The colours of everything
Before meeting Tra, we thought this would be a feature about a girl who creates wonderful drawings of Oslo. As soon as she started to tell her story, we realised it would be about so much more. Like the beauty of family and the incredible things people sometimes do for each other. And how important pen and paper can be for a child on the run.
It's a rainy day in November. There's still no snow on the ground, and the days are quite dark. The espresso machine at Stockfleths coffee bar is busy, there's a frequent sound of cups hitting the counter. Outside the window, people try to outrun the rain. Cars pass by.
Tra is in her own world, looking up from her diary from time to time.
– I have to get this right before dark. It will all be gone by four.
She works as an emergency coordinator for the fire department, drawing is her getaway. She doesn't write journals, she draws them.
She stares out the window towards Schou's Square, deeply focused. Her pen flies across the paper, leaving behind beautiful buildings and trees. It's called urban sketching. With a fountain pen and watercolours, she wanders around in the city and draws it. After seeing her drawings of Oslo on Instagram, we knew we had to meet her.
– It's hard to draw outside during winter, my watercolours freeze. I'm happy we're inside, and we got the window seats! We're lucky today.
She sketches the world outside the window. We ask her how she learned to draw so beautifully.
– I met a girl in a refugee camp in Hong Kong when I was six years old. She drew all the time. She was only one year older than me, but she was so good! She drew women, not as stick people, but just as they were.
She speaks eagerly with a soothing voice, almost sketching the story in the air between us.
– To me it was a revelation, using the pen for something else than writing letters. I had never seen it before. I started to imitate her. It became an obsession.
Drawing filled her life in the refugee camp with colours and magic. Wherever she went, she had a pencil in her hand.
– I drew on walls, tabletops. Any white surface, really. I felt like I had discovered something truly magnificent, and she was the one who showed it to me.
Living in a refugee camp wasn't optimal, but it felt safe.
Safer than Vietnam, where she came from.
– Dad had polio, so he was paralyzed. There was no room for you in Vietnam if you had a handicap.
Even so, Tra's dad was lucky. His parents gave him an opportunity: money to buy books so he could open his own bookshop.
– Books were his sanctuary. But in this communist society, free thoughts weren't accepted. Being inspired by western culture and mindsets was illegal. The police came by regularly and teared down his bookshop.
She remembers these scenes. She grew up with them.
– Even those whith a good education had to bribe their way into a job. Given Dad's situation, we felt that we had to leave.
It was a dramatic escape. First, they had to manoeuvre down to the sea without being seen by the guards at the border. Tra escaped with her sister, both parents and her aunt and cousin.
– Mom was in her mid-twenties. And my dad depended on someone to carry him, preferably everywhere.
They bought what she calls an escape package, they had no idea who they were escaping with. They were only told where to meet up, and to pretend to go on a holiday with whomever else was there.
She puts her pencil down and tells us about a seventeen-year-old boy who made their escape possible.
– I call him my brother, but he's not. He had his fourteen-year-old baby brother with him. They were travelling alone. They were the ones we were going to escape with.
She talks about how these two brothers steered the boat, without compass, without maps. And how the seventeen-year-old took it upon himself to take care of her father.
– He did it on his own initiative. He carried dad and helped him to the bathroom, he had him on his back, getting him from the beach to the boat.
She smiles sadly.
– We were at sea for 45 days. We stranded, we were starving, we were shot at.
She looks out the window in front of us.
– I had no idea how young he was. Dad has reminded us, frequently.
She smiles.
– Remember, Dad said. Those two young boys steered the boat and got us ashore.
It's getting dark outside.
She opens her watercolour set.
They spent one and a half years in refugee camps. First in Hong Kong, then in a transit in the Philippines. She says they were lucky they didn't need to stay longer.
– It was thanks to dad. His handicap made us a priority as quota refugees.
Then they were asked: Do you want to come to Norway? A country far away that they had never heard of.
