Casa Asia on International Women's Day: 8 interviews for 8M

On the occasion of International Women's Day (March 8), Casa Asia This special program, published for International Women's Day 2026, once again places the voices and experiences of Asian women and their diasporas in Spain at the heart of the narrative through a new series of eight interviews. This program not only highlights personal and professional journeys marked by resilience, creativity, and commitment, but also offers a space for reflection on identity, belonging, and social transformation in diverse contexts.

These interviews bring to light often-overlooked stories and contribute to a broader dialogue on equality, diversity, and representation. The women featured—from various Asian countries and living in cities like Barcelona, ​​Mallorca, and Madrid—share experiences that connect the personal with the collective, ranging from artistic creation and academic research to cultural and social activism.

Iram Batool Qadri is a poet and researcher, originally from Pakistan and currently living in Barcelona. Alongside her academic work at the University of Barcelona in the field of Organizational Psychology, she actively promotes Urdu literature and the Mushaira tradition in Europe. Her poetry gives voice to the experiences and resilience of women. Among her best-known poems are Awaz, Dukhtary Adam, and Gunehgar, works that explore identity, inner strength, and the female emotional universe. She is a founding member of AhleQalam and the Urdu Academy Barcelona, ​​and has participated in numerous international and local poetry events.

Can you tell us a little about your career path?

My name is Iram Batool Qadri, and I'm originally from Pakistan. In 2009, I moved to Germany to pursue doctoral studies in Organizational Psychology after completing my master's degree at Quaid-i-Azam University in Islamabad. After getting married, I moved to Barcelona, ​​where I currently live with my family—my husband and our son.

Barcelona has gradually become our home: a space where my academic work, my family life, and my poetic identity coexist. My journey through different countries has not only shaped my professional path but also my emotional and cultural growth, teaching me that identity can expand without losing its roots.

What does your work at the university focus on?

I currently work at the University of Barcelona as a researcher and project coordinator. My work focuses on the study of leadership styles—especially transformational and abusive leadership—and how these influence workplace and team stress, as well as phenomena such as cyberbullying and employee psychological well-being. My goal is to contribute to the creation of more humane, respectful, and healthy work environments.

What memories would you highlight from your life in Pakistan?

Pakistan represents one of the most beautiful and formative stages of my life: a time surrounded by family, friends, and emotional freedom.

It was there that my deep connection to Urdu poetry was born. From a very young age, I discovered that words could express what everyday language could not. Poetry became my inner language, a way of understanding love, loss, identity, and human sensitivity.

What has arriving in Spain meant to you?

Arriving in Spain was part of an ongoing process of migration and personal reinvention. Every country involves learning new languages, cultures, and ways of belonging. Spain offered me a space where my scientific and artistic identities could grow together.

What is your relationship with poetry?

Poetry came into my life at a very early age. As a child, I began reading and writing verses, and later I formally studied the classical art of poetry—Fun-e-Shaeri—and poetic metrics (Arooz).

I also taught Urdu metrics and poetry in cultural circles and television programs in Ludwigshafen, Germany, as well as previously to young people—especially women—in Pakistan.

For me, poetry is not just art: it is emotional knowledge and inner reflection.

Are there many women poets in Pakistan? Which ones have influenced you the most?

Yes, Pakistan has a strong tradition of women poets. I deeply admire Zahra Nigah and Noshi Gilani, although the poet who has influenced me the most is Parveen Shakir. In fact, my master's thesis was dedicated to her work: a psychological analysis of the representation of women in her poetry.

Her writing reflects the female emotional world with enormous sensitivity: love, betrayal, loneliness, vulnerability, the pain of infidelity, motherhood, and the desire for dignity and empowerment. Through her, I learned that vulnerability can also be a form of strength.

Thanks to the Pakistani community in Barcelona, ​​you learned about the Mushaira tradition. Can you explain what it involves?
Mushaira is one of the most beautiful living poetic traditions of the Indian subcontinent: a collective gathering where poetry is shared and felt in community.

Historically, Mushairas were celebrated in royal courts, where poets recited ghazals, nazms, and other poetic forms before kings and scholars. Great figures such as Mir Taqi Mir, Mirza Ghalib, Allama Iqbal, and Faiz Ahmed Faiz enriched this tradition.

Unlike many Western poetry readings, the audience actively participates: expressing their admiration with the "Wah Wah" and requesting repetitions of verses with the "Mukarrar Irshad." Poetry thus becomes a truly shared emotional experience.

