SouthEast Asia
What are their names?
What Are Their Names? is a portrait series created in Southeast Asia, capturing fleeting encounters with children and adults living in destinations shaped by mass tourism.
 Each image isolates a human presence within a landscape often consumed by visitors, shifting the focus from the spectacle to the individual. The post-editing process was guided by the same intention:
to highlight what needed to be seen, drawing the viewer’s eye toward the person or detail that carries the emotional weight of the image.
The portraits are accompanied by unanswered questions: 

Who are they? 
What is their story? 
How does tourism intersect with their daily lives? 

These questions encourage the viewers to pause and consider the complexity of the moment, the invisible labour, cultural traditions, or personal circumstances that exist beyond the frame.
Rather than offering a definitive narrative, the project invites empathy and curiosity. It asks us to look past the surface of a tourist destination and acknowledge the dignity, mystery, and individuality of those who live there.

In a world where places are often reduced to attractions, What Are Their Names? is a reminder that every place is made up of people: each with a life as intricate and significant as our own.

Between a humanistic approach and a phenomenologically informed perspective, this project encourages reflection on the lives behind the landscapes, reminding us that every person carries a story worth noticing.
As I entered Bayon Temple, I came across Three Little Boys. They were running around, having fun, being kids. I glanced in their direction and saw a religious ceremony happening across the street. How interesting, I knew I was visiting temples, but little did I know that these temples, or their surroundings, still had a religious use. I assumed that these kids were waiting for their parents, too young to enjoy a religious ritual, preferring instead to play around with their friends. I wondered where the true privileges were: me, able to travel the world and visit some of its wonders, or the kids who knew this temple by heart and ran around on what seemed to be a usual Monday. Do the kids know on what grounds they are running? Where they are stepping? Did their parents teach them the importance of Angkor, the meaning of these temples? The faces looking out to the four cardinal points, watching over them like guardian angels. Is this why their parents are comfortable leaving them here? Or are the kids simply escaping what seems to them a boring religious ceremony? I wish I had asked them. But would they have answered if I had? We don't speak the same language. I wasn't able to ask them: What are your names ?
As I entered Bayon Temple, I came across Three Little Boys. They were running around, having fun, being kids. I glanced in their direction and saw a religious ceremony happening across the street. How interesting, I knew I was visiting temples, but little did I know that these temples, or their surroundings, still had a religious use. I assumed that these kids were waiting for their parents, too young to enjoy a religious ritual, preferring instead to play around with their friends. I wondered where the true privileges were: me, able to travel the world and visit some of its wonders, or the kids who knew this temple by heart and ran around on what seemed to be a usual Monday. Do the kids know on what grounds they are running? Where they are stepping? Did their parents teach them the importance of Angkor, the meaning of these temples? The faces looking out to the four cardinal points, watching over them like guardian angels. Is this why their parents are comfortable leaving them here? Or are the kids simply escaping what seems to them a boring religious ceremony? I wish I had asked them. But would they have answered if I had? We don't speak the same language. I wasn't able to ask them: What are your names ?
Continuing my visit, like many tourists that day, like every day. I came across a Little Boy, almost a baby, moving alone through the Bayon Temple, this multi-faceted 12th-century monument. Around him, tourists shuffled in and out of doorways, cameras clicking, voices echoing against what remains of the walls. His colourful silhouette contrasted the monotony of the surroundings. He moved slowly, not rushing, as if the crowd didn’t bother him. I kept wondering if someone was watching over him. I imagined who might be waiting for him, where he belonged? Is he safe, alone, at such a young age? Has he walked these paths before?Is someone waiting for him at the end of this corridor? Has he been told stories about this place or is it just a playground to him? Does he understand the history written in these stones? If I spoke to him, would he speak back? Would he tell me his name? Then… What is his name?
