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The human being is the purpose, the body a burden, gender a luxury.

The fates of these women are one argument why.

The individual voices and stories refract each other, blend thematically; sometimes, the ego dissipates and the testimonies mesh into a pulsating collective confession.

To be a soldier in the Second World War, however, is at such fundamental odds with gender stereotypes, defies social expectations to such a degree, so radically rewrites gender boundaries, that this identity was left fatally wounded upon return.

In war, womanliness needed to be concealed, it was confusing and unnecessary; after the war, it was in constant need of proof that, despite her sinful fall during the war, the soldier could be a good, real, authentic woman.

After all, it is their womanhood that is at stake.

And so these women never came to terms with their trauma and carried their memories as a disgusting boil, as a shameful sign.

In the end, a sort of consensus was reached in society: let us pretend as though nothing happened.

Human movement is the trajectory of a shot.

Before the war, this feminine identity was innocent, certain, unambiguous: I am a woman, all that I do, feel and want, I act out, experience and gain as a woman.

Each of them is a seagull — they are seagulls all together.