And Mushairas are also organized in Barcelona!

Yes, and it's a very important part of my cultural journey. I'm a founding member and vice-president of AhleQalam and the Urdu Academy Barcelona, ​​from where we've organized numerous international Mushairas in the city, creating a cultural bridge between East and West.

I previously organized Mushairas at the University of Heidelberg in Germany, and between 2011 and 2012 I coordinated international online poetry events through Radio Pakcelona Barcelona. We also collaborated on international conferences such as the Urdu Literature Encounters of Córdoba and Barcelona.

I have also had the honor of participating in recitals organized by the Barcelona City Council, especially on the occasion of International Women's Day.

One of the most special moments of my career was reciting a poem in front of the Sagrada Familia, while a Spanish poet recited it in Catalan. It was a symbolic moment: different languages ​​united by the same emotion.

What have been the biggest challenges in your life?

Language has been both my greatest challenge and my best teacher. My life has unfolded between Pakistan, Germany, and Spain, and each transition demanded learning new languages ​​to truly belong. I learned German and Catalan, and I continue to learn Spanish.

Migration is not just a geographical displacement: it is also an emotional and linguistic rebirth. Poetry has always been my anchor, the space where my identity never needed translation.

What makes you happiest?

Authentic human connections. Reading poetry, teaching, having deep conversations, and spending time with my family. Watching my son grow with curiosity and sensitivity is one of my greatest joys.

What is your dream?

Building bridges between cultures, languages ​​and generations through research and poetry, and keeping the beauty of Urdu literature alive in Europe.

Which woman has inspired you the most?

The greatest inspiration in my life has been my mother: a woman of quiet strength, patience, and dignity.
In literature, Parveen Shakir taught me that a woman can be intellectual, sensitive, and powerful all at once. Her poetry showed me that authenticity is, in itself, a form of courage.

What advice would you give to young women?

They should believe in education and in their own voice. Emotional and economic independence is essential. They shouldn't fear change, because growth always begins outside of their comfort zone.

Iram's recommendations

Favorite food: Pakistani home cooking, especially biryani
Poets: Parveen Shakir, Mirza Ghalib, Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Jaun Elia
Music: classical ghazals, especially Mehdi Hassan
Film: Kamli, for its psychological and emotional depth
Books: Deewan-e-Ghalib, Khushbu by Parveen Shakir and works on psychology
My favorite spot in Barcelona: Montjuïc at sunset, Plaza de España and the streets of the Gothic Quarter

Iram in video:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCbVat0eyk8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45_kFpJSFYI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adQRP1_TBRE

Interview conducted by Gaëlle Patin Laloy, head of the Interculturality Program of Casa Asia, on the occasion of March 8th.

Gran Dong was born in Seoul, South Korea, and currently lives in Madrid. She is a gayageum player, a traditional Korean stringed instrument, and a Korean language teacher.

What is your musical career in Korea?

Under the influence of my mother, a minhwa artist—a traditional Korean painter—I began learning gayageum at the age of seven. Later, I studied traditional Korean music at the National Institute of Traditional Arts of Korea, the Korea National University of Arts (K-arts), and Hanyang University.

Why did you decide to come to Spain?

The idea came from my mother. After I graduated, she suggested I could live in another country and promote Korean culture. While considering the best destination, I settled on Spain, a country renowned for its art and culture. Furthermore, there was no one performing traditional Korean music here, which led me to believe there was a lot of potential.

Once in Madrid, how did you start to spread traditional Korean music?

Upon arrival, I taught janggu and gayageum at the Korean Cultural Center in Spain and gave numerous concerts in collaboration with the Korean Embassy and the Cultural Center itself.

To learn more about Spanish music, I pursued a Master's degree in Spanish and Latin American Music at the Complutense University of Madrid. Although I didn't complete my Master's thesis, the experience allowed me to delve deeper into the musical tradition of this country. Later, I returned to Korea to complete a Master's degree in Korean Studies, and I am currently working on a PhD in Korean music at the Department of East Asian Studies at the Autonomous University of Madrid.

Over time, I began developing collaborative projects with Spanish musicians, arranging pieces from both traditions to perform together. I had the opportunity to perform as a gayageum soloist with the RTVE Orchestra, and one of the most special experiences was recording music with film score composer Roque Baños.