Continuing my visit, like many tourists that day, like every day. I came across a Little Boy, almost a baby, moving alone through the Bayon Temple, this multi-faceted 12th-century monument. Around him, tourists shuffled in and out of doorways, cameras clicking, voices echoing against what remains of the walls. His colourful silhouette contrasted the monotony of the surroundings. He moved slowly, not rushing, as if the crowd didn’t bother him. I kept wondering if someone was watching over him. I imagined who might be waiting for him, where he belonged? Is he safe, alone, at such a young age? Has he walked these paths before?Is someone waiting for him at the end of this corridor? Has he been told stories about this place or is it just a playground to him? Does he understand the history written in these stones? If I spoke to him, would he speak back? Would he tell me his name? Then… What is his name?
These Two Little Boys, from the earlier trio. One was taller, the other smaller, I assumed the tallest one was the older brother. They were walking around, fitting the frame so perfectly. They seemed to be going somewhere, but where? Are they also waiting for their parents? Are they just playing around? Do they come here every day? Is this usual for them, a recurring scene, playing in a temple that draws millions of visitors each year? Are they meant to be here? Have they grown up with the sound of tourists’ footsteps and camera shutters? Are they even brothers or just friends? Do they notice us, or are we just passing shapes to them? And if we stopped and spoke, what would they tell us? Their names? Then... What are their names?
These Two Little Boys, from the earlier trio. One was taller, the other smaller, I assumed the tallest one was the older brother. They were walking around, fitting the frame so perfectly. They seemed to be going somewhere, but where? Are they also waiting for their parents? Are they just playing around? Do they come here every day? Is this usual for them, a recurring scene, playing in a temple that draws millions of visitors each year? Are they meant to be here? Have they grown up with the sound of tourists’ footsteps and camera shutters? Are they even brothers or just friends? Do they notice us, or are we just passing shapes to them? And if we stopped and spoke, what would they tell us? Their names? Then... What are their names?
A Little Girl stands in Bayon Temple, Cambodia, her gaze unsettled, searching. Kids drifted in and out of sight, running through the arches, the shadows, and the light. Across the street, the religious ceremony was still taking place. Was it following Visak Bochea, an important Buddhist holiday that had taken place the day before? I assumed that these kids were playfully waiting for their parents. But she wasn’t running. She stayed still, looking lost, as if she was waiting. For what, or for whom, I cannot know. What is she waiting for? Who is she waiting for, her parents? Are they attending the ceremony across the street or working as tour guides? Is she waiting for them or waiting for someone else? Is she even waiting at all? Is she alone? Lost? Does she have siblings? Are they nearby? Should we let someone know she is here? How can we contact them? How would we call them? What are their names? What is her name?
A Little Girl stands in Bayon Temple, Cambodia, her gaze unsettled, searching. Kids drifted in and out of sight, running through the arches, the shadows, and the light. Across the street, the religious ceremony was still taking place. Was it following Visak Bochea, an important Buddhist holiday that had taken place the day before? I assumed that these kids were playfully waiting for their parents. But she wasn’t running. She stayed still, looking lost, as if she was waiting. For what, or for whom, I cannot know. What is she waiting for? Who is she waiting for, her parents? Are they attending the ceremony across the street or working as tour guides? Is she waiting for them or waiting for someone else? Is she even waiting at all? Is she alone? Lost? Does she have siblings? Are they nearby? Should we let someone know she is here? How can we contact them? How would we call them? What are their names? What is her name?
Vietnam. This astonishing destination. It is very famous to us, GenZ, backpackers, kids of the world. Among its top activities is the Ha Giang Loop, a stunning four-day journey through the mountains in northern Vietnam. Some people go for the thrill, some for the views, some for both. I went to explore the culture, to capture it. I knew the views would be incredible but I knew the culture would be more than that. With my camera in hand, that I was lucky to get on a deal, I found myself wondering how we reconcile exploring lives shaped by hardships with the comforts that make it possible. This Little Girl sitting on the edge of a mountain on the Ma Pi Leng Pass, in the Ha Giang province. She was sitting here, eating her lollipop while a trail of gen z kids were going back on their motorbikes, that they had paid a small fortune to be on. The edge of the mountain is rather scary. Is she safe sitting like this? Is this a real danger or only a danger to me, unaware of what life in the mountains is like? Does she even live in the mountains or only come here during the day? Where is the nearest village she could live in? Where are her parents? Are they watching over this young Little Girl? How old is she? What is her name?
