Nazgol Golmuradi (Roghayeh Yousefmator)
I Was Born in Fire, and Chose to Rise From It, 2025
The Night I Was Reborn Through Darkness, 2025
A Dream Left Behind, 2025
Acryl auf Leinwand, glänzender Firnis, 50 × 40 cm, 40 × 30 cm
Texte, gerahmt, 30 × 21 cm
Die drei Geschichten sind der Anfang meines Buchprojektes, an dem ich für mein Diplom an der F+F arbeite. Ich interviewe Frauen und schreibe ihre Lebensgeschichten auf. Jede Geschichte verarbeite ich in einem Bild. Mein Ziel ist es, die Stimmen und Erfahrungen von Frauen hörbar zu machen – über Kunst und Sprache.
Kurzbio
Mein Name ist Nazgol Golmuradi. Ich wurde im Iran geboren und lebe und studiere heute in der Schweiz. Seit 2023 studiere ich an der F+F Schule für Kunst und Design.
The Night I Was Reborn Through Darkness
I was only 17 when I crossed the black, freezing mountains with strangers and smugglers. I was terrified, but I kept walking, because stopping meant death.
The path was cruel. My new shoes were taken from me, replaced with torn boots, three sizes too big. Soon, chaos erupted. Border police opened fire. Gunshots, screams, dogs barking—the night turned into terror. I fell, hit my head on a rock, blood pouring down my face. People stepped over me as if I was already dead.
One old smuggler returned. He wrapped my head with a scarf and carried me forward until we reached Turkey. Then he left. I was barefoot, my feet bleeding, yet I walked on through mud and bullets from helicopters. Something inside me pushed me forward—pure survival.
I woke up later in a dark room, surrounded by almost ninety men. I was scared to death. My eye was swollen shut; I refused to unwrap it. If I saw the blood, I might faint. Smugglers kept moving us from one house to another, packing us like animals.
In one hall, shoulder to shoulder with men, I begged a smuggler not to leave me there. He took me to another room, where he sheltered the sick and weak. "Don't be afraid," he said.
I didn't sleep that night. My thoughts ran wild. I thought of my mother, my father, my sisters and little brother. Memories flooded me—childhood, warmth, laughter, the smell of home. I asked myself: is this freedom? Why does it taste so bitter.
The next morning, hunger cut deep. Smugglers cooked eggs only for themselves. We sat silently, starving. Then, a plainclothes policeman entered, carrying a box of cookies. He handed me one. Just a cookie—but in that hell, it felt like sunlight.
Later, they pushed us into a truck, men crammed in like animals. I was lucky to sit in front. But the truck broke down, and people forced the doors open, escaping into the desert. I followed, barefoot, my feet torn open and bleeding.
And finally, we saw the city. Shops. People. A bus station.
I'd walked all day, barefoot, bleeding. But fear was stronger than pain.
Because pain fades. But fear makes you run.
You run from war, from suffering, from death. And maybe, in that endless running... you are reborn.
A Dream Left Behind
I was very young when we migrated to Iran. For immigrants, education was almost impossible. I managed to study up to fourth grade, but then foreigners were banned from school. At 14, I joined a school for older students and reached fifth grade, but soon marriage ended my studies.
At 16, a man asked for my hand. I was still a child, crying endlessly. I thought marriage was only a white dress and a party, not the end of my freedom and dreams. I stared at the ring on my finger, asking myself if this was truly the end of school and the start of captivity.
Before our wedding, my fiancé developed red spots on his skin. Soon we learned it was psoriasis, a chronic illness with no cure. From the first day of marriage, life was filled with pain. I rubbed lemon on his wounds, crying as he shook with burning pain. I never tasted the joy of being a bride.
At 20, I gave birth to my son. I worked as a hairdresser, worried every day about his future in a country where we had no rights. When he turned six, we sold everything—gold, car, home—and left illegally in search of safety.
Crossing the mountains at night, armed bandits robbed us. They touched my body while my son cried, "Please don't hurt my mom." His words cut deeper than any wound. In the freezing dark, we were left terrified and empty-handed.
We finally reached Turkey, then crossed the sea to Greece. But Moria Camp was another hell: winter in tents without heating, no language, no support. I fought for survival while my husband sat in silence. I felt like the father of the family, carrying everything alone.
Later, in Athens, we became homeless. I found shelter for single women, but my husband wasn't allowed inside. He slept in parks while I fought with endless organizations to find us a home. After months, we finally lived together again.
But Greece could not be our future. We moved to Germany, where I collapsed from exhaustion. In a psychiatric hospital, I stayed six months, medicated, thinking only of my son. When I returned, I found nothing had been accomplished. My husband leaned on me; I had noone to lean on.
I never reached the dream I had as a girl. Marriage, hardship, and migration were chosen for me, not by me. My only wish now is for my son to have the education I lost, to live the dream I could not.
My message to all women:
Don't marry too young. Don't live for others. Choose your own path. You only live once—live life for yourself.
I was Born in Fire, and Chose to Rise From It
I was eighteen months old when we migrated to Iran. We were a family of eight. I had a sister two years older, but I didn't know her. My mother had given her away as a baby. My mother never loved her children. Forced into marriage, she was bitter and took her anger out on us.
She was cruel beyond words. She once burned me in a frying pan, another time poured boiling water on my head. She pinned me down, pressing the air from my chest. I was just a fragile child, wishing for death.
At thirteen, I discovered I had a sister. She returned to live with us but soon faced the same violence. Our mother stripped and beat us with a water hose. We were captives in her hands, prisoners of fear. At night, my sister and I whispered dreams of rescue, of laughing freely, of knowing happiness.
After only two years together, suitors came for us. We were children, but we thought marriage would be our escape. I was engaged without seeing the man. He was old, older than my father. My wedding night was filled with pain and terror.
Marriage became another prison. My husband's cousin harassed me whenever I was alone. Fear and shame silenced me. In despair, I tried to kill myself by drinking poison. I survived, but lies almost destroyed me. Although the truth did come out, my husband never trusted me again.
Years passed. I had a daughter and two sons, but life was caged. When my husband died suddenly, I was left alone. My children looked to me, and I had nothing—no experience, no support, only determination to keep us alive. I cleaned buildings, picked fruit, baked sweets. Every day was survival.
In 2015, I tried to reach Europe with my children. At the border, police opened fire at us. Bullets lit their unconscious bodies. For six months we lived like prisoners in a hospital.
After our release, I tried to rebuild life. I even fell in love, but it turned toxic. He was selfish, unfaithful, and violent. The day he slammed my little boy against a wall, I broke completely. I left everything behind for my children.
We lived in freezing rooms, without heat or carpet. My children's hands cracked from the cold.
Still, I endured. People said it was impossible for a woman with three children to migrate illegally.
But I proved them wrong. We crossed Iran, Turkey, Greece, and finally reached Germany.
Now my children are safe. I carry scars of the past, but also a dream for the future.
One day, I want to build a place for women—a space to work, to grow, to be free and independent. I want women to know they are strong, that they can build their own lives, and that they can be the heroes of their own stories.