As the first light of dawn filters through the Andean mist, the highlands between Venezuela and Colombia awaken to footsteps that never seem to rest. While Bogotá stirs with the pulse of city life, in the hills and winding trails far from the urban sprawl, a quieter, more haunting procession endures. These are the paths of Venezuelan mothers and families, migrants whose journeys are measured not in miles but in memories and moments of survival. Their stories often go untold, lost in statistics and political jargon, reduced to faceless migration figures. But within their silence, there is a world aching to be heard.
"Undaily Bread," a poignant visual odyssey created by Colombian art director William Niño and American photographer Gregg Segal, breaks through that silence with urgent intimacy. It is a collaboration that doesn’t just document migration but listens to it, feels it, and translates it into haunting visual poetry. The project is a response to an uncomfortable truth: the global refugee crisis has too often been narrated from afar, with emotional distance. Niño and Segal offer a different lens, one that begins in the cold moors of Colombia and stretches across emotional and cultural terrains that are rarely explored.
The initial inspiration for this series was seeded in the disparity between lived experience and reported data. Segal’s prior work, most notably the globally acclaimed "Daily Bread," had captured children around the world lying next to a week’s worth of food, offering cultural insight into global nutrition and domestic ritual. That project celebrated abundance and routine. "Undaily Bread," however, is its stark counterpoint. Here, five displaced families are portrayed amid the sparse belongings and food items they carried while crossing the treacherous mountain trails into Colombia. Their bodies rest against the cold ground, wrapped in layers of exhaustion and hope. Around them, the tokens of their former lives speak volumes a cracked toy dinosaur, a bent spoon, a scarf passed down by generations, each one telling its own story of love, survival, and loss.
The mothers who walk these moors do so with their entire pasts balanced on their backs. One of them, Anaïs, a former florist from Barquisimeto, clutches her child swaddled in a cartoon-printed sheet. Her daughter’s eyes, wide and ancient despite her youth, blink through dust that the wind never stops carrying. Anaïs now carries marigolds only in memory, their fragrance forever tangled with the sounds of her child’s first cries beneath a sky that belongs to another country. Her journey, like so many others, is not just physical. It is spiritual, emotional, and generational.
These stories, encased within muddy footsteps and whispered lullabies, are what "Undaily Bread" seeks to preserve. The moors, often perceived as empty, become saturated with narrative. With each step, these families leave behind more than footprints; they shed fragments of their former selves, pieces of identity, dignity, and belonging, only to carry them again in new shapes and forms.
Diet as a Mirror: What Refugees Eat, and What It Reveals
At the heart of "Undaily Bread" is a simple yet powerful motif: the food consumed during the journey. While Segal’s previous series invited viewers to reflect on cultural diversity through weekly diets, this new body of work uses food to illuminate resilience. These meals are not planned; they are scavenged, improvised, and infused with ingenuity. They are evidence of survival rather than ceremony.
In the visual compositions, families lie surrounded by their limited food supplies, all carefully documented and arranged. These are not meals in the traditional sense. They are fragments of nourishment: half-eaten arepas, tin cans of beans, a shard of sugarcane bartered for a ring, and cups of rice cooked over roadside fires. One portrait shows a family sharing a single boiled egg, cut into slivers and distributed evenly between mother and children. Another image shows a boy with chapped lips holding a banana browned by the cold. The symbolism is hard to miss in these sparse portions lie not just sustenance, but sacrament.
Food becomes more than a physiological need. It becomes a metaphor, currency, and memory. It is an offering from strangers, a last-minute decision at the border, a gesture of maternal love during a time when everything else seems stripped away. Some meals were stretched across days, with a mother forgoing her share so her infant might sleep without hunger. Others were consumed cold, wet from rain, eaten in silence beneath makeshift tarps tied with twine and prayer.
