Navigating Differences

Between children, as well as between adults, communication requires work. Whether we are striving for understanding, for friendship, to set boundaries, or just to get a message across, this process requires care. It is important for us to help adults and kids from different social and cultural backgrounds work through it. The process of navigating differences is continuous and constant, even though it most often comes to light if a conflict arises. We asked Tereza Havlínková for an outside opinion on how to navigate differences. She photographed the creative camp for children The Great Land of Small, which took place in Prague, Czech Republic, in the summer of 2024 as part of the Biennale Matter of Art organized by tranzit.cz.

Tereza S.: Did you have any idea beforehand what you were going to photograph?

Tereza H.: I knew that it was a children’s camp and that I was supposed to photograph group camp activities. I knew that there would be children from Prague and Ostrava, and I knew that the kids from Ostrava came to the camp as a group. But I was mainly worried about how I was going take pictures inside—what kind of light there would be and so on.

Tereza S.: It was actually three groups. There were the children from Prague 7, who were registered by their parents, then there were the children from Ostrava, who we got in touch with thanks to the TV Páteř collective, and then the Ukrainian children.

Tereza H.: Oh, I only noticed the difference between the children from Prague and the ones from Ostrava. The kids from Prague were brought to the site by their parents, but the kids from Ostrava came in a group, and it was clear that they were Romani and that their parents didn’t come with them but the guides did. At first the guides didn’t want me to take pictures. Even though they knew that I was with tranzit, I sensed a wariness and a fear for the children being photographed—a fear of exploitation or abuse if the photographs were published online. But at the same time, it didn’t make sense to leave the Romani children out of the photo shoot. If I were to photograph everyone except the Romani kids, then I would just be excluding them too. But I understand that the women were responsible for the children, and so they were careful. But then the opposite happened. I quickly became the most interesting person there, and it was mainly the kids from Ostrava who were curious about me. They were drawn to the woman with the huge camera, and they thought it was funny to have their picture taken. I had to explain to them that I had to take pictures of the other people too. So, I went from trying to figure out whether it made sense to exclude the Romani children from the photo shoot to trying to avoid only taking pictures of this small group of kids the whole time. But even in the group from Ostrava there were kids who were more shy and who held back. But in general the interaction with the Ostrava kids was easier—they were more interested in me, they wanted to know what I was doing there, what I was photographing and how I was photographing it, where I lived, where I came from, and so on. They talked to me more.

Tereza S.: Was there anything else you noticed?

Tereza H.: What was revealed—as is the case in any similar learning space—was the background of each child: how much they were able to cooperate, to understand what was being asked of them. You could see that some children were used to similar activities and others less so. But the age and personality of each child can also play a role.

Tereza S.: How would you describe the relationships between the children?

Tereza H.: There was a language barrier. Some of the children were speaking Ukrainian—I think it was easier for them—and the others didn’t understand that. I think in general the groups didn’t intermingle much—except for one boy from Prague, who had great leadership ambitions and was trying to manage everybody there, so he communicated with everybody. He tried to give me tasks and control me too. :)

I have a heightened empathy for people who seem somehow disadvantaged in society. That’s why I was especially worried about the kids from Ostrava. I was more maternal toward them, more watchful of how they were treated, how I treated them myself. But then I was upset that they started making fun of a girl from Prague who had short hair. They shouted at her that she was a lesbian, and they meant it as an insult. It seemed to me that this was something they didn’t know what to do with, something they had never encountered, so they reached for something they had heard somewhere in the public space in connection with short-haired women. And in that way they decided to confront her with the fact that they found her weird. I felt that it wasn’t my role to interfere in any way—after all, I was there to take pictures. But on a human level I felt it was wrong and that I should intervene. It’s also because I have short hair myself, and I know how uncomfortable it is when people comment on it. It happens to you at thirteen as well as thirty, and men, women, and children all comment on it, so it’s not the kind of attack that comes from a specific group of people. I saw it as an insult and an expression that these kids were somehow irritated by the way the girl looked. At that point, I switched back to empathy for someone who is facing an attack just because of the way she looks, which, I thought, is something the girl probably isn’t even aware of. In the environment she’s in, some Prague community, it’s probably not that remarkable that she has short hair.

Tereza S.: As far as I know, it was the first time in her life she had heard the word lesbian, and she was very confused by their behavior. She didn’t understand it. But she also told me that children in her school commented on her hair too and it wasn’t so new to her.

Tereza H.: I sensed that she might be angry with someone who in turn had no tools to understand and realize what they were doing. You don’t want to see anyone as a predator—you don’t want to think of people as evil because you can trace where that type of misunderstanding probably arises. And you can’t really do anything about it here and now. And, furthermore, in your role you’re not even in a position to relate or intervene, nor do you have the know-how to do so. You know it has to be handled somehow, but you’re not the person in charge—I’m not prepared or trained for it. The situation reminded me of two documentaries I’ve seen: The Impossibility and Dajori. Both films are unbearable; they’re about how people are faced with problems that are not in their power to solve. Both of those films are about Romani families, but they were made by white people. My situation was different; I didn’t have to deal with the ethical issues that filmmakers do—I had a job and that was it. But as a non-Romani filmmaker, do you even have a mandate to portray such stories in cinema? You’re interfering in someone else’s life, forcing them to confront their situation, which maybe they don’t even have the strength or capacity to do. What possibility do they have to represent themselves in an audiovisual production? I had all kinds of questions. Isn’t this social engineering in the cultural sphere double-edged? Does it have the meaning and reach we would like? Is it not mutually unhelpful, sensitive, dangerous?