Can you introduce us to the gayageum?

The traditional gayageum has 12 strings and uses a pentatonic scale: G, A, C, D, and E. Today I also play the 25-string gayageum, which uses a seven-note scale and is more versatile for collaborating with Western music.

The gayageum is often compared to the Chinese guzheng and the Japanese koto. The main difference is that, while these two instruments are played with finger picks, the Korean gayageum is played directly with the fingers, giving it a softer, warmer sound.

With the traditional gayageum I play music like Arirang or Sanjo style; with the 25-string one I delve into the contemporary repertoire.

Thanks to your work, in Spain we have access not only to K-pop, but also to traditional and experimental Korean music.

K-pop is very popular in Spain, especially among young people, thanks to the influence of the Korean wave. However, traditional music is still not very well known, and that saddens me somewhat. That's why I try to offer more concerts and activities that bring this tradition closer to the Spanish public.

What projects are you currently working on?

I currently have two projects underway. The first is with my group: we're creating jazz fusion music based on the sanjo, a genre of traditional Korean music. We've already finished two pieces—Muwisa and Chamyari—released on an album available on Spotify, and we'll continue developing new sanjo pieces.

The second is a personal project I started two years ago: I visit schools in Spain to give talks about Korean culture and music to children and teenagers. The goal is to introduce Korea to students who still know little about the country.

What is the music scene like in Korea? How do K-pop and traditional music coexist?

Previously, many young people in Korea only listened to K-pop and showed little interest in traditional music. In recent years, however, this has begun to change: several K-pop artists have started incorporating elements of tradition, sparking the curiosity of new generations. When BTS performed "Arirang" at a concert in France, interest in the song grew significantly. BLACKPINK also incorporated the sound of the geomungo, a traditional Korean instrument, into one of their songs, further increasing people's interest in traditional instruments.

Furthermore, last year's success of K-pop's Demon Hunters also sparked interest in traditional Korean culture. On the other hand, JYP's new group Dodri, which bases its style on traditional music, shows that even within the K-pop industry, interest in traditional musical roots is growing.

Thanks to all of this, today K-pop and traditional Korean music interact and influence each other, creating new musical forms and coexisting in a very positive way.

What position do women occupy in the world of Korean music?

In the realm of traditional music, women's position was not always elevated. During the Joseon Dynasty, most court musicians were men, and their music was considered more prestigious than popular or folk music. Even after the Japanese occupation and independence, women dedicated to traditional music faced discrimination: lower salaries than their male colleagues and an inability to occupy prominent roles.

This situation led to the creation of a theater company made up solely of women: the Yeoseong Gukgeuk, or national women's theater.

Fortunately, the situation is slowly improving. Society is moving towards a time when talent matters, not gender. I hope that more and more talented female musicians will receive the recognition they deserve.

Do you want to share a dream?

I would like to train new generations of musicians. I would like to teach traditional Korean music to people in Spain so that, in the future, they too can pass it on to others. I dream of creating a group with Spanish musicians and traveling the world together, sharing this music.

What advice would you give to young women?

If there are things you want to do, dare to try them. Even if there are obstacles and you fail, it will help you grow, and you won't regret it.

Which woman has inspired you the most?

My mother, Kim Kyoung-bok, belongs to a generation where gender discrimination was still very strong. It was expected that, after marriage, a woman would dedicate herself to raising children and taking care of the home. She also left her job shortly after getting married and having my brother and me.

However, when we entered high school, she started painting again. Despite what people around her said, she continued creating her works with determination. At 60, she began her master's studies and finally earned her degree. Even now, she remains very active, receiving invitations to exhibit in countries such as China, Japan, Spain, France, Argentina, Mongolia, Turkey, and Russia.

Although she often heard comments like, "What is a mother doing painting and holding exhibitions? Stay home, take care of your children and attend to your husband," she never abandoned her dream and went on to become a wonderful minhwa artist (traditional Korean folk painting).

Seeing my mother taught me not to give up and to keep pursuing my dreams.

Instagram:

www.instagram.com/grancoreana

Interview conducted by Gaëlle Patin Laloy, head of the Interculturality Program of Casa Asia, on the occasion of March 8th.

Najiah was born and raised in Jawzjan province, Afghanistan. She studied economics and began working at the university. She tells us how her life changed drastically with the arrival of the Taliban. She has lived in Spain since 2022, thanks to the support of Afghan Women on the Run.

