Resonate - 19 July 2026

On the rolling hills, every blade of grass seemed to have been combed by invisible hands | All photos: Riza Annisa Anggraeni

Alps and Archipelago: A Mirror in The Mist

As a hiker who has spent most of my life trekking the slopes of volcanic mountains from Sabang to Merauke across the Indonesian archipelago, the contrast with my experience in Switzerland truly gave me a new perspective and carried a different meaning.

After closing a stack of seminar report files in St. Gallen, a city located in Northeastern Switzerland (Ostschweiz), I packed bread and chocolate, a waterproof jacket, and a water bottle, heading toward St. Gallen Bahnhof. My destination was Seealpsee, located slightly south of St. Gallen, a hidden oasis in the Appenzell Alps.

As the train slowly moved, leaving the cityscape of St. Gallen, the academic atmosphere I had lived in for five days seemed to melt away, replaced by the atmosphere of a rural journey. The train started to gain altitude, cutting through the rolling green hills that are famous as the signature view of the Appenzellerland region, where every blade of grass seemed to have been carefully combed by invisible hands.

Seealpsee should only be about 18-20 kilometres from St. Gallen, but because of the mountainous topography, the route is longer, winding through the green valleys of Appenzell. In less than an hour, the train arrived at Appenzell Station. I then transferred to a local train heading to Wasserauen, which is the final stop as well as the gateway to the hiking trail toward Seealpsee.

This journey offered an emotional transition for me. Outside the train, I saw the sort of green hills that I thought could only be glimpsed in paintings or films, things that felt impossible for me to see with my own eyes.

The peaks of the hills touched each other warmly with the mist above them. Wooden houses full of flowers looked grounded yet luxurious. Not to mention the herds of cows with faintly clinking bells, as if completing this region’s ecosystem, mutually guarding and beautifying one another: the nature, the buildings, and the animals.

Meanwhile, inside the train, the passengers changed; from locals with simple everyday purposes and modest appearances, they turned into mountain explorers or travellers with trekking poles and mountain backpacks.

The background of the Alpine mountains seemed to draw closer.

The train arrived at Wasserauen, and the cold mountain air gripped me as soon as I stepped off the platform. It crossed my mind: would I be able to start this hike? But according to several reviews I read on the internet, the hike to Seealpsee is classified as easy. Even some families can still use strollers for their toddlers. What I worried about was not my ability to handle the route, but the weather.

However, the view before me defeated all those doubts. I could not possibly ignore a beauty that I might never get to experience again in the future. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I started following where the crowd was heading. As an Asian, their pace felt so fast. I started to get breathless, especially as the path grew steeper. At that moment, I realised that I should hike at my own pace. There was no need to feel afraid of being left behind. By walking at my own pace, I might be able to see and observe things I hadn’t fully appreciated before, things that, perhaps, if I observed them more deeply, would hold a different meaning for me.

The route is clearly marked; even where the path branches off, yellow signposts point the way

The route is clearly marked; even where the path branches off, there are yellow signposts pointing the way to Seealpsee. The path I took was still paved and quite wide. It slowly cut through a protected forest with the sound of a stream that was so clear, not just the flow, but the tone as well. This area was very quiet; even the tinkling of the bells hanging on the necks of the cows sounded so distinct, even though the closer I got to the mountains, the more crowded the travellers became.

The path began to change into dirt and rocks. The scent of damp earth and fresh pine slowly filled my lungs, while my eyes were presented with a beauty that touched my soul with emotion. I smiled at travellers who also greeted me. It felt like there was no reason not to smile; if I could, I would happily smile even at the cows and the trees! Occasionally, I also took photos, with wonderment at how I finally felt being in the Alpine mountains, where the paths and clearings struck me as so neatly structured and clean.

After nearly an hour of hiking leisurely, the steep path slowly began to flatten. The forest I passed through gradually opened, replaced by scattered wooden houses, revealing a view that instantly made me gasp in awe while feeling so peaceful.

I arrived at the edge of the lake, with water that was a deep turquoise, so clear that I could see the rock formations at the bottom: Lake Seealpsee. With a background of thin mist hanging over the giant limestone of the Alps, moving calmly like the rhythm of the life of the people living below it. Like a mirror. The same went for the lake water, which reflected the sky and the mountains, as if sending a message that perfect beauty often forces us to reflect more deeply.