Segal’s lens captures these moments not with voyeurism but reverence. His compositions are meticulously crafted, with light and texture enhancing the gravitas of each scene. The food sits like relics in an altar, reminding viewers that diet, in this context, is about far more than nutrition. It is about memory, longing, and improvisation born out of desperation.
Niño refers to the project as a form of "visual cartography," mapping not geography but human experience. He recounts evenings spent alongside these women in temporary shelters, conversing over lukewarm broth, listening as they pieced together stories that had been silenced by necessity. His approach, always collaborative, ensured that each portrait was created with deep mutual understanding and trust. "We’re not here to extract suffering," he explains. "We’re here to listen, to co-create a narrative that honors rather than exploits."
This care extends to the visual style of the project. Unlike traditional photojournalism, which often seeks the shocking or sensational, "Undaily Bread" evokes empathy through subtlety. The subdued color palette, the deliberate placement of objects, and the gentle gaze of the subjects all come together to form a kind of elegy, a visual eulogy for what was lost and what might still be salvaged.
Walking Toward Tomorrow: Hope, Dignity, and the Road Ahead
The journey across the moors is not merely about escaping hardship. It is an act of hope in its rawest form. For many of these families, the decision to leave Venezuela was made not for personal gain but for the promise of safety, a sliver of opportunity, or simply the chance to survive. Their path through the Colombian highlands is often walked with paper-soled sandals, plastic bags wrapped around feet, and children swaddled in clothing too thin for the altitude. Yet they walk, with eyes forward and hearts tethered to memories of home.
"Undaily Bread" does not dwell only in sorrow. It invites the viewer to see resilience as a form of beauty. In one striking image, a girl lies beside a broken radio, the kind her family once used to listen to salsa music back in Maracaibo. Though the batteries are long gone, her mother kept it during the journey, hoping to one day hear music again, even if just for a moment. This interplay of past and present, of despair and hope, defines the emotional rhythm of the series.
This first chapter, titled "Across the Moors," lays the foundation for a broader exploration. Niño and Segal intend to expand the project to include narratives from urban shelters, refugee encampments, and host communities adapting to the influx of migrants. Their ambition is not just to inform but to shift perception, to replace detachment with recognition.
What makes this project especially resonant is its insistence on specificity. Every image, every family, every object tells a unique story. The cracked photo frame is not symbolic in a general sense; it is the only remaining picture of a grandmother left behind. The spoon is not merely utilitarian; it was carried by a boy who believes it brings him luck. In refusing to generalize, "Undaily Bread" restores the humanity that headlines so often strip away.
The moors of Colombia, with their unrelenting fog and biting winds, serve not just as a physical setting but as a metaphor for the uncertainty that defines displacement. And yet, through this mist, the silhouettes of courage emerge. These families are not just surviving. They are declaring their existence with every step.
In telling these stories, Niño and Segal ask us not just to witness, but to accompany. To walk alongside those who hunger for more than food. Those who hunger for recognition, for safety, for a future in which their children might one day tell these stories as a testament to strength rather than suffering.
"Undaily Bread" is more than a photographic project. It is a living archive, a mirror held up to the world, reminding us that behind every statistic is a name, a face, a voice. And in those voices lies a powerful truth that even in the most uncertain terrains, dignity can still take root, and stories can still bloom.
Memory Carried in the Heart of the City
In the pulsating heart of Bogotá, where the city’s steel and glass rise sharply above winding alleys lined with laundry and street vendors, the second chapter of Undaily Bread unfolds. This chapter does not merely document arrival; it captures a profound metamorphosis. The journey through Colombia's windswept moors may have been arduous, but the city’s skyline marks not a destination, but rather a shift into a deeper, more complex phase of survival. Here, the very architecture of memory takes center stage, not through dramatic stories of tragedy, but in the quiet presence of cherished objects, gestures, and flavors that refugees carry forward into uncertain futures.