Vietnam. This astonishing destination. It is very famous to us, GenZ, backpackers, kids of the world. Among its top activities is the Ha Giang Loop, a stunning four-day journey through the mountains in northern Vietnam. Some people go for the thrill, some for the views, some for both. I went to explore the culture, to capture it. I knew the views would be incredible but I knew the culture would be more than that. With my camera in hand, that I was lucky to get on a deal, I found myself wondering how we reconcile exploring lives shaped by hardships with the comforts that make it possible. This Little Girl sitting on the edge of a mountain on the Ma Pi Leng Pass, in the Ha Giang province. She was sitting here, eating her lollipop while a trail of gen z kids were going back on their motorbikes, that they had paid a small fortune to be on. The edge of the mountain is rather scary. Is she safe sitting like this? Is this a real danger or only a danger to me, unaware of what life in the mountains is like? Does she even live in the mountains or only come here during the day? Where is the nearest village she could live in? Where are her parents? Are they watching over this young Little Girl? How old is she? What is her name?
A Little Girl enjoying her lunch in front of a Mountain View in the Ha Giang province. What is she eating? Is it good? Her parents are around, trying to earn a living from tourists. Yet warnings are whispered among visitors: don’t buy flowers from these little girls, don’t let them braid your hair, sometimes they’re kept out of school because tourists are willing to pay for their labour. Do they make enough? Are they keeping her from school to earn more? Or is she simply too young to go to school? Do they come here every day? She is so small. How old is she? What do they call her? What is her name?
A Little Girl enjoying her lunch in front of a Mountain View in the Ha Giang province. What is she eating? Is it good? Her parents are around, trying to earn a living from tourists. Yet warnings are whispered among visitors: don’t buy flowers from these little girls, don’t let them braid your hair, sometimes they’re kept out of school because tourists are willing to pay for their labour. Do they make enough? Are they keeping her from school to earn more? Or is she simply too young to go to school? Do they come here every day? She is so small. How old is she? What do they call her? What is her name?
A working woman tends her crops in Ha Giang province. As tourists pass by, she continues her daily work, cultivating the land. What grows here? Will it feed her family, or provide a living through sale? Does she have children waiting at home? How many, and how old are they? And she herself, how old is she, and what is her name?
A working woman tends her crops in Ha Giang province. As tourists pass by, she continues her daily work, cultivating the land. What grows here? Will it feed her family, or provide a living through sale? Does she have children waiting at home? How many, and how old are they? And she herself, how old is she, and what is her name?
A couple rides their motorbike through Ha Giang province, carefully making a path for themselves as tourists move in the same direction. Where are they going? Are they on their way to work, or enjoying a quiet date? How long have they been together, or are they even a couple? Will people step aside to let them pass? Is the nearest village waiting at the end of the path? How old is the bike? Are they married? And most of all, what are their names?
A couple rides their motorbike through Ha Giang province, carefully making a path for themselves as tourists move in the same direction. Where are they going? Are they on their way to work, or enjoying a quiet date? How long have they been together, or are they even a couple? Will people step aside to let them pass? Is the nearest village waiting at the end of the path? How old is the bike? Are they married? And most of all, what are their names?
Cambodia. Chong Kneas Floating Village. Watching families in their home from a little boat on their river. I felt as if I was betraying my own morals. I wondered where the line was between intruder and visitor, between voyeur and photographer. I was there sitting on a barque covering myself from the heat with an umbrella, while they remained in their stilted homes above the water, waiting to see if dinner will be served. It felt wrong watching them, I saw this Little Boy looking confused, I don't know what he's waiting for. Is he waiting for his parents to return, or for his next meal? Does he eat enough at night? Does he notice me, sitting in a boat, photographing silently from the water? When does he go to school, or does he even go at all, with the nearest village a long way off? What grade is he in? How old is he? And what is his name?