How would you define yourself and what would you like to highlight about your own journey?

I was born and raised in Afghanistan, in a province called Jawzjan, in the north of the country. I completed my primary and secondary education there. Afterwards, I went to India to study Economics, where I stayed from 2015 to 2018. At the end of that year, or perhaps in 2019, I returned to Afghanistan.

Since returning, I wanted to work for our people, especially for women and girls. I learned so much in India; when I arrived there, I didn't have much experience, but that time helped me grow and develop. So, when I came back, I started volunteering with an organization that provided education to women who couldn't access school or afford private tutoring. We also taught children who worked on the streets. I taught English and computer skills, giving them the skills they needed.

In 2019, I also began working as a teaching assistant at the university. Later, I worked at a high school for about a year and a half. In early 2021, the intensification of the war—coupled with the COVID-19 pandemic—forced us to stay home, and job opportunities were greatly reduced.

How did you experience the Taliban coming to power in 2021? What immediately changed in your life?

To the world it may seem that the Taliban arrived in a single day, but for us it wasn't like that. In some parts of Afghanistan there was resistance. In my city, the war lasted three or four months. The government forces didn't want to relinquish control easily, and there were continuous clashes.

During those months we were at home all the time, living in constant fear. I especially remember August 15th, when the Taliban took power. But even a month before that, it was impossible to sleep at night because we heard explosions constantly. The fear was overwhelming.

I have young nephews and nieces who were also scared, although they didn't fully understand the situation. I remember one of them saying he wanted to go and kill the Taliban, because he could hear the explosions and didn't understand what was happening.

At the beginning of August, we decided to leave our city because it was no longer safe. We went to another province, Balkh, in Mazar-i-Sharif, which is nearby. From that moment on, we lived in constant worry, following the news at all times, hoping the government could hold out. But in the end, they gave up, and the Taliban took power. That profoundly affected our lives.

Then you left the country. If I'm not mistaken, you went to Iran first and then arrived in Spain. What was that journey like?

I left Afghanistan in October 2021. There were reasons that forced me to leave, although I prefer not to go into details now. I went to Iran, where I stayed for a year, even though I only had a three-month visa—which, by the way, wasn't easy to obtain either.

At first, I thought it would be temporary and that I could return to my country, because I didn't imagine the Taliban would stay for so long. When my visa was about to expire and the situation in Afghanistan wasn't changing, I had to decide whether to renew it or leave for another country.

Extending my visa wasn't easy. Often, I had to pay under the table because the process wasn't handled legally. It was all done off the books. Plus, being a single woman in a vulnerable situation, some people tried to take advantage of me. I received messages from men who said they could help me with the visa, but they implied we had to be together in a room. It was a very difficult and terrifying situation.

I spent a year in Iran living alone. Finding work without a visa was very difficult, and it was also hard to find accommodation without being enrolled in a university. Furthermore, my family couldn't help me financially because my father's situation wasn't safe either.

I didn't want to go back to Afghanistan or accept that reality. I always thought I had to keep fighting. Finally, after a year of waiting, I was able to come to Spain in October 2022, thanks to the support of Afghan Women on the Run.

What have organizations like Afghan Women on the Run and Refugees Welcome meant to you, especially in terms of welcoming and coexisting?

When I arrived in Spain, I entered a government reception program that offers accommodation, food, and language classes for a year and a half. Adapting isn't easy: you come from a very difficult situation, and there are rules to follow.

Afghan Women on the Run accompanied me from Iran until I arrived here. Later, I met Refugees Welcome, and the people who work in these organizations have become like family to me. They are always there to support me. I had relatives in other countries who offered me help, but I decided to stay here because I felt like I already had my family in these organizations.

When you leave your country, it's very difficult to feel that another place can be your home. But when you find people who truly support you, you can begin to feel that way.

What would you like Spanish society to understand better about Afghan women?

I would like you to understand that we come from very difficult situations. With time we can recover, but that doesn't mean we forget everything we've been through.

Sometimes I feel like I get a lot of questions about wearing a hijab. Some people ask because they want to understand, but others do it in a way that feels like questioning or judging. We've already been through so much; we don't need any more pressure. Wearing or not wearing a hijab is a personal choice. Now I'm in a position where I can choose, and that's important.