Five families become the lens through which the camera peers into this urban transformation. Across their narratives, one recurring theme becomes undeniable: the persistence of personal rituals in the aftermath of dislocation. When war, poverty, or politics strip people of homes, what remains isn’t always tangible. Often, it’s the habitual, the symbolic, the fragments of life left behind. These are the anchors of identity. For Camila, a mother of three, it’s a simple, battered spoon wrapped in a faded cloth. Once used by her grandmother to stir hearty soups rich with cassava and corn, it now continues its purpose in Bogotá’s cramped kitchens, feeding a new generation with a taste of continuity.
Photographer Segal captures these domestic relics in action, never as lifeless artifacts, but as living witnesses. His lens moves gently through doorways and along cracked windowsills to reveal families improvising stability. In one image, a sliver of light falls into a narrow alleyway where a breakfast of café con leche and stale pan dulce is being assembled. It’s not a meal of indulgence but of endurance. The hush of morning, the quiet scraping of butter on bread, the clink of mismatched mugs speak louder than words about what has been lost and what is being held onto.
Director Niño, whose steady hand and empathetic ear guide the film’s emotional pulse, ensures that these stories resonate not as testimonials but as lived truths. His method is gentle, devoid of staging or dramatization. He allows his subjects to exist on their terms. The Ramos family, for example, sits amid personal belongings that traveled with them across provinces and years: a rosary, a plastic comb, a curling book of bedtime tales. These aren’t symbols of povertythey are touchstones of presence. Segal’s approach isn’t voyeuristic; it's observational, intimate, and filled with quiet respect.
Urban life in Bogotá introduces its own set of complications. The anonymity of city living offers a strange relief from the exposure of rural displacement, yet it breeds isolation. Mothers who once lived in tightly knit communities where everyone knew what was simmering in each other's pots now find themselves navigating new neighborhoods where interactions are fleeting and transactional. Camila, who once ran a humble fruit stand in Valencia, now scrubs office floors under fluorescent lights. Her children, caught between two tongues, now struggle to adjust in overcrowded classrooms where their regional accents mark them as outsiders. These stories show that migration isn’t a bridge with a clear endit’s a prolonged crossing.
The Language of Food and Memory
Food in Undaily Bread: Part Two becomes more than sustenance is a memory rendered edible. It is not just what the families eat, but how they prepare and remember their meals that gives emotional depth to each photograph and interview. In Bogotá, meals have been reduced to what’s affordable and immediate. Processed snacks and factory-packaged staples from corner stores have replaced the traditional stews and handmade arepas that once defined family gatherings. Yet even here, in the diminished flavor profiles of resettled diets, there is a story waiting to be told.
Segal frames food as an emotional artifact, capturing hands that move with muscle memory passed down through generations. Even as ingredients change, the gestures remain kneading dough, sharing plates, passing cups. In these motions, the essence of home persists. One particularly moving image shows Camila and her daughters preparing a pot of soup. The vegetables are fewer, the spices milder, but the care and reverence remain. A spoonful of memory, however modest, is served with every meal.
As the families navigate scarcity, they also navigate the emotional terrain of nostalgia. Niño’s interviews delve deep into this tension. When asked what they missed most, the mothers didn’t speak in abstract terms. Their answers were rooted in the specific: the clatter of pots in a neighbor’s kitchen, the song of a radio playing boleros on Sunday mornings, the way mangoes tasted when picked straight from the tree. These details, small and seemingly mundane, become powerful emblems of everything left behind.
In one kitchen, a child chews quietly on an arepa while staring at a photograph pinned to the wall. The photo is faded, curled at the edges, but it features the family’s old backyard with a tree heavy with fruit. That imageunmoving yet filled with lifeis echoed in Segal’s visual compositions. The food isn’t always bountiful, but it’s meaningful. Even a plastic bag of rice or a tin of sardines is framed with a sense of weight, with a sense that this, too, is part of a lineage.