Cambodia. Chong Kneas Floating Village. Watching families in their home from a little boat on their river. I felt as if I was betraying my own morals. I wondered where the line was between intruder and visitor, between voyeur and photographer. I was there sitting on a barque covering myself from the heat with an umbrella, while they remained in their stilted homes above the water, waiting to see if dinner will be served. It felt wrong watching them, I saw this Little Boy looking confused, I don't know what he's waiting for. Is he waiting for his parents to return, or for his next meal? Does he eat enough at night? Does he notice me, sitting in a boat, photographing silently from the water? When does he go to school, or does he even go at all, with the nearest village a long way off? What grade is he in? How old is he? And what is his name?
A Little Boy holds his balloon, watching us from his window. He looks happy, the gaze of an innocent child peering down to see three tourists looking back at him, and the other locals. Our guide, a resident of the village, had found a way to make backpackers pay to visit, but what were the rest of the residents doing? What is this Little Boy's life? Does he play with his balloon often? Does he go to the nearest school? What does he do all day in this village so far from the city? He looks so joyful, I wonder if the village gave him a nickname or actually, what is name is?
A Little Boy holds his balloon, watching us from his window. He looks happy, the gaze of an innocent child peering down to see three tourists looking back at him, and the other locals. Our guide, a resident of the village, had found a way to make backpackers pay to visit, but what were the rest of the residents doing? What is this Little Boy's life? Does he play with his balloon often? Does he go to the nearest school? What does he do all day in this village so far from the city? He looks so joyful, I wonder if the village gave him a nickname or actually, what is name is?
A little boy bathing in a soup dish in a fisher's village in Cambodia. His playing pool is where his parents fish their dinner. Is he playing in the soup dish or cooling down? Is he aware that his playing pool is the village’s main source of revenue? Does he know that the river is supposed to be blue? That soil turns the river brown? That dirt is meant to stay on the ground? Has he always been doing this? How old is he now? What is his name?
A little boy bathing in a soup dish in a fisher's village in Cambodia. His playing pool is where his parents fish their dinner. Is he playing in the soup dish or cooling down? Is he aware that his playing pool is the village’s main source of revenue? Does he know that the river is supposed to be blue? That soil turns the river brown? That dirt is meant to stay on the ground? Has he always been doing this? How old is he now? What is his name?
A family eating an orange watching us, watching them. I stopped taking photos for most of the journey because it felt wrong. Then, I knew where the privilege laid. I was able to go back to my hostel afterwards, buy myself a great lunch that doesn’t come from a brown lake, I would be able to jump in the pool and perhaps never think about these people again. What do they do? What do their days look like? I was too ashamed to ask. Were they smiling at me just like that innocent kid holding his balloon or as human beings happy to see that their village is of interest ? Some questions remain unanswered, although I saw the difference in the naive stare of a kid and the painful stare of an adult. Are they happy that the village is of interest or are they annoyed that we are watching them like animals in cage? Would they want to get to know us? Tell us their names? What are their names?
A family eating an orange watching us, watching them. I stopped taking photos for most of the journey because it felt wrong. Then, I knew where the privilege laid. I was able to go back to my hostel afterwards, buy myself a great lunch that doesn’t come from a brown lake, I would be able to jump in the pool and perhaps never think about these people again. What do they do? What do their days look like? I was too ashamed to ask. Were they smiling at me just like that innocent kid holding his balloon or as human beings happy to see that their village is of interest ? Some questions remain unanswered, although I saw the difference in the naive stare of a kid and the painful stare of an adult. Are they happy that the village is of interest or are they annoyed that we are watching them like animals in cage? Would they want to get to know us? Tell us their names? What are their names?
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