I also think that sometimes people don't reach out to refugee women, and we need that support. It's hard to take the first step when you're learning a language or adapting to a new reality. Sometimes we wait for others to reach out. And it's not always about money; there are many ways to support: listening, being there for us, showing interest. I wish there were more empathy and a greater willingness to understand.

We all have the ability to do something, even if it's just getting closer to learn and bridging the gap of ignorance.

Yes. Some of us, like me, have been lucky enough to find people around us who understand us very well. Sometimes I don't even need to speak: just by looking at me, they know how I am. But I wish everyone could have that.

You studied Economics. What would you like to do in the next few years?

Sometimes I don't know. Maybe because the opportunities we had there were very limited. Sometimes I want to do too many things at once, and when you try to do too much, you end up not doing any of them well.

I studied Economics and then completed a master's degree in economic and business research. I've also taken a data analysis course, which could open doors for me in research or the business sector. Part of me wants to pursue a career in my field of study.

But at the same time, if I focus only on myself, I don't sleep soundly. Since returning from India to Afghanistan, I've always wanted to do something for the women there. I want to find more educational and employment opportunities for women and children. That's something that makes me feel good.

I know that education can change things. If I'm here today, it's because I had the opportunity to study, to open my eyes. That's why I want others to have that opportunity too. I'd like the school to grow and for us to be able to support more women. I don't know exactly how, but I know I don't want to give up on that idea.

This interview is published to mark March 8, International Women's Day. What message would you like to share with other women who have had to flee their country, or with women in general?

As a woman and as a refugee, I have lived through very difficult times, but I have never lost hope. There will be very dark days—that is inevitable—but they also pass. We must maintain hope, because without it it is very difficult to get back on our feet.

It's also important to feel a responsibility to support others. If I'm here with opportunities, and there's another woman in Afghanistan who doesn't have them, we're still equal. When we have opportunities, we should think about those who don't.

To women going through a difficult time, I would say have hope. The night may be very dark, but the day always comes. We don't know when, but it comes.

Do you have a project you'd like to share?

I'd like to talk about the online schools and classes we run through Afghan Women on the Run. These programs are aimed at Afghan girls living in Afghanistan, Iran, and Pakistan, where access to education is often very difficult.

We offer classes in English, Spanish, computer skills, and other subjects that help them develop skills and receive training. Our goal is to give them hope, knowledge, and opportunities they wouldn't otherwise have.

You can collaborate by giving classes as a volunteer, working as a language teacher, or participating as a conversation partner.

And finally, something lighter: do you have a favorite day of the year?

That's an interesting question. It's not easy for me to choose a specific day. When I think about it, I realize that I don't usually focus too much on birthdays or other celebrations.

I grew up in Afghanistan, in a context marked by uncertainty and conflict. That taught me to value other things. Instead of striving for a 'perfect' day, I learned to appreciate the calm and safe ones.

For me, my favorite day is any day when everything is calm: a day when I finish my workday peacefully, I don't receive bad news, my family is well, and I can go to sleep soundly. Those simple, stable days mean so much to me. And every time I have one like that, I feel incredibly grateful.

Thank you so much for the interview and thank you to Casa Asia for the work they do for us.

More information:
www.instagram.com/afghanwomenontherun/
www.instagram.com/refugeeswelcomees/

Interview conducted by Ona Albiol, student intern in the Diversity and Interculturality Program of Casa Asia, on the occasion of March 8th.

Rourou Ye is a dancer and choreographer born in Wenzhou, China, and recently settled in Barcelona. In this interview, she shares her educational and artistic journey and her creative process.
“I'm a visual artist, and dance is my tool.”

Wenzhou, Shanghai, New York, Los Angeles ÁngelesSan Francisco… Could you tell us about your career path and how you came to Barcelona?

I was born and raised in China in the late 80s. At 25, I took the plunge and moved to the United States, alone, with one clear ambition: to pursue my career as a choreographer. I enrolled in a graduate program in New York and, after graduating, stayed in the city to create. New York gave me six incredible years. Then I moved to the West Coast (Los Angeles). Ángeles and San Francisco) for four more years, which brought new energy and perspective to my practice.

It was in the United States that I met my partner, who is Portuguese. In 2024, we had a baby, and that changed everything, in a wonderful way. We decided to move to Barcelona together, looking for a better quality of life and a more welcoming environment to raise our son. And here I am, continuing my career as a choreographer and also developing my work as an online dance teacher.

Can you explain your education and professional background?