There’s a palpable contrast between then and now, between the remembered abundance and the daily frugality. But this contrast isn’t meant to evoke pity. It invites reflection. In every act of eating, there is also an act of remembering, and in remembering, there is quiet resistance. These families are not just survivingthey’re stitching fragments of their heritage into a new urban fabric.
Between Belonging and Becoming
What Undaily Bread so powerfully conveys in its second chapter is that the refugee journey doesn’t conclude upon arrival. Settlement is not synonymous with peace, and adaptation doesn’t equate to erasure. Bogotá is a city of contradictions for these families place of potential yet alien, promising yet overwhelming. The skyline, so often a symbol of progress, casts long shadows over lives built on improvisation and fragile hope.
Niño’s direction masterfully captures this liminality. His subjects are not presented as victims but as participants in an ongoing process of becoming. They exist in a space between cultures, between languages, between what was and what might still be. This in-betweenness is not always comfortable. It is raw, filled with doubt, but it is also vibrant with possibility.
In the margins of Bogotá, families are slowly creating new traditions. Camila now makes time every Sunday to prepare her grandmother’s soup, even if the ingredients are different. Her children set the table with the heirloom spoon, not out of ceremony but out of continuity. Another family has begun gathering with neighbors to share meals, forming new bonds that echo the community ties they left behind.
Undaily Bread does not offer tidy conclusions or heroic narratives. Instead, it presents stories that breathe, that evolve. The photographs are not endings, but moments suspended in flux. The words spoken in interviews are not confessions, but offerings. Together, Niño and Segal craft a portrait of displacement that challenges assumptions. They show that to be a refugee is not simply to have lost something is to carry something, often unseen, across distances both physical and emotional.
The urban chapter reminds us that every object preserved, every meal shared, and every memory retold is part of a larger architecture of resilience. These families may live on the city’s margins, but they are etching their lives into its very fabric. They are writing new histories, not by forgetting the old, but by bringing it with them.
In Bogotá, where the air hums with traffic and possibility, Undaily Bread continues its gaze. It invites us not to look at refugees from a distance, but to listen to them up close to see the power in small acts, the dignity in daily survival, and the sacredness in everyday bread that nourishes body, soul, and memory alike.
The Unseen Childhood of Displacement
As dawn breaks over Bogotá, Colombia, the sky gradually takes on a golden hue, casting a warm light over the clustered rooftops of shelters made from wood, plastic, and rusted metal. In the spaces between these fragile homes, laughter spills high-pitched, scattered, and urgent. The voices belong to the children of Venezuela’s exodus, whose lives unfold in makeshift communities across South America. Their presence, often overlooked in statistics and headlines, forms the emotional core of "Undaily Bread Part 3: The Eyes of the Future." This third chapter in the ongoing documentary series by William Niño and Gregg Segal zooms in on the youngest migrantschildren who embody both loss and promise.
They live in a world built out of scraps and memory. These children are born into motion, shaped not by choice but by the decisions of adults seeking refuge. Their toys are crafted from trash, their games invented from necessity, and their meals often improvised from whatever ingredients can be gathered or spared. Despite this uncertainty, what emerges from their lives is not a narrative of despair, but one of startling vitality and deep-seated resilience. In capturing the lives of these young ones, Niño and Segal shift the lens of migration away from borders and bureaucracy and toward the small, silent decisions made in kitchens, alleyways, and improvised classrooms.
Among the most compelling images is that of Joaquín, a barefoot nine-year-old standing in an open patch of concrete between tents. He holds aloft a kite made from a cereal box, its tail fluttering against a backdrop of laundry lines and crumbling walls. Around him lie the belongings of a family in transition: a three-legged chair, a wax candle worn to its base, and a shoebox full of damp photographs. Joaquín does not appear forlorn. His expression, one of solemn curiosity, speaks volumes. He holds the gaze of the camera with a quiet certainty, as though aware he is being documented but unsure of why. His eyes suggest he knows he carries a story, even if he cannot yet tell it.
