“A poetic disruption” – filling blank spaces with collective storytelling

When and how did you notice that there are some blank spots in memory culture?

Mikala: If you are a little bit concerned with history and you are also engaged with public space, you realise that many people commemorated often have links to colonialism. And the many stories that are important now, particularly in today’s political situation in Germany, migrant’s stories, are simply absent. This was an important reason to start the project as we want to engage with the public space and create space for voices that are not present.

Siska: I recently looked into the term memory hole—a mechanism for deliberately altering or erasing inconvenient or embarrassing records, whether documents, photos, transcripts, or archives, often to create the illusion that something never happened. The concept was first popularized by George Orwell’s 1949 dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. This is what I want to emphasize: growing up during civil war, I constantly had to erase and curate my own memories, keeping only what felt bearable. As a child, I learned early that memory holes weren’t just an idea—they were real. They surrounded me, and I had to figure out how to fill them.

Emanuele: Memory culture as it is done in Germany, in Europe in general or in Western countries, is very dogmatic. It’s very fixed to specific narrations and it doesn’t open up to the multi-layered and multi-faceted perspectives of history. It forgets a lot, and many things are forgotten in order to respect predetermined systems of narration. And especially for migration in Germany, this is very clear. We see it on a daily basis with what kind of news are being published, what kind of narratives are being produced about migrant people, in order to build up a typical cliché. And this is something I really like: that we have built a monument, which is multi-layered and multi-faceted, and which allows many narrations.

When you decided to fill memory holes or blank spaces – why did you do that with a monument and specifically with an AR monument?

Mikala: I’ve been very interested in augmented reality for quite some years now. And my interest arises from the tension between the tactile urban space, the reality that we all immediately can perceive, and the hidden potential which is there. Often my approach is: how can we open the urban landscape to the dormant potential which lies in there? I think that the digital format is strong in bringing together different modes of expression, and the specific augmented reality format is very strong, because it fuses the present with the potential future. I see this in some ways as a utopian space. But the beauty of it is a utopian space that you can experience, that you can access, that you can enter. Augmented reality has such a power in comparison with virtual reality for instance. Because in virtual reality you are enclosed in this digital world, but augmented reality, if you use it spatially, which is not so common, but the way we use it, is very rooted in the real, in the present, in the urban space that we share.

Siska: I see it as a latent digital environment embedded in urban space—one that intertwines collective remembrance, culture, and voices from diverse backgrounds. What truly intrigues me is its political weight and the public discourse it generates. On one side, there’s the digital element—reaching beyond physical boundaries—but on the other, there’s the discourse element, the conversations it sparks. And looking at what’s unfolding in Germany and across Europe today, it’s impossible to ignore the urgency. It’s alarming. This monument isn’t just a statement; it’s a reaction. A way to push back. By harnessing the digital, we expand access, engage more people, and build a parallel discourse that challenges what’s happening in real-time.

Mikala: It’s also a kind of guerrilla activism. We put the monument up and experience it together, which is a kind of activist approach to the technology.

Siska: You engage with it on your own terms—it’s never imposed on you. Entering this monument is a conscious choice, unlike the traditional monuments that dominate city spaces, like the Bismarck Monument, which looms over you whether you want it to or not. In a way, this is our step toward liberation. This project is both an experiment and a starting point, exploring new ways to embed our personal histories into the urban landscape.

You have created a monument that needs to be accessed intentionally, how do you place this within the idea of “monuments”?

Siska: Let me share an anecdote deeply intertwined with Berlin’s history. In one of my previous projects, Latent Border(s), I delved into the story of the Lenin Monument that once stood in East Berlin during the GDR era. Erected in 1970 at Leninplatz, it was a prominent symbol of the socialist regime. ​Following German reunification, the monument faced opposition from local authorities. In 1991, it was dismantled and buried in a forested area on the outskirts of Berlin. ​Years later, in 2015, the 3.5-tonne granite head of Lenin was unearthed after being largely forgotten. This excavation was part of an effort to recontextualize Berlin’s historical monuments. Today, Lenin’s head is displayed at the Spandau Citadel as part of a permanent exhibition showcasing Berlin’s political monuments. This narrative reflects the shifting perspectives on historical symbols. Initially, the Lenin statue was buried as an attempt to move away from a past deemed undesirable. However, over time, it was resurrected and reinterpreted as an integral piece of history, illustrating how collective memory evolves and how artifacts can transition from objects of contention to subjects of reflection.

