This recap was published in the newsletter (aug-2026) of Kenniscentrum Papoeahuis.

Sound has the ability to tell stories that are not always visible. Driven by this idea, I travelled to West Papua for an artist-in-residence at Alyakha Art Centre, located at lake Sentani near Jayapura. This residency was made possible in part through a contribution from the Amarte Foundation. During this residency, I did not simply want to collect sounds, I wanted to listen to (and with) the people connected to these places: voices that do not always get the space to be heard. Over the course of five weeks, I worked with Papuan communities and artists around Jayapura, Sentani, Highlands, Arfak, and Biak.

To be honest, I felt a sense of shame when it was only through the documentary The Promise (which I highly recommend) that I truly came to understand the history of this region. But the film stayed with me; it planted a seed that made me certain I had to go there myself, hoping to pass that seed on to others through my own field of work.

Alyakha Art Centre, founded in 2019 by Irma Awoitauw and Markus Rumbino, is a truly remarkable collective. Working from the grassroots, they encourage young Papuans to explore their identity and cultural background through art. And with great success, renowned artist Dicky Takndare was their first student. Irma and Markus’s dream is for Alyakha to grow into a major hub for the development and archiving of Papuan cultural knowledge. By building an archive of fine art and music, they aim to strengthen the cultural identity while creating new economic opportunities for local artists in West Papua.

During my stay, it became clear how important their role is. For many young people in
the area, Markus and Irma are not only artists and mentors, but also family. When I
asked whether they wish to have children of their own, they laughed and replied,
“We currently already have enough around us”.

This strong sense of involvement was also noticeable throughout the residency.
Whenever we went into the field to make recordings, children and teens would always
join us. They were curious about the equipment and eager to become part of the
process. One of them was given my camera to film with, while another was handed
a microphone by Markus. They were open to everything and visibly excited to explore.
After recording, we would sit together around the table, listening to the sounds we
had captured at dawn while trying to identify different bird species. Once again, I
was reminded that a project is not only about the final piece, but about the process
itself: all the experiences and people who become part of the journey along the way.

One particularly meaningful experience took place during our overnight stay in the sacred forests around Lake Sentani. These places hold deep spiritual significance and, prior to the arrival of missionary groups, were active ritual sites. At the same time, these areas are increasingly affected by human activities such as illegal gold mining and logging. One of the children who accompanied us mentioned that he barely recognized the forest anymore. A large part of it had disappeared since his last visit.

During this trip, we set out to record the sound of the cendrawasih (bird-of-paradise), which hold immense cultural significance. Coming from my background, my instinct was to capture the “cleanest” recording possible, free from background noise. The others saw it differently. They emphasized that the sound of a plane flying over the forest was an integral part of today's reality. By listening from the same perspective, I was able to understand.

A week later, at five o’clock in the morning near a gold mine, we recorded how local wildlife responds to human presence and resource extraction. As the sun slowly rose, the sounds of machinery blended with the natural composition of the forest. It was a confronting experience: the transformation of the landscape does not happen in silence; it is literally audible.

I could already write an entire series of books about my experiences after a single month in West Papua. It is difficult to summarize a period filled with so many contrasts in just a few words. I experienced the overwhelming beauty of nature, alongside the warmth and immense sense of humor of the people I met. At the same time, I was constantly aware of control, uncertainty, and the tension of not always knowing who to fully trust.

The most confronting realization was that I can ultimately always return home. For the people I met and connected with, this is home, with all the challenges and uncertainties that come with it. This experience has not only changed how I work as an artist and researcher, but has made me far more conscious of the responsibility involved in telling stories that are not my own. It is an experience that will undoubtedly continue to shape my future.