a child, returned to tell me that I wasn’t welcomed perhaps, that anytime someone would tell me I had to go back to my country, and all the hard work I had put for years to create a reputation as an artist, save money, be admitted at a film school in London, everything, was just an illusion. This is how I discove