Emanuele: This is the transfiguration of historiography. At some point if it’s helpful, you use history for your own goals, you might change the details or you look to adapt the history for your own strategies or purposes. And this is exactly what we don’t want. For that reason, there is this deliberate choice to remember, you are free to choose: I want to remember. And in that sense, it’s an act of consciousness.

Mikala: In addition to choosing to access the monument, there is also the traditional history of monuments, they always seek to end history and create a closure. And this doesn’t reflect how our lives unfold. This doesn’t reflect the reality of our existence. So for us it was important to have a monument that keeps evolving, that doesn’t find a fixed form. The monument will probably never be finished. Because it keeps changing, it keeps growing. There have already been five different versions with each step of the development. We view the entire creation of the monument as a kind of social structure that works with different communities.

Emanuele: It’s that the monument is not only the monument itself, the digital space you enter, it’s also a collective space. A space that we create through programmes, through participation in different events, where we give the chance to create a space to gather for solidarity, for encounter, for exchange, for artistic development. So we have different layers of what the monument is. And I find it interesting that the monument is based on human encounters, on collective memory, on oral history, which is always forgotten. And I love that monuments are basically archives, at the very beginning it was histories traded from family members to other family members and to communities, to other community members and so on. In that sense our monument can embrace indigenous traditions, which did not build a Christopher Columbus or a Bismarck monument but were instead working on human connections.

Siska: It´s all about movement, fluidity, queerness, and feminism—spoken in a different voice. But at its core, it’s about metamorphosis. How does a discourse that is both political and biographical—rooted in migration, histories, and bodies—take shape as a visual monument, something you can access on your own terms? These are our stories, and we claim them. We decide when to press play, not when someone else chooses to observe, consume, or dissect them. Even this interview is part of that process. Stories become a monument, and then the monument dissolves back into words. It’s fluid, ever-changing, refusing to be fixed in place.

How do you collect stories and how do you curate the content of the monument?

Mikala: The basic structure has been a workshop structure, and we’ve sent out open calls. The first one went out two years ago through the cultural centre Oyoun, which, as we know, was cancelled for reasons that the courts, since then, have found unjust. But that was one of the community spaces, where a lot of migrants, queer people, etc., were gathering. So that was a kind of a logical space to start asking, would you like to share your stories? But also, would you like to share your imagination about what a monument that reflects your or our collective experience of migration could look like? This was very community-based, very experimental. We didn’t know what would come out of it. But then people were very glad to share their stories, their perspectives. And the editing process has gone through several workshops, too. We are now collaborating with Willkommensklassen and listen to young, unaccompanied migrants, to their stories, integrating their perspectives. So that means after this process, again, the monument will take a different form.

Siska: It’s crucial to highlight why we chose the Ishtar Gate as the foundation of this monument—a decision made with full intention. For us, it stands as a symbol of colonial histories and the theft of cultural identity. This artifact, taken from its origins, now sits in Berlin, inaccessible to most, locked away for the next six years. By reclaiming it as the base of our monument, we are freeing it—transforming it into something alive, something that belongs to the people. The gate becomes more than a relic; it becomes a metaphor for passage, transition, and movement. Doors open, thresholds shift, and histories once stolen are reimagined in new, fluid forms.

How many people and how many stories might have participated so far?

Siska: So far, around 40 to 50 people have participated—artists, dancers, musicians, cultural workers, scientists, researchers—all contributing in different ways, whether through speaking, conducting workshops, or engaging with the program. But for me, there’s something deeply personal in all of this. I know how important it is for people to own their stories—not to claim someone else’s, but to start from within. I began with my own story, Mikala with hers, Emanuele with his. And as our narratives connected with others, we had to find an aesthetic form that could hold them all. So to answer your question—it’s impossible to pin down a number. It’s not about one story or ten stories. It’s about a collective voice, a shared story that is constantly evolving, shaped by everyone who takes part.

