When I was little, one of my favorite things to do was sift through the bins of our family photographs. I’d sit with my mom and sisters, sorting baby pictures into piles, laughing at the hairstyles of the ’80s, and freaking out at photos of my parents with exes I’m happy they didn’t end up with. These moments always ended the same way—me noticing that my pile of baby pictures was noticeably smaller than my two older sisters’ and therefore throwing a fit. Still, those times remain some of my most cherished memories. Family photographs are more than just pictures; they are powerful markers of our identity and belonging. They tell stories we may have forgotten, bring loved ones back into the present, and offer glimpses into lives we didn’t get to experience firsthand.

So, when I began conceptualizing this exhibition, I knew that photography would play a crucial role in the telling of this story. I began researching photographic practices specific to Kosovo and came across an academic article by Zanita Halimi titled “Photographic Practices among Albanian Families in Kosovo.” The piece explores the ways families sought to preserve their photos during the 1998–99 Kosovo War, offering insight into the emotional and historical weight that images can carry. 

Halimi outlines three categories of preservation practices during the diaspora. The first being families who had no time to take photos with them due to the urgency of fleeing for their lives. The second group is those families who brought their photos with them despite warnings that soldiers might destroy them. And the third includes families who chose to hide their photos before deportation–burying them in hopes that, no matter what happened, someone would one day find them and know who had lived there, what they looked like, and what had been lost.

During one of my recent interviews, I discovered a fourth category—families who chose not to leave at all because of their photographs. The participant shared with me that she was just seven years old when the war reached her small town of Vushtrri. Soldiers gave her neighborhood a single hour to evacuate, warning that anyone who stayed would be killed. Her family, however, made the impossible choice to stay behind, for one reason: they couldn’t bear to leave behind the only photograph they had of her older brother, who had fled the country before the war began.

“My mom only had one photo of him, but the frame couldn’t fit in a suitcase. I think it’s so dumb—that’s the reason we stayed. But we didn’t go out. So every single second, every single day, we were just waiting for the soldiers to come and kill us. The town was empty. It was just our family, and the horses, sheep, and cows that people set free.”

This story stopped me in my tracks. It reminded me that photographs aren’t just keepsakes. They’re fragments of people’s lives, holding emotions and memories too sacred to be left behind. They are proof of existence: of who we were, who we loved, and who we continue to carry with us. Photographs can open doors, bridge generations, and breathe life into stories that history books may overlook. But they can also represent something much deeper: the lengths we’ll go to protect our identity, preserve our legacy, and ensure that, no matter what happens, someone remembers we were here.