Yik Siu Chan
The modern passport was first standardized by the League of Nations in 1920. One hundred years later, Anneli Skaar created Nansen's Pastport, an artist's book that takes the form of a passport but tells a cautionary tale of climate change and refugees. In this piece Skaar, a Norwegian American herself, explores the legendary life of Norwegian polar explorer and humanitarian Fridtjof Nansen. Nansen invented the Nansen passport, a passport for stateless and displaced people in post-Great War Europe. Skaar’s Pastport reinvents the Nansen passport–war refugees are now climate refugees, and the great war is no longer fought between countries, but by individuals hoping to salvage their planet. I was initially drawn to Nansen's Pastport out of my love for traveling. But as I traveled through its pages, I was made to envision the emergence of a global identity and a world without borders, where passports lose their significance and become period pieces or "pastports". The experience of Nansen's Pastport was for me ultimately an ambivalent one–it deepened my yearning for my home but urged me to become a citizen of the world.
The holder of Nansen's Pastport is Fridtjof Nansen. The first two pages of the Pastport tell his story as Arctic explorer and humanitarian. Nansen was the first person to traverse Greenland, and he spent years in the borderless regions of the Arctic, which influenced him as a humanitarian concerned with the stateless. As delegate for Norway in the League of Nations, Nansen advocated for human rights, and was appointed High Commissioner for Refugees in 1921. It was a turbulent decade of post-war reconstruction, while a great famine was sweeping through Russia. Millions of people were threatened with starvation and homelessness. Most of them lacked a documentary proof of identity, and as a result, were denied the right to seek refuge. Concerned by this, Nansen devised a document that became known as the Nansen passport, a form of identity for refugees that allowed them to cross borders legally (Fig. 1, World Digital Library). On the identification page of Skaar’s Pastport, Nansen's photo is split in half, the left half being his younger self as an explorer and the right half his older self as a humanitarian (Fig. 2, Special Collections, Wellesley College).
Fig. 1. A sample Nansen Passport issued by France, with renewal stamps. World Digital Library.
Fig. 2. Anneli Skaar, Nansen's Pastport, ca.2020. Special Collections, Wellesley College.
The form of the Pastport, one that emulates the look and feel of a modern passport, pulls us back to the present world. It is the same size as a standardized U.S. passport. It is dark blue with the words "Pastport" and "The United Status" printed in golden yellow. I found the play of words particularly ingenious: their resemblance to "Passport" and "The United States" tricked me to see it as a normal passport–a familiar object I am fond of. But after a second look, I discovered the letter that made all the difference. What is a united status, exactly? Why is this passport past?
I got my first clue from the difference in materials between the Pastport and the passport. The Pastport's dark blue cover is made of salmon leather from Northern Ireland. The straps of its case are made of the blaze orange nylon used in life jackets (Fig. 3, Special Collections, Wellesley College). The rough salmon scales and the smooth surface of the nylon straps contrast each other sharply. Through this juxtaposition, I was able to see the tides rising and falling on the Arctic Ocean, and hear the soft humming of the sea. It was reminiscent of the place that kindled Nansen's passion for human rights advocacy. But at the same time, the strikingly bright orange straps against the dark blue backdrop of salmon skin evoked an image of global warming, reminding me that the Arctic is now the epicenter of climate change.
Fig. 3. Anneli Skaar, Nansen's Pastport, ca.2020. Special Collections, Wellesley College.
Flipping through the pages of the Pastport, I found alarming scenes of melting ice, burning houses, and wandering refugees (Fig. 4, Special Collections, Wellesley College). Although these were scenes of chaos unknown, they struck me as weirdly familiar. I soon realized why–the scenes were composed with American banknotes. The eagles drowning in waves, the White Houses burning and sinking–they were all reformulations of the dollar bills that Americans use every day. Looking closely, you could even find traces of Washington, Lincoln, and other presidents. But instead of posing solemnly in front of the star-spangled banner, they are now drifting helplessly in a lifeboat amidst the roaring sea waves. I suddenly understood the meaning of "The United Status" on the cover page, which references a universal status of statelessness, regardless of where we are from.
Fig. 4. Anneli Skaar, Nansen's Pastport, ca.2020. Special Collections, Wellesley College.
Holding the thin, tiny Pastport, I shivered at the thought that I might lose my home. Growing up on the small island of Hong Kong, I never realized how emotionally connected I am to it until I moved to the United States. When I stroll around peaceful Lake Waban, I imagine myself there. I see myself walking at my fastest pace through the chaotic, claustrophobic streets of Hong Kong. I feel like a sardine again, trying to squeeze my way through the businesswomen, street vendors, and uniformed students. I hear the long, throaty bell of a harboring ferry reverberating around the glassy skyscrapers migled with the "hiss hiss" of the dim sum steamers and the "ding ding" of the historic trams. For years, I lived under Hong Kong's enclosed sky, against its colorful skyline, and in its ever-busy streets, without realizing that those streets also lived in me. I was surprised to have been brought back home by Nansen's Pastport, which was meant to help me conceive a borderless, globalized world. I used to think that I belonged to such a world, but after being away from home, I learned that the sense of geographical belongingness, and everything built upon it– collective memories, cultural heritage, social ties– are part of me.
I now look at the Pastport in awe. Its depiction of a catastrophic world is not merely a warning, but also a call to action. By inviting me to travel and "revisit" my hometown in my mind, it makes me face the possibility that one day I might not be able to see it again. One day, when I look up, I might only see a vast, white silence. I might have been drifting at sea for days, starved and exhausted, but there is no destination where soup-filled dumplings and freshly baked egg waffles await me. I am lost. But then, I find some solace on top of each page of the Pastport, which has a quote taken verbatim from Nansen's Nobel Prize lecture in 1922. Although written a century ago, these individual excerpts form a powerful and contemporary narrative, and are as valid today as they were in 1922. On one page, it reads: "The world can no longer rely on panaceas, paper, and words. These must be replaced by action, by persevering and laborious effort, which must begin at the bottom in order to build up the world again." (Fig. 5, Special Collections, Wellesley College). Nansen's words deliver a sort of silver lining – they remind me of his efforts supporting refugees in the darkest times, and reassure me that I still have time to make a change.
Fig. 5. Anneli Skaar, Nansen's Pastport, ca.2020. Special Collections, Wellesley College.
Yik Siu is sophomore at Wellesley College pursuing a double major in Economics and Philosophy. She grew up in Hong Kong and attended the United World College, where she made friends from across the globe and deepened her intercultural awareness. Her interest lies in the intersection of business, technology, and social impact. Before Wellesley, she took a gap year to intern at TikTok, work at EdTech startups, and travel in China. In her spare time, she enjoys reading sci-fi, re-watching Friends, photography, hiking, and traveling. You can connect with her on Instagram at @yiksiux, or email her at chanyiksiu@gmail.com.