For many of these children, the concept of home is a mosaic of sensory fragments: the smell of cooking oil, the texture of rain-drenched tarps, the sound of cousins laughing under a tarp roof. They remember things differently from adults. Their memories are rooted not in geography but in gestures, smells, and rituals. One child, Yuliana, aged seven, has created a routine that honors her brother, who went missing during a dangerous river crossing. Each night, she folds his sweater carefully and places it beside her bedding. No one taught her to do this. It is her quiet ceremony of remembrance, a way to keep him present. When Segal photographs her gazing through a jagged window, the frame becomes both literal and symbolic girl peering into absence, into hope, into whatever comes next.
Food, Ritual, and the Language of Survival
Within these makeshift communities, the act of eating transcends biological need. Meals are moments of connection, of ritual, of resistance against erasure. Niño and Segal have carefully documented these moments, not as displays of poverty, but as scenes of emotional richness and intimate humanity. Food, in the world of these displaced children, carries a symbolic weight. It represents not just survival but family dynamics, ingenuity, and even justice.
In one image, three siblings crouch over a dented metal pot, scooping thin soup onto improvised spoons. The floor beneath them is pieced together from flattened cardboard boxes, their surroundings cluttered with remnants of play: a broken toy car, a buttonless remote control, paper drawings of faraway homes. These children do not eat in silence because they are sad. They are simply focused. Their mealtime, though sparse, is an act of togetherness. In that moment, they are not refugees. They are a family.
Meals like cold rice with ketchup or a shared piece of plantain are elevated by the significance of sharing. A single banana divided among three children becomes a lesson in fairness and love. These scenes are not staged but lived. Niño and Segal do not intrude or dramatize; they observe. Their work honors the dignity within these moments, showing that in hunger, there can still exist agency, ritual, and joy.
One particularly tender scene involves a young girl who gathers leaves and small stones to "cook" for her younger siblings during playtime. Though imaginary, the scene mirrors the very real care and responsibility these children shoulder. Even in pretend, they enact the roles of providers, mimicking their parents and extending the fabric of care they have come to know. Their play is not divorced from reality, reflects it, interprets it, and sometimes heals it.
A boy named Luis offers another poignant image of contrast. Seated beside a sun-bleached poster of a Caracas school, he clutches a battered toy truck. The poster shows children in crisp uniforms, smiling with untroubled joy, their futures seemingly guaranteed. Luis wears a shirt far too large, one that belonged to his father. His knees are dusty, his hands chapped. The visual juxtaposition is stark. One represents what once was, the other what now is. But Luis, like many children in this series, does not look defeated. He seems to hold onto that truck as a talismanic relic of continuity in a disrupted life.
When Niño was asked by a child during a shoot, "Are we being seen now?" the question struck him deeply. It underscored the very ethos of Undaily Bread. These children are not asking for pity. They are asking to be acknowledged. To be seen, truly seen, as people with stories, personalities, rituals, and dreams.
Learning, Playing, and Becoming: Portals of the Future
Education for these children is inconsistent, often disrupted, but never entirely absent. Even in the absence of formal schooling, they find ways to learn, to mimic, to teach one another. Some scribble math problems in worn notebooks beside cooking pots. Others draw shapes and words with chalk on alley walls, turning brick and concrete into impromptu classrooms. In these small acts, they reclaim agency, asserting their right to knowledge in spaces that have denied them stability.
Their learning extends beyond academics. These children have mastered the subtleties of adult behavior: the pause in a parent’s voice, the tightening of a jaw, the silence that replaces bad news. They measure time not by clocks but by hunger, not by calendars but by border crossings and new arrivals. They absorb the emotional atmosphere of their surroundings, gaining wisdom far beyond their years.
In another telling image, a young girl is seen braiding her sister’s hair with intense concentration. Around her, children chase a makeshift soccer ball sewn from discarded fabric. A toddler toddles past, giggling at a soap bubble drifting through the dusty air. These scenes are not stagedthey are part of daily life. Segal captures them as they happen, offering a visual rhythm that mirrors the balance of chaos and care in refugee spaces.