At that moment, I stood in silent stillness while gazing calmly at Lake Seealpsee. I have a habit of seeing paradoxes everywhere. When beauty seeps into the soul, what I feel is not absolute happiness, but a question: “Why can’t my homeland treat its mountains with the same reverence?”

Archipelago — I arrived at the edge of Lake Seealpsee, with a background of thin mist hanging over the giant limestone of the Alps

My thoughts instantly leapt thousands of miles, crossing ocean boundaries toward the slopes of Mount Gede in West Java, Indonesia. Mount Gede is the most popular mountain in West Java, visited by thousands of hikers every week. Not just hikers, but also trail runners.

It is popular because of the beauty of Surya Kencana, a savanna field overgrown with Edelweiss (Anaphalis Javanica). It is often called the ‘Eternal Flower’ because its petals contain ethylene hormones that prevent them from wilting, allowing them to last for a long time. The vast and majestic Surya Kencana becomes a lure for hikers/runners to hike Mount Gede to a height of 2.750 MDPL (“Meter Di Permukaan Laut” or metres above sea level), without even needing to reach its peak.

That is how Mount Gede is known, because of its Surya Kencana. Not many know, especially hikers and trail runners, that for the Sundanese people living at the foot of the mountain, it is simbah, a living ancestor, a place where the hyang reside, a sacred land with a space between the mortal and spiritual worlds. Culturally, they have forbidden forests and strict customary laws. It is clearly imprinted that when visiting sacred land, the directive to respect nature is absolute.

However, if today we see Mount Gede through the news or social media, that sanctity seems to have evaporated, replaced by the sight of brutal mass tourism. The hiking trails are always full and crowded with people. The mountain ridges are littered with plastic containers, instant noodle wrappers, shampoo bottles, even cigarette butts, and rotting food waste. A sacred area now defiled by daily actions that perhaps very few of those visiting are even aware of.

Truly an irony. In Switzerland, a secular and rational country, nature is treated with full affection and mindfulness. Meanwhile, in Indonesia, a country known for its culture and indigenous wisdom, possessing spirituality and rituals, nature is instead sacrificed on the altar of tourism consumption.

Witnessing the orderliness at Seealpsee made me reflect a lot on the essence of the journey itself. Why do we often have to travel far to the other side of the world just to realise what is wrong at home?

This place is not only physically clean of trash but also offers extraordinary mental “cleanliness”

Inhaling the pure Alpine air here feels like a blessing. I spent hours here, walking around the lake, enjoying my lunch, and simply watching the mountain reflection on the calm water surface. This place is not only physically clean of trash but also offers extraordinary mental “cleanliness.”

I often see how political border lines separate the fates of two different nations. Now in Switzerland, I see a borderline of consciousness. Their citizens do not expel humans from nature, but educate humans to know their place when in nature. The cleanliness and orderliness at Seealpsee were not born from abstract love for nature alone, but from a management structure that gives space for local communities to be sovereign over their land.

In Indonesia, as a nation, we always feel proud of our ancestors’ wisdom, but we often fail in translating it into a modern system capable of curbing the flow of tourism capitalism. Where mountains are often seen as commodities, and as something to be conquered, not to be listened to.

This journey of mine is not an attempt to escape or blindly worship the Western world. Admiring the mountain management in Switzerland does not mean I condemn my birthplace with cynicism. On the contrary, Seealpsee has become a mirror that reflects a longing, and simultaneously an urgency, to re-embrace a new consciousness.

I do not need to change Mount Gede into the Alpine mountains, because that is a form of mental colonisation. What I need is to build a bridge between modern logistical discipline and the spiritual and cultural reverence that the Indonesian nation actually already possesses and has been ingrained in from generation to generation.

When the afternoon began to descend, and the train rolled, carrying me back to St. Gallen, I watched my own reflection in the window glass, which displayed the Swiss landscape outside. I know I will return to my archipelago of Indonesia, and I return not with a broken heart from comparing two worlds, but with renewed conviction: that caring for the earth is the highest way for a human to define who they are, and what they will do in their future, as an individual and also as a nation.

Riza Annisa Anggraeni

Traveller

Riza Annisa Anggraeni is an Indonesian mountaineer, writer, and independent researcher whose work explores rural and mountain landscapes and communities. Through conscious travel and storytelling, she seeks to reframe travel as a grounded relationship with the Earth, offering an alternative to extractive travel narratives and inviting readers into slower, locally rooted journeys across the Indonesian archipelago and the places she has visited herself.