Emanuele: This characteristic of the monument is very much related to the idea of Edouard Glissant, of creolization, which means that one part meets the other part and both get to a meeting point and creolise themselves. I receive something from you and you get something from me and so on. I would say this is what appears in the monument aesthetically. It’s a creolization. It’s a beautiful mixing up, which is not finished and which is not tokenising ideas, but values ideas.

After you collected these stories, they had to be turned into something visual, how did that process look like, including the audio?

Siska: The audio is straightforward because you hear the actual voices of the participants, all of it crafted by Nour Sokhon. Each participant was interviewed separately, and then Nour weaved everything together into a sound collage, accompanied by music. Choosing the Ishtar Gate—Bab Ishtar, as it’s called in Arabic—was a deliberate decision, a metaphor for all these stories. It was essential not only for its historical significance but for its symbolism of gates, which echo deeply with themes of borders, migration, and emotional states. These gates reflect the physical, digital, and metaphorical boundaries we constantly navigate. This resonates with the story of every migrant who’s come to Germany—whether “documented” or “undocumented.” Each has their own story, and it’s through these stories, these journeys, that we can understand the depth of what it means to cross thresholds, to be caught between worlds, and to carry both personal and collective histories with us.

Mikala: In our workshops we ask people how they can imagine being represented visually, having their story represented, visually by a drawing, by a sound, by a sculpture, so we have all these practical assignments or things that we do together in the workshop. When we write the open call, we also ask them to think in a very abstract way about how can we imagine a monument, for instance, that has no body? How can we imagine a monument, which is only a movement? How can you imagine a monument that is an everyday object? And if you go to the Ishtar Gate, our Ishtar Gate, the whole surface of it is filled with these objects, with these notes, with these drawings, with these collages created in the workshops, transformed into this almost living archive.

Looking to the future, what do you think memory culture should look like?

Emanuele: I would envision a memory culture that includes different perspectives. That includes not only the stories or the narrations of the victorious, but those of everyday people, and that includes oral history, that includes uncommon or marginalised perspectives, which are often completely forgotten. Not only the trendy ones, I would say, because as a queer, I know that many stories are trends and then forgotten again. It’s not about a trend, it’s about how to recognise universality. To teach about the complexity of history, I think, is the future of memory culture, and to be open and not dogmatic. And I know from working in education that this is absolutely possible.

Mikala: I think if we imagine this on a broader scale, I wish for us to get away from the idea of having one star artist, who creates a project outline, which then gets produced at a high cost. I think it’s a patriarchal tradition, and I think it’s outdated now. I would love to see more collective processes, when it comes to engaging with memory culture in a public way. And that we put a lot more resources into these communal processes. And considering that the digital sphere is becoming more and more dominant in our everyday life, with its dangerous power monopolies orientated towards commercial gains, I hope that there will be more activist initiatives that occupy digital space, because the digital sphere is becoming the new public space. We’re at the birth moment of digital space, so we need to critically engage with it now.

Siska: I wish for a more awareness of the occupations and the wars that have been unfolding alongside this project, especially at a time when Germany seems to be losing its freedom of speech. We need more spaces where we can truly express ourselves, where we can speak openly about where we stand, who we believe in, and who we don’t. My biggest wish is for a Germany that isn’t just pretending to be free, but one that is genuinely free—a Germany that offers us the space and security to feel at home, no matter who we are or where we come from. It’s time for the freedom to not just exist in theory but to be fully realized, to give us the room to exist unapologetically.

Emanuele: Regarding the future of our project, we would like to be more known in Berlin and everywhere in Germany and to represent the different voices in this country. And as last words, regarding the particularity of this monument, I would use the word poetic. Instead of aesthetics, it’s a poetic of disruption, a poetic of disruption of memory systems.

Thank you so much!

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