The South carries within it both confinement and possibility. It is a place shaped by survival, by a history of resistance that has defined not only the land but the people who inhabit it. To be from the South is to inherit both its burden and its clarity, to be shaped by a force that is at once protective and consuming. Resistance exists as more than an act—it is a condition, a structure through which identity is negotiated. It asks what it means to endure, and whether endurance alone is enough.

Here, family and home are continuously threatened, reconstructed, and redefined. They are tied to land but also to memory, to what is passed down and what is left behind.

Family photo albums are left buried in the rubble of bombed homes, remnants of airstrikes and destruction. Warped and ruined, yet not erased. A search for more begins—digging, uncovering, collecting remnants of personal and collective histories left behind, unclaimed, abandoned as if they no longer mattered.

For me, the child appears neither consumed by nor separate from the adult world but moving through it—imitating, absorbing, or reflecting something beyond themselves. There is an unsettling proximity between play and possession, innocence and something more elusive, what is remembered and what is imagined. History becomes something not to be escaped but rather held. 

The images take on a pulse, refusing disappearance. This archive is not a ruin but a process of becoming. Evidence of persistence, of history reshaping itself, of a future waiting to be provoked.