Time to Read: 8 Minutes

Traveller: Riza Annisa Anggraeni

19 July 2026

Category:
Travellers' Tales - Nature

Here, I learned about the emotional intimacy of crowded public spaces | All photos: S. Rupsha Mitra

What Commercial Street Taught Me About Bangalore

I have been in Bangalore long enough to measure time in returning – to the same streets, the same vendors, the same small rituals that let a city slowly open up to you. For me, that place has been Commercial Street, a stretch of road that first felt like a labyrinthine maze and now feels almost like a conversation I’ve learned how to join.

I arrive early whenever I can. In the morning, before the crowd surges in, Commercial Street feels like it is clearing its throat before a performance. Shop shutters rise one by one with a metallic rhythm, and the first scents of the day slip into the air. I can sense the sweet scent of fresh jasmine and look at the beauty of it being strung into garlands. The incense curls upward as I see shopkeepers perform a quick puja, hands folded in quiet devotion to the day’s business. It feels intimate, almost sacred, like being allowed backstage before the theatre begins.

I walk slowly, not really shopping yet, but just observing. A man sprinkles water outside his store to settle the dust. Another arranges silver jewellery in neat, glinting rows that catch the soft morning light. Somewhere, oil crackles as the first samosas of the day are lowered into a pan. The street, even in its quietest hour, is already layered in its own way, with scent, with sound, with intention.

By late morning, the transformation is complete. The street is no longer waking up, but it is fully alive. Voices rise, languages overlap, and the choreography begins. Kannada blends into Tamil, which slips into Urdu and Hindi, and occasionally, unexpectedly, I hear Bengali, my own language, that floats through the air like a familiar melody. In these moments, Commercial Street feels less like a market and more like a miniature version of India itself, compressed into a few vibrant lanes in Bangalore.

I’ve returned often enough that I am no longer invisible here. The sellers remember me.

There’s a warmth in recognition, a nod, a smile, a “madam, you’ve come back” that turns a transaction into something softer, something closer to belonging.

Bangalore — Further down, the jewellery stalls are impossible to ignore; they spill over with abundance

One of my favourite stops is a perfume shop, where rows of attar bottles glow amber and gold under the lights. The sellers here don’t just sell fragrance; they teach it. A tiny dab on the clavicle, they say, a touch on the wrists, let the warmth of your skin carry the scent. Jasmine, rose, oud – each one unfolds slowly, lingering not just on you but in the space around you. “People will notice,” one of them once told me with a grin, “even from a distance.” And he was right.

Further down, the jewellery stalls are impossible to ignore. They spill over with abundance, mangtikas that echo older traditions of Baijis’glory, heavy statement pieces that feel almost theatrical, and delicate modern designs that seem made for everyday wear.

I once found a small shop tucked into a corner where wooden bangles were stacked in imperfect towers. I remember the bargaining more than the purchase itself, the back-and-forth, the laughter, the mock seriousness of it all. When I finally walked away with a set at nearly half the original price, it felt less like a victory and more like an initiation.

That is something Commercial Street teaches you: bargaining is not confrontation, but it is conversation. It is a ritual, a shared performance where both sides understand the script but still improvise within it.

You learn quickly that looking is never enough here, but you have to feel, to engage

Clothing stores line the lanes in a riot of colour, lehenga cholis that shimmer under fluorescent lights, kurtas in soft cottons, Western tops stacked high and sold at prices that feel almost unreal. Everything invites touch. Fabrics brush against your fingers, textures shift from smooth to coarse, and you learn quickly that looking is never enough here, but you have to feel, to engage.

And then, just when the street feels like it might overwhelm you, it offers a pause. A narrow staircase leading upward. A quiet antique shop hidden above the noise. A small juice stand where fresh lime is squeezed into a glass, the sharp citrus cutting through the heaviness of the day. These pockets of calm feel deliberate, like the street knows when you need to step back and breathe.

Over time, what has stayed with me is not just what I’ve bought, but what I’ve learned. The shopkeepers have taught me words in Kannada and Urdu, laughing at my pronunciation and correcting me with patience. In return, I’ve offered Bengali phrases, and to my surprise, some of them already knew a few. These exchanges, small as they are, feel like threads, connecting, weaving, building something that resembles community.