– We were told that Norway was a very clean country, with polar bears and tall buildings. But very cold. And we thought polar bears were amazing! We had to go there.
They accepted the invitation and arrived at Bærums Verk the winter of 1989. An area that was completely new back then, with only a few completed apartment buildings and townhouses. Tra was eight years old.
– There were no polar bears there, I felt a bit sad about that.
She laughs.
– But we were together. We had moved right into an IKEA furnished apartment. It was sterile, but so beautiful. We had never owned furniture like that before.
Her aunt and cousin moved into the apartment above them.
She lights up as the tells about their journey of discovery in the kitchen drawers and cupboards.
– We found many strange things in there! Like a cheese slicer! What was that? And a garlic press! And macaroni!
She shakes her head.
– We didn't know what any of these things were, but we knew it was food and tools that we would eventually discover the meaning of. Everything was exciting!
It was a big adjustment coming from a country where they had people around them all the time, always surrounded by noise, to Norway.
– It was so spacious here, and calm. It was really quiet.
Her voice softens.
– Outside it was snowing. We all sat together in a bed, looking out at the snow, at the neighbour. Then it started to get dark.
She looks out the window.
– Everything was new, and we had new opportunities. But at the same time we had a longing for home, but also a feeling of safety because we had our parents with us. It is a very beautiful memory to me.
She describes it so well, like a painting of her recollection.
– We had travelled so long and at such a high risk for this. And now we were sitting there, all of us, quietly observing it.
Thirty years have passed since their escape. Drawing has been a faithful friend ever since that day in the refugee camp. She looks up at the buildings outside the window and puts pen to paper.
– I enjoy every moment when I draw, it's like stopping time. I use all my senses and collect them in this product. No one can disturb me here.
She describes it as emotional yoga. Her own little world.
The cafe is starting to fill up. The local tram lights up the dark street. Tra attempts to outrun time. Gorgeous fountain pens lay next to her.
– This is an obsession too. Drawing equipment. It's like loving shoes and handbags. I like that too, of course.
We laugh.
She shows us a black pen with letters engraved in gold.
– This is my favourite fountain pen. It's so beautiful. They're jewels you see. I carry jewels.
She shows us how to use it, she writes at the bottom of the drawing.
– What's the name of this street again? Thorvald Meyer's Street? Schou's Square?
We agree on Thorvald Meyers Street. She writes it down.
– See? You get variations in the lines when you use pressure. You get thick lines. And when you lift, they become thinner.
The drawing is close to finished.
We ask her if she knows where the seventeen-year-old boy is today.
She nods.
– Dad died this year. I didn't know all his friends. I posted a message on his Facebook profile, that we were having a memorial for him, that we were going to celebrate his life.
Not long afterwards she receives a friend request from a stranger.
– It was the seventeen-year-old. Dad must have contacted him recently, without me knowing about it. He said, you don't remember me, I get that, but do you remember me carrying your dad on my back?
She smiles.
– He told me that he lives in Canada. That after our 45 days together on the sea, he wants to let me know that he is doing fine. And he wants to keep in touch.
She smiley sadly.
– I talked to him on the phone this summer. Dad's death brought us together.
She colours the buildings around us.
– I started looking at my drawings in my heaviest grief after Dad died. Specially the drawings I had made when I was with him. I thought, this is why I do this. To relive these moments. No one can take them away from me.
She has 40 books with memories in her apartment. Fire safety is important.
– I depend on a sprinkler system. I don't want to hide my books in a fireproof safe, I need to see them. That makes me happy.
She looks at her drawing.
– When I look at my diaries, I feel rich.
This is what she does to preserve, this is how she photographs.
– I'm going to keep filling my books with memories. And I´m going to make new memories. That´s my motivation.
It's too dark outside to see the colours of everything, it's impossible to finish the drawing. We hug goodbye and walk different directions into the dark street. But a few days later, we receive this in our mailbox.
She has returned to the coffee shop to colour in the memory of our meeting.