I started dancing at the age of 5. My initial training was based on folk dance and classical Chinese dance, and at the same time, I also trained in Chinese opera and kung fu. From a very young age, my body was shaped by these ancient and highly technical traditions.

When I moved to the United States, my world expanded completely. I discovered Western contemporary dance, postmodern dance, Broadway musical theater, and forms of street dance—all of which brought me a completely different physical and conceptual language. While pursuing my university studies at an art school, I was also exposed to multidisciplinary artistic work (theater, visual arts, multimedia), and that interaction became fundamental to my way of thinking and creating.

I have always had a deep interest in editing dance film and video, and over time, I have interwoven all these influences (classical Chinese roots, contemporary Western forms, the theatrical, the visual, the cinematic) into a comprehensive practice that is entirely my own.

What is your inspiration and your creative process?

At the heart of my creative approach lies a fascination with the everyday. I like to take everyday objects and spaces and look for the extraordinary angle hidden within them: a shadow, a type of light, an unexpected perspective. And then I ask myself: how can movement emerge from that?

For me, dance isn't just about dancing. It's about moving with intention. Every gesture, every shape the body makes, engages in a dialogue with a narrative. I'm deeply interested in storytelling, and particularly in the human struggle. The tensions, the contradictions, the silent resilience of humankind: that's what drives me to create.

So my process is based primarily on observation. I look. I find the angle that transforms perception. And then I explore how different qualities of movement can shape different stories: how the body becomes a vehicle for something much larger than itself.

Why did you come to Barcelona? What did you find here?

The initial reason was personal: my partner is Portuguese, we had our baby in 2024, and we wanted a better quality of life and a more welcoming environment to raise our child. When it came to choosing a place, Barcelona seemed perfect in every way.

It's an incredibly vibrant city: there's always something new happening in the world of art, culture, and entertainment. The location itself is almost surreal in its beauty: mountains on one side, the sea on the other. The climate invites you to be outdoors, to move around, to create.

And something that mattered more than I expected: there's a large Chinese community here. That means I can find my sense of belonging, stay connected to my roots, and, very importantly, find good Chinese food! It might seem like a small thing, but when you've moved countries several times, knowing you can find the taste of home means a lot.

What exactly do you do now here in Barcelona?

Really? First of all, I'm raising a baby.

My little one is almost two years old, and since I arrived in Barcelona, ​​motherhood has been my main focus. It's all-consuming, beautiful, and exhausting all at once.

But beyond that, I'm doing my best to continue presenting myself as an artist. I've just finished a performance and a residency at the Centre Cívic Barceloneta, which was a real milestone: a way to put down roots in the local creative scene.

And then there's my online teaching work, which has become my main daily mission. I've created a platform where I teach people to dance, completely from scratch, with no prior experience required. I have a large following on Chinese social media (Rednote and Bilibili), as well as on YouTube, where I reach Chinese-speaking audiences worldwide. It's not just about technique; I coach them daily, building a true community around movement and dance.

So my life here, right now, is a constant balancing act: between mother, choreographer, and educator. And I don't pretend it's always elegant. Finding that balance is really difficult. But I keep trying.

What do you see as the points of convergence between China and Spain?

When people ask me this, they probably expect an answer about history or trade routes. But for me, the connection is much more personal and heartfelt.

First and foremost is the food. The passion for food in Spain genuinely reminds me of China. In both cultures, food is not just sustenance, but fundamental to life, to gatherings, to identity. I found so much to love in Spanish cuisine, and that familiarity made me feel at home faster than I expected.

The second connection is family values. Here in Barcelona, ​​people are deeply family-oriented. There's a warmth and a sense of community in everyday life that feels much closer to my own Chinese culture than anything I've experienced in the United States. In the United States, individualism is everything. Here, it feels more like you're part of something bigger than yourself. That resonates deeply with me, both as a person and as a mother.

How do you express your migratory journey through dance?

The essence of the work I'm developing, "The Intangible Hallucination of Rourou during Daytime," is a questioning. A questioning of what it means to pursue a dream at all costs. Of the constant tension between following your own path and belonging to a place, to someone. Of sacrifice: what you give up and whether it was worth it.

My migration journey is interwoven in every layer. The longing for roots. The search for belonging. The impossible negotiation between family and dreams. Dance became the space where I could harbor all those questions without forcing an answer.

Could you share some tips or inspiration for young women based on your experience?