In the sincerity of the shopkeepers, there is a kind of devotion that goes beyond commerce

There is a kind of devotion here that goes beyond commerce. Customers are treated with a reverence that feels almost ceremonial. “You are like god,” one shopkeeper told me once, only half-joking. And yet, there is sincerity in the way they remember preferences, families, stories. Generations pass through these lanes, and somehow, the street remembers.

On certain days, exhibitions appear, temporary bursts of curated beauty. Antique jewellery, Kashmiri stoles, rare finds that feel like they carry their own histories. These moments transform the street again, layering the old with the new, the traditional with the contemporary.

Commercial Street is not just a place to shop. It is a place that teaches you how to be in Bangalore, to embrace its contradictions, its melange of cultures, its ability to hold intimacy within chaos. It teaches you to slow down in a fast space, to listen even when everything is loud, to find connection in the briefest of exchanges.

Every time I leave, carrying a bag or sometimes nothing at all, I realise that what I am really taking with me is something less tangible. A rhythm. A familiarity. A sense that in this ever-moving city, there are places where you can return again and again, and each time, be recognised.

Commercial Street does not just sell you things. It lets you belong.

S. Rupsha Mitra

Storyteller

S. Rupsha Mitra is a poet and writer from India. She loves to learn and write about spirituality. Her works have been published in London Reader, Mekong Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Science for the People Magazine, and Brown Girl Magazine.

Time to Read: 5 Minutes

Storyteller: S. Rupsha Mitra

18 July 2026

Category:
Local Stories - In This Moment

Like natural sculptures, icebergs float on the peaceful surface of a glacial lagoon | All photos: Lia Mageira

In Iceland, Bearing Witness to the Unfolding Climate Change Crisis

“Human bonds with nature are either worn out or destroyed, and have led to global warming and climate change. Man carves his path on earth based on his choices, and humankind is therefore required to realise that he is just a tiny part of the natural environment on which his survival depends.’’

Nina Fragopoulou, Professor of Marine Biology

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Iceland is a land alive and active, giving birth to lava again and again.

It was just a thousand years ago when the Vikings set eyes on this wild island. Under its ground, two continents converge through the North American and Eurasian plates. A wild landscape of volcanic rocks, still-molten lava, and geysers that erupt at temperatures of 200C, all of which are the beauty of Iceland.

Glacial rivers flow rapidly, carving waterfalls which roar with power. The air smells of sulfur. Who else, except the Vikings, could inhabit this wild island?

During our journey, we drove 2,500 kilometres, the Ring of Ice and Fire, as the route around Iceland is called. We drove 70 consecutive kilometres without encountering any houses, cars, or even a single bird. We didn’t see any signs of life. The Ring passes black rocks, terracotta soil, ebony sands, waterfalls, glaciers, and lava.

One of the most beautiful spots on the route is the glacial lake Jökulsárlón. It is located right beside the Ring Road, between Scaftafell and Höfn. About a million people visit this natural wonder every year. The authorities try hard to protect the flora, fauna, and their shared environment here. Although the lagoon looks ancient, it is actually very young. Jökulsárlón formed after the glacier began to recede in 1940.

Climate Change — The deepest lake in Iceland, Jökulsárlón’s glacial waters had a pale blue colour

In front of me, the white mass of Europe’s largest icecap, Vatnajökull, stretched. Its iced tongue reached into the lake. At least five active volcanoes smoulder beneath the glacier.

The icebergs in the lagoon were carved from Breidamerkurjökull, an offshoot of Vatnajökull, which crashed into the water. They can float up to five years in the 250-metre-deep lagoon. Only 10 per cent of icebergs are visible above the surface, which means that we can see only their peaks. Literally the tip of the iceberg.

When we reached the landmark, the lagoon was calm, with the icebergs floating on its surface looking like carved marble. Its waters had a pale blue colour, and as it is the deepest lake in Iceland, Jökulsárlón attracts a variety of wildlife, including a population of seals. The lagoon’s mouth meets the sea, connected by a bridge at its entrance. Occasionally, large icebergs change shape as they melt, breaking into smaller fragments that ultimately become low enough to pass under the bridge and reach the sea.

A wonderful exhibition of these natural sculptures lies in the lagoon. We had just finished a tour by an amphibious boat that took us into the maze of icebergs right up against the glacier’s snout. I was thrilled because I had seen so many beautiful images. I loved the texture of the icebergs and wished I could touch them. On top of one of them, some little birds were perched.

