A conversation with Mahima vd Brink – Gunnink
Mahima connects worlds with her camera and her heart.
Between two worlds
She stands out during Sunday morning worship at the Living Hope Church in Putten. Singing alongside Gert, with a presence you simply can’t ignore. It was no coincidence, then, that I asked her for this interview—behind her gaze lies a story that needs to be told.
Mahima is 47 years old, lives in Putten, and has been in the Netherlands since she was two. Born in India, raised in Amsterdam. She is as Dutch as can be, and yet for decades she carried two worlds within her.
The orphanage and the return
She came from a Christian orphanage in India. Her adoptive parents were waiting for her at Schiphol Airport—without a photo, without any prior information, just a name and an age. Her father was manning a GPV booth on Hoofddorpplein during election season when he suddenly saw her mother running toward him: “Mahima is coming tomorrow.” That night, friends quickly put together a crib; the next day, they saw her for the first time.
Mahima was the oldest of the group of children who arrived. She was recognized immediately. “It’s her,” they thought. And that’s how it stayed.
Years later, around the age of nineteen, she traveled back to India—out of curiosity, to see her roots. But she hadn’t even landed before she wanted to leave again. The airport in Bombay, the stifling air, the chaos, and the crowds hit her like a ton of bricks. The contrast was painful: children without shoes, women with severe disfigurements stumbling through traffic, people sleeping on the streets as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“I come from that country,” she says. “I felt guilty that I had it good.”
Outwardly, she belonged there, but inside she was completely Dutch. That gap was almost unbearable. After a week and a half, she knew for sure: she had to go home. Through an obscure little travel agency, she booked a flight back via the Middle East and London. The resistance she felt upon arriving in India has never completely gone away.
Reformed and Open
Home was warm. Her father and mother—Reformed, later joining the merged church—had faced misunderstanding from their community when they decided to adopt. But as soon as Mahima arrived, all doubt vanished.
The Amsterdam congregation where she grew up was not a closed stronghold. It was an urban congregation, missionary-minded, and full of students with big questions. Her father served on the church council his entire life. They followed the Willow Creek model: the organ was removed, and a stage took its place. The sermon was not allowed to last longer than half an hour. Accessible, vivid, and outward-looking.
In that environment, around the age of fifteen, Mahima discovered something that has never left her: a personal relationship with God. Not dry theory, but real connection. The pastor repeated it so often that it is etched in her memory: You are worse than you could ever have believed, but you are more loved than you could ever have dreamed. That seed has continued to grow.
From Guido de Brès to vocational school
At the Guido de Brès in Bloemendaal, she felt safe. A small school, a familiar Christian bubble. The transition to vocational school was therefore a culture shock. Aggression, sex, drugs—everything God has forbidden was just happening in the classroom, she says matter-of-factly. She was labeled “the Christian girl,” and that was not meant as a compliment.
But she didn’t let it get her down. She asked a teacher if she could spend two class periods talking about her faith. The teacher gave her the space, and Mahima seized it. The questions came, often blunt and full of profanity, but she engaged in the conversation. “You’re very outspoken about your beliefs,” she told the class. “Then I’m allowed to be too.”
She did her internship at a women’s shelter. She was only seventeen years old. The residents ranged from babies to eighteen-year-olds. There was abuse, misery, and there were stressed-out colleagues. Mahima closed the door behind her in the evening and went home; it didn’t keep her awake at night. There she discovered a talent: she could observe and report in detail. A nine, her supervisor judged.
A large campground
After years living in a shared apartment in Amsterdam—a free, social city life—she met Gert online. Things moved quickly: dating, pregnant, married. And so: moving to Putten.
It took six years before she could settle in there. “Amsterdam is so sophisticated,” she explains. “The people I hung out with were highly educated. Then you come to Putten and it was very different there… I’m not quite sure how to describe it.”
Compared to Amsterdam, people here handle differences of opinion or perspective differently. This is a personal impression, but maybe I’m wrong. In Putten, people want to get back to business quickly. They’d rather not talk about it anymore once something has happened.
