As I walked through the streets of Breda, I found myself in a working-class neighborhood that reminded me of my own. Everything felt familiar, yet this time the streets were empty. No people, no children playing, no chalk drawings left behind on the pavement. A sense of loss, of mourning, settled over me. As I kept walking, I noticed traces of celebration: nearly one in four houses still had their flags and balloons hanging, as if forgotten after a party.

The objects left behind had faded and worn with time. They carried a sense of tragedy, and suddenly I realized that I hadn’t celebrated like this in a long time. The familiar traditions I grew up with seemed lost to me. Yet, strangely, these objects also gave me a sense of comfort, which made my curious.

How do we celebrate ourselves, a moment, or perhaps all of us together?