The tour guide grabbed a large floating piece of ice and invited the children on board to touch it. One by one, the young explorers felt the sense of the ice; some of them hugged it. Their jackets were wet, but they laughed happily. I had a pessimistic thought: in what condition will the lagoon be for the generations to come?

I loved the texture of the icebergs… on top of one of them, some birds were perched

After the tour, I set up my tripod and took some pictures of the impressive blue ice sculptures from the shore. While I was taking one last look around, I noticed a sign: “No Swimming.” I chuckled to myself. Looking at the bridge, I saw some traffic, and visitors were walking along the shore.

I was turning off my camera when I heard a muffled noise coming from the depths of the lake. I looked toward the sound. Bubbles were rising from the water. The noise grew louder, and the bubbles got bigger. Then, a large piece of ice broke free from the lake’s surface, about three metres away. It exploded out into the air and, with a big splash, sank immediately, creating a wave that reached the shore.

I spotted a young, frightened seal swimming fast towards the nearest iceberg. It had just lost its home. A minute later, calm returned to the scene. I looked for the birds – they had flown far away.

As marine biologist Professor Nina Fragopoulou told me, I was fortunate to witness in real time the visible consequences of the unfolding climate change crisis.

Iceland is being significantly affected by climate change; for instance, mosquitoes appeared in the country for the first time last year. Before last Christmas in 2025, the temperature reached 19C in some areas of Iceland, according to the Icelandic Meteorological Service.

Iceland’s glaciers lose significant ice mass each year. For example, a study on the country’s glaciers revealed a loss of approximately 9.6 gigatons of ice annually from 1995 to 2019. Jökulsárlón Lake grows rapidly because the glacier shrinks. Since 1982, it has taken up 0.5 km2 per year.

A wonderful exhibition of natural ice sculptures gracing the lagoon

Climate change threatens the biodiversity of plants and animals, both on land and sea and disrupts the interaction among organisms. The temperature increase also affects the marine environment, which is the most important climate regulator. It causes the ice to melt, raising the sea level and affecting coastal areas with erosion.

As the professor of geography and environmental studies Jack D. Ives wrote, “a rich culture developed in Iceland when the landscape conditions were much more favourable for the support of a prosperous farming community.” Erosion of coastal areas by seawater renders the soil unsuitable for cultivation.

According to Professor Fragopoulou, the increase in sea temperature forces many organisms to migrate to northern latitudes or spread to other areas. The CO2 produced by human activities is the main factor in the temperature increase.

In 2020, the concentration of CO2 in the atmosphere was 48 per cent higher than its pre-industrial level, while natural causes are estimated to have contributed less than about 0.1C to the total temperature rise between 1890 and 2010. Scientific data show that the period 2011–2020 was the warmest decade ever recorded, underscoring the increasingly worrying effects of climate change.

The region is one of the most scenically dramatic and beautiful places in the world. Until very recently, it was one of extreme isolation, as the Ring Road was constructed in 1974. Now, the main road around Iceland, Route One, is getting closer and closer to the coastline and is increasingly threatened by coastal storms.

Climate change is unfolding right before our eyes. The broken iceberg I saw told us a story of loss. We should decide what kind of future we will create for the next generations, for our children… and theirs.

Lia Mageira

Activist

Lia is a Greek travel photographer and writer who graduated from the University of West Attica, Greece. Lia’s work has been published in more than 110 national and international newspapers, magazines and websites, both in print and online. Among them are the BBC, Lifo News, Efsyn Newspaper, Ethnos Newspaper, The Greek Reporter, Go World Travel, Passion Passport, Frsthand Magazine, and GoNomad. Lia has also appeared in literary journals recently as a cover artist including Typehouse Magazine, Absynthe Magazine, Rivanna Review Magazine, Zoetic Press, Mud Season Review, Josephine Quarterly Magazine, SunLight Press, Star82 Review Magazine and others. She was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2020-2021.

Time to Read: 5 Minutes

Activist: Lia Mageira

7 July 2026

Category:
Burning Issues

An evening of culture opens a door into a refined world, set apart from the rest of Cairo | Photo: Michael Starkie, Unsplash

Finding a Second Self in Zamalek, Cairo

The evening begins at the Cairo Opera House, under the warm amber glow of the grand hall. Inside, the polished floors and deep red carpets slow my movements instinctively, as if the place insists I leave my usual self at the door and slip into a more refined version.