“How is this possible?” she thought at the time. She has since come to accept it. She adapted without losing herself. She found her way through the people in the village—the girls at Etos and Blokker—and through her son Jesse. Thanks to his friendships, she gained a whole new network. “Putten is basically one big campground,” she laughs now. “You don’t know everyone, but you do say hello to everyone.”
The camera
She’d always carried a small Sony in her pocket—one of those little cameras with a flip-top that went everywhere with her. Her father noticed her passion and gave her a better camera.
It was Mahima who eventually asked Gert to start taking real photos of her and Jesse. When she saw how much effort he put into getting the perfect shot, she thought: I can’t put that boy through that; I’ll do it myself. An acquaintance advised her to send her work to the newspaper. She thought it was a long shot, but the photo was published immediately.
Now she shoots with a fixed zoom lens—no hassle of switching lenses while the bird has already flown away. She captured little owls during the pandemic, a young boy jumping off a platform in Katwijk, and a Moroccan family trying to keep their belongings together in the wind. She waits and observes. She sees what others overlook.
“What do you see through the lens that others don’t?” I ask.
She thinks for a moment. “I notice things. I want to capture the authenticity.”
She doesn’t edit her nature photos; no filters on a setting sun. She edits photos of people minimally, just to make the colors more natural. The principle remains: capturing what is there. And she wants to go further, beyond the “pretty” picture. It is precisely the brokenness that attracts her; the rawness of life. She prays about it and asks God to show her the way on that path. As an exercise, she photographed a homeless man in a sleeping bag in Amsterdam—only his shoes were visible. The canal houses are beautiful, but this is part of it too.
“Every photo I take is a reflection,” she says. “I capture what God has made.”
Gert’s illness
A scan every six months. Every six months, the question: will we get another six months?
Mahima is honest about their journey. She admires Gert’s unshakable faith and his lack of fear. She has that faith herself, but sometimes it’s hard to hold on to. “Above all, I hope Gert will still be here when Jesse turns eighteen,” she says.
The first oncologist was blunt. “You won’t make it to sixty; don’t even think about retirement.” They stood outside, crying. The surgeon before him had been the exact opposite—hopeful and positive—even though the medical file was exactly the same.
The news hit her hard. Her first reaction was pure anger, a logical resistance to the harsh reality. Only later did the shift occur, and the anger gave way to a conscious choice. She decided to enjoy life as long as they were given the chance. Together with Jesse, she enjoyed the beach at Katwijk and the Amsterdam canals. Father and son also went on vacation together to the rugged landscapes of Madeira, Austria, and Iceland. Money no longer played a role during that time; creating priceless memories was the only thing that mattered.
When life suddenly turns upside down due to Gert’s illness, you realize just how important a safe haven is. The warmth and unconditional support of his family feel like a blanket wrapped around you during this intensely difficult period. From the very first moment, they formed an indispensable safety net, a beacon of calm in a stormy time. That help wasn’t just there during the hardest moments; you still feel their support and love to this day. It brings peace of mind knowing you don’t have to walk this path alone.
Authenticity as a way of life
Mahima refuses to be forced into the straitjacket of other people’s expectations. She already had that independent spirit at nineteen. No collective, no “that’s how it’s supposed to be,” but her own path. “Then not,” is her motto when something doesn’t feel right. “That’s not me.”
That attitude has only grown stronger in Putten, including in her faith. She isn’t looking for an institution; she’s looking for connection—with God, with people, and with the vulnerable. At Mozaïek in Nijkerk, that feeling came very close to her recently. She sat anonymously in the back, and within ten minutes she was moved to tears. God came to her; she didn’t have to meet any particular religious standard. “I could just be there.”
That touches her. It’s the same with animals—the vulnerability of a kitten under a car hood in Huinen, or an injured pigeon for which she calls the animal ambulance.
“God’s heart goes out to the vulnerable,” I say. “He is close to the brokenhearted. That is a divine spark in your life.” She smiles; she knows it’s true.
Mahima grew up between two worlds and chose both, without fully immersing herself in either. She is an Amsterdammer in Putten, a believer without a set formula, a photographer without a filter. Her advice to the outsider: “Don’t wait around. “Take the initiative yourself. Connect. Remember that a child or a cashier is sometimes the best bridge to another person, if you have an eye for it.”
@wimvanputten