These children are not passive victims. They are the builders of identity in flux. They are shaping what it means to be Venezuelan in exile, to be young in a world of shifting maps. Through play, ritual, and resilience, they are scripting a new cultural narrative, one not grounded in loss but in possibility. They are what Niño calls "portals of possibility amidst wreckage." Their existence challenges the notion that trauma must always lead to brokenness. Instead, they show that out of fragmentation can come innovation, beauty, and unexpected strength.
One of the most powerful insights of this series is that childhood, even under siege, insists on being lived. Politics does not pause it. Displacement does not cancel it. The giggles, the chases, the storytelling at dusk are not trivial acts. They are affirmations. Acts of becoming. Declarations of presence.
From Departure to Becoming: Tracing the Quiet Arc of Resilience
As the final chapter of the Undaily Bread project unfolds, it leaves behind the immediate echoes of escape, the cold margins of exile, and the fragile moments of settlement. In their place, it lifts its lens toward something far more intangible yet the delicate presence of hope. But this is not a sweeping or loud kind of hope. Rather, it is understated, sometimes barely visible, shaped by the steady labor of living and the soft strength of continuing.
The early chapters of the project brought us face-to-face with the textured landscapes of displacement: the heavy burden of departure, the memories woven into small belongings, and the heartbreak tucked into each photograph of a journey begun but not completed. In contrast, this final installment turns its attention toward a subtle transformation. Hope is no longer an abstract promise in the distance, but something that takes form in gestures, in community, and in the quiet spaces between scarcity and survival.
William Niño and Gregg Segal return to the outskirts of Bogotá, where the stories of five families have slowly matured since the earlier days of upheaval. Here, between unfinished walls and dusty paths, there are signs not of arrival, but of anchoring. The families, once caught in the limbo of transit, are now cultivating lives marked by motion yet rooted in intent. These are lives still in flux, but no longer suspended.
Niño describes a powerful scene that captures this transition: a communal meal beneath a corrugated iron roof. It isn’t a feast in any traditional sensejust a pot of lentils, cassava shared among neighbors, children laughing on upturned crates. Yet in this moment, there is a profound shift from mere existence to cohesion. “It was not abundance,” Niño reflects, “but it was cohesion. And that can feed something deeper.” Segal’s photographs reflect this intimacy with humility and respect, capturing the group not from an observer’s distance but from within the circle, though we are not merely witnessing, but participating.
The poignancy of these images lies not in their grandeur, but in their invitation. They remind us that to be human is to create meaning even amidst disruption. Hope does not emerge as a final destination, but as a language written in everyday acts: a smile exchanged, a blanket mended, a hand offered. It is drawn not with bold declarations, but with quiet persistence.
The Cartography of Agency: Reclaiming Life in the Margins
One of the most powerful transitions in this closing chapter is the narrative shift from endurance to agency. In the earlier parts of Undaily Bread, much of the emotional landscape was dominated by mourning for lost homes, interrupted childhoods,and fractured communities. Now, there is movement not away from pain, but through it. There is reclamation.
We see a father who once wept beside a broken suitcase now seated in a modest corner shop, surrounded by the radios he repairs with steady hands. A mother who carried fragments of fabric across borders now leads a sewing class under a plastic tarp, transforming remnants into clothing and skill. A child who once watched others go to school now kneels outside their makeshift home, tracing alphabet letters in chalk with quiet determination. These are not grand gestures, but they are enormous in meaning.
They speak to something more profound than mere adaptation. These acts are not about fitting in, but about reshaping the world around themcreating space for identity, dignity, and growth. The migrants in this chapter are not simply surviving their circumstances. They are authoring new scripts for their futures, however uncertain those futures may be.
Segal’s camera becomes a participant in this reclamation. He captures a neighborhood in evolution: families pooling resources to share a single propane stove, children building toys from recycled bottles, women organizing night watches to ensure safety. There is little illusion herepoverty and instability still loombut there is also invention. Laughter that echoes across tin roofs, meals flavored with borrowed spices, murals painted over crumbling concrete. These are scenes of life not paused, but reimagined.
Color plays a pivotal role in this visual cartography. The final images are alive with itnot because the material conditions have dramatically improved, but because the people within them have begun to infuse their environments with presence. A red scarf on a clothesline becomes more than fabric is a statement of being. Yellow sandals drying in the sun speak of journeys that continue with purpose. A teenager’s mural on a weathered wall reads, “Aquí también vivimos” here, too, we live.
This is the cartography of agency. It is a mapping not of streets or borders, but of inner landscapes made visible through collective effort. Where before there was displacement, now there is placement. Where there was absence, now there is presence. And where there was silence, now there are voicestentative, perhaps, but certain.
Niño calls the act of documenting these moments “drawing a map from the heart outward.” It is an apt metaphor. The map he and Segal offer us is not one of terrain, but of spirit. It charts not locations, but the distances people have traveled internally: from fear to courage, from rupture to relation.
Endurance Reimagined: The Legacy of Shared Bread and Stories
In one of the most emblematic images from the closing chapter, five families gather around a single fire as night falls. The light flickers, casting soft shadows on the faces around it. Behind them, their few possessions are carefully stacked kettle, a suitcase, a photograph in a cracked frame. In front of them, only darkness. Yet the fire holds.
That fire becomes a symbol not only of warmth, but of direction. It is a signal to the future, no matter how uncertain, and a gathering point for memory and hope. It is around such fires that stories are shared and preserved the kind of stories found in history books, but the living narratives that sustain families through uncertainty and change.
In this final portrait of Undaily Bread, the work does not close with resolution, but with resonance. It closes with a girl named Mariana, drawing a picture of a future home. There is a roof, a cat, and a sun with an exaggerated smile. She folds the drawing and seals it in a plastic jar. “So I don’t forget,” she says. This small act, almost imperceptible, crystallizes the entire project. Hope, like memory, must be carried and protected.
The final chapter affirms that Undaily Bread was never solely a chronicle of hardship. It is a meditation on what endures when everything else falls away. It is about what people carry, not just in their arms, but in their spirits. It is about meals shared from near-empty pots, songs sung under broken ceilings, and hands held in the face of fear. It is about a kind of radical humanity that persists not in defiance of suffering, but through it.
Even the name of the project, Undaily Bread, speaks to this complexity. The bread is undailyuncertain, sporadic, and often insufficient. Yet it is still bread. It is still shared. And in that sharing, something sacred is preserved: community, memory, connection.
Niño ends the chapter with a reflection on storytelling in uncertain times. “Perhaps the most radical thing we can do is bear witness and not look away,” he says. This idea is not just a closing thought but a call to action. Through this entire journey, he and Segal have invited us to look deeply, without turning away. To witness not just the suffering, but the grace. Not just the departure, but the return to self.
The photographs and stories of these families resonate far beyond Bogotá’s borders. They are not isolated cases, but reflections of a global truth. Migration, displacement, survivalthese these are not temporary crises but enduring realities. Yet within them, people continue to create, to care, to cook, to teach, to dream. They continue to live.
Conclusion
Undaily Bread is not simply a chronicle of suffering, but a reverent exploration of what endures in its wake. It reveals how displacement reshapes not only geography but memory, identity, and daily ritual. Through every photo, shared meal, and whispered story, William Niño and Gregg Segal give voice to those who persist in the face of profound uncertainty. These families carry more than belongingsthey carry hope, rituals, and fragments of home. In capturing this quiet resilience, Undaily Bread becomes a collective mirror, asking us not just to look, but to recognize ourselves in those still walking, still dreaming, still becoming.