I had come to Zamalek and the Opera House precisely for that version of myself.

Inside, different nights feature different performances; ballet, orchestras, and visiting ensembles move through the same hall under the same amber light.

That evening, the hall filled with the delicate, unfamiliar sounds of a Chinese musical ensemble welcoming the spring. The strings rose softly through the theatre, a performance foreign to both my ears and eyes, yet strangely intimate. Sitting there in a dark suit among diplomats, elderly couples, and carefully dressed guests against velvet seats, I felt suspended outside ordinary Cairo time.

When the performance ended, and I stepped back into the leafy streets of Zamalek, the feeling followed me. The island carried its usual illusion of distance from the rest of Cairo: quiet embassies behind iron gates, old balconies glowing under yellow streetlights, classic cars from 1940s movies, remnants of another era still surviving in the architecture.

For a moment, it became easy to believe the nickname “Paris of the East.”

Cairo — The hall filled with the delicate sounds of a Chinese musical ensemble welcoming the spring | Photo: Adam T.

A wrong turn led me toward the back entrance of one of Zamalek’s grand Nile-side hotels. A few locals informed me that it was a dead end, only a private car entrance for the hotel, and pointed me back toward the main street. I meant to leave, but before I did, the lobby pulled my attention inward.

Perhaps it was the suit I wore after attending the opera, or the strange confidence that followed an evening spent pretending to belong to a more refined world, but no one stopped me as I walked inside.

The city disappeared somewhere between the valet standing by the entrance and the Nile-facing terrace.

The valet ushered guests in with a slight bow. The concierge inside spoke in a lowered voice to visitors, shifting easily between Arabic, English, and Italian. In the breezy air, the faint scent of jasmine, carried from the Nile beside the terrace, gently drifted. Along the waterfront, people sat in conversation while the river moved almost soundlessly through the dark.

Inside the hotel lobby, time behaved differently. What could not have been more than a five-minute stroll around the space stretched itself into something slower and suspended. Without noticing it immediately, my stride, my posture, even the way I met someone’s eyes – all of it seemed to change on its own.

The magic of Zamalek after midnight is that it allows you to borrow another life | Photo: Adam T.

For a few minutes beneath the chandeliers, still carrying the atmosphere of the opera house, I no longer felt like someone wandering through Cairo at night. I felt composed, expected, almost rehearsed into existence by the setting itself.

That is the magic of Zamalek after midnight. It allows you to briefly borrow another life.

The spell breaks the moment I step back onto the pavement, where the frantic pulse of Cairo at night rushes back in.

Walking along the Corniche on the Nile, the water stays unusually still and dark. Above it, the night boats are full of light and movement; music spilling across decks, people boarding mid-conversation, dancing, singing, as if the river were a stage that never closes.

The contrast holds for a while but does not last.

Aboard the felucca, first we pass the riverboats – then in front of us, there is only the slow widening of dark water | Photo: Adam T.

At the river’s edge, I step onto a felucca just after midnight. The world slows again; this time, the magic returns. The boat pushes away from the shore almost without sound, and the city begins to thin behind us. From the water, Zamalek becomes a line of dim lights and blurry movements.

Along the banks, abandoned yachts and wooden boats lie submerged or beached for years, their frames darkened by time. They feel like markers of decay left behind by time itself. They sit there, holding the memory of movement, but going nowhere.

The wind moves lightly across the deck. The rope creaks when it tightens. The water ripples in slow and steady pulses against the wood. No one on board speaks for a long stretch of time, and for a while, there was nothing to become.

Behind us, Cairo continues without pause. In front of us, there is only the slow widening of dark water.

Adam T

Storyteller

Adam writes across genres such as narrative nonfiction, children’s stories, and personal essays, among many others. His work has appeared online and in print. Having used six languages throughout his life, he is drawn to forgotten histories, cultural oddities, and the small details that shift how we see the familiar. You can find him on Substack: @adamwryter.

Time to Read: 3 Minutes

Storyteller: Adam T

1 July 2026

Category:
Local Stories - In This Moment

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Riza Annisa Anggraeni

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S. Rupsha Mitra

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Nina Fragopoulou, Professor of Marine Biology

Lia Mageira

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Adam T

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