When I was in my twenties, I only saw my potential. I wanted to pursue my dream, and nothing else mattered. But as I grew older, reality set in: life becomes more complex, priorities shift, and you begin to see yourself and your place in the world more clearly.

And what I've learned is this: take care of yourself first. And I don't mean that lightly, but practically. Look at reality clearly. Understand the society you live in. Find a way to support yourself financially. Because the path of an artist, especially as a woman, is neither easy nor automatically rewarded.

So be smart with opportunities. Set your priorities clearly. Dreaming is essential, but so is building a foundation that can truly support that dream. The most radical thing you can do is figure out how to thrive and pursue what you love. Not one or the other.

More information:
Instagram: @rourou_dance
YouTube: https://m.youtube.com/@rouroudancecoaching
Website: www.rourouye.com

Interview conducted by Gaëlle Patin Laloy, head of the Interculturality Program of Casa Asia, on the occasion of March 8th.

Asyl Ryskulova Ibraeva defines herself as a syncretized Kyrgyz woman. She also presents herself as a mother, wife, and working woman, a poet and storyteller—a vital and complex exercise in navigating between identities that she shares in this interview. She was born in Kyrgyzstan and currently resides in Rubí (Barcelona).

How was your arrival in Spain?

My story begins with my uncle, my mother's brother. A handsome and intelligent Kyrgyz man, educated in Uzbekistan and with a doctorate from Moscow, he met a young Catalan-German woman in Bishkek in the 90s. They fell in love, and this time, the Kyrgyz 'abduction' (the famous kidnapping practiced in Central Asia) happened in reverse: she took him to Europe, becoming our foreign aunt, curiously named Núria (we have the same name in Kyrgyz).

Thanks to them, I arrived as an au pair to take care of my newborn cousin; I was nineteen at the time. In return, I studied Spanish in Barcelona.

But one year wasn't enough: I wanted more, my future was uncertain, and I dreamed of returning to Kyrgyzstan with a diploma, perhaps to teach the language. So I left my aunt and uncle's house, found a job, and continued studying. That's where my solo journey began, in Poblenou.

What surprised you most when you arrived?

Everything was different: the language, the customs, the people. I perceived a more distant sense of community than in Kyrgyzstan. However, as I learned Spanish, I found companionship in other young European women who became great friends. Since then, my best friend and 'European sister' has been Deirdre Payne, an Irish woman from Galway whom I met at ABC School in the Gràcia neighborhood.

What would you highlight about your childhood/adolescence in Kyrgyzstan?

I was born in a village called Manas, the land of the national hero for whom it is named and of the Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov, in the Talas region, in northwestern Kyrgyzstan. A place surrounded by majestic mountains.

As a child, I didn't have many toys, nor did I need them: the rivers, the flowers, and the stones were my playgrounds. The mountains and the steppes were my parks, where I played freely from sunrise to sunset. Summers were magical, filled with stars at night; it seemed as if I could reach out and catch one. In winter, the snow reached my knees and shone gold in the sun, or silver at night, and everything seemed like a fairy tale.

I eagerly awaited spring to search for the "baychechekey," flowers that bloom with the thaw. I would brush away the snow with my hands, gather them, and store them dry between the pages of my books.

And you had a special relationship with your grandmother…

The other side of my childhood was helping my dad, (water (meaning "mother" in Kyrgyz), was my paternal grandmother. After being widowed in her early thirties, she raised her five children alone. She and my grandfather had been accountants and merchants in the village, in a region where life revolved around agriculture; they were good people.

When my father went to university in the capital, he met my mother, a city girl who didn't want to live in the village. After I was born, they left me with my father, as an exchange for her freedom. It was common practice then in Kyrgyz culture, although that's changing today.

I grew up with her, between a farm and a vast orchard, feeling like we owned all the natural beauty that surrounded us. Until I was fifteen, I didn't know what it meant to generate waste or buy food: we made everything ourselves, from butter to preserves for the winter. In fact, if I were to list all the things we did, I'd never finish. Time seemed endless.

Amidst all the work, my dad taught me to read nature, to take care of the land and the animals, but above all, to value my studies and to keep striving.

And how was your move to the city?

The day I left the village, my mother spent the day in silence. I got on the bus and left her behind, just like that, to go to the capital, where my parents, my two brothers, and a new life awaited me at the Turkish Lyceum, where I had been accepted to complete my secondary education.

The change was significant: sometimes I felt lost in the city, but I found refuge in literature and poetry, in learning Turkish—a new language for me—and in improving my English. At school, I was very active: I participated in youth groups, the Young Poets' Union of the capital, and youth theater.

Four years later, before coming to Barcelona, ​​he had already written a couple of manuscripts of poetry in Kyrgyz.

What has been your educational background?

In Barcelona, ​​I obtained the C2 level of Spanish at the Drassanes Official Language School and completed a higher vocational training course in Administration at the Escola de Treball (2005). Shortly afterwards, I won a European Leonardo da Vinci scholarship and chose Cork, Ireland, where I completed a six-month internship at Apple Computers Europe (2007).

Later I obtained my C1 level in Catalan and started a degree in Psychology at the UOC (2015). Over time, and finding it impossible to manage everything, I put it on hold and switched to Humanities, which I'm currently studying at my own pace, that is, slowly, and I hope to finish it before I retire (laughs).

Do you combine a job at a company with your activity as a poet?

I have always worked in private companies, mostly in the technology sector, performing different roles, from administrative to collections manager, adapting to the opportunities and each professional stage.

You also write short stories…

In parallel, my creative side — short stories, poetry or exhibitions about Kyrgyzstan — has always been a voluntary contribution, my small grain of sand to society.

To say I'm a writer is a big claim; I consider myself more of an aspiring writer. A couple of years ago, I self-published Oriental Parables, in Catalan and Spanish, a collection of stories translated from Kyrgyz—and some from Russian and Turkish—that are part of the tales I heard and read in my childhood and adolescence.

They all have their origins in Muslim cultural tradition and speak of beauty, spirituality, and romance. With this book, I also wanted to contribute to my culture and offer another perspective, far removed from stereotypes, because I—and everyone in Kyrgyzstan—are taught only the beauty of Islam.

You might also be interested in spreading Kyrgyz culture here…

Years ago, I participated, along with my uncle, in several exhibitions about Kyrgyzstan in Casa AsiaLater, I also collaborated on other initiatives with the Barcelona writer Eduard Balsebre, through his association Amu Daria, and with the Catalan association Coneguem el Món.

Is there a Kyrgyz association in Spain?

Yes, we have a WhatsApp group for Kyrgyz people in Spain. In Madrid, my fellow Kyrgyz woman Altinay leads the Sumalak association, and in Barcelona, ​​my uncle, Samagan Ibraev, founded Kerben to promote Kyrgyzstan in Catalonia, of which I am a member. Today, Kyrgyzstan is a very popular destination for Spaniards and Europeans in general, and there is a lot of information and travel agencies available online.

You're also a mother, how do you raise your children while navigating between two cultures?

I have two teenage sons, and thank God they're good kids. Raising children in two cultures is a big challenge: managing two or more languages ​​at home and navigating cultural differences isn't always easy. Sometimes my sons feel conflicted by what they hear about the Muslim world or absurd comments about my integration, my way of dressing, or my refusal to eat pork.

Luckily, I have a husband who's like an angel, who supports me and respects every decision. That's enough for me: I trust that my children will find their own way.

What were the most difficult challenges you have faced and how did you overcome them?

After my first year in Barcelona, ​​I left my aunt and uncle's house and had to fend for myself, but the weight of my past still loomed large. I felt like an old woman trapped in a young body, and somehow I had lived life through my father's eyes, feeling his pain and worries. My uncle's family, especially his German mother-in-law, helped me find a therapist who convinced me to live like a young woman and not be so melancholic.

That's how I closed the chapter on Kyrgyzstan, and with it, my spiritual practice, trying to feel young and European while studying Spanish in the mornings, vocational training in the afternoons, and working weekends without a break for three years. In the fourth year, exhausted and longing for the mountains, I traveled to Paris, Brussels, and Madrid, thinking I already wanted to return to Kyrgyzstan. That summer, back in Barcelona, ​​I met my husband at the Asia Festival. It wasn't love at first sight; love came later, but with time I felt rejuvenated, and we got married a few years later.

But then came motherhood, and with it, the specters of the steppe's glaciers. With my first child, I had to travel to Kyrgyzstan to learn from my mother how to raise a child, how to start from scratch in motherhood. That period was difficult: as a woman, a mother, and a person, even with the help of my husband's family, I felt alone. There, I understood the reason for the Kyrgyz tradition that a woman, if she