Inari Kiuru
Kotimaa / Homeland (a garland for a child)

During the Second World War, 410,000 Finnish people, among them my great grandmother Olga Kiuru and her two sons, had to abandon their homes when a part of South Eastern Finland was invaded by Russia. The final and permanent evacuation happened in June 1944.

In recorded family interviews, Olga tells of frightened crowds fleeing on foot; mothers carrying crying babies; horse-drawn carts loaded with bundles of quickly grabbed possessions, with cattle in tow. Worried faces, broken shoes, soldiers. Women and children hid in the forest when enemy planes approached. People stopped to feed their animals when they found a sheltered meadow, anxiously listening for alarming sounds, soon hurrying onwards.

When the Karelian refugees reached the safe parts of Finland and began to resettle, they weren’t always warmly welcomed. People were worn out by the war, full of worries of their own, reluctant to share what little they had. Many were suspicious of traumatized newcomers who arrived empty handed, and whose accents and customs were different from their own.

In time, however, while a deep multi-generational longing for the lost areas remains, the Karelian heritage has become an inseparable part of Finland, forever enriching our culture and traditions.

A flower garland is an old Finnish summer ornament: a gift, a celebratory crown, an ancient sacrifice. For many Finns, these small and delicate blossoms are the heart of our seasonal celebrations. Native flowers grow freely, and bloomed where our refugees hid and rested.

An offspring of refugees and a migrant myself, through this work I’d like to share a part of my own past in a new land, and express a willingness to learn about others. Most of all, the forms reminiscent of wildflowers in my garland are a reminder of our diversity and shared humanity, of hope and resiliency – and a prayer for a home that could belong to everyone.