I grew up in the countryside of Latvia’s Latgale region, not far from the borders with Russia and Belarus, and spent my early childhood in the final years of the Soviet Union. Since Latvia regained independence in 1991, the border with Russia was marked only by boundary posts rather than physical barriers. The war in Ukraine and the growing confrontation between Russia and the West have brought renewed attention to Latvia’s eastern frontier. Historically caught between Western and Eastern Europe and now situated on NATO’s outer edge, Latvia is often imagined as a frontier between two worlds. Across much of Europe, borders are barely noticed. Here, however, over the past two years, the frontier has been fortified with fences, watchtowers, and patrols, making the abstract line tangible. It is difficult to predict whether this military infrastructure would actually stop Russia in the event of a conflict, but it is visible and physically present - something tangible that alters the border landscape itself. The project began with a simple question: What does it mean to live in the borderland in this geopolitical moment? Understandably, in this climate, the fence has become a necessity. By inserting specific elements into the landscape, the way we perceive and experience the surrounding space changes. Yet it also interrupts ancient routes of migrating animals and reshapes both the ecological balance and the cultural landscape. In some villages near the border, residents have even had to demolish small outbuildings or wells that lay too close to the fence. For most people in Latvia, the border zone remains an abstract idea - many have never been there, partly because access requires a special permit, and partly because there is little reason to travel to an area that is remote and steadily emptying out. The borderland is not a uniform territory, nor can it be described as a single whole. It is layered — on one level, a visible landscape of defence infrastructure; on another, an invisible terrain of stories and memories that slip across boundaries. An elderly woman named Ilga, for example, was born in Abrene - once part of Latvia, now within Russia. Near the fence, a man points across to a house on the far side, where his grandmother once lived. With this project, I approach the border not as a line but as a living phenomenon — one that exists simultaneously in geography, in human relationships, and in ways of thinking:an overlapping field geopolitics, ecology, and everyday life, where memories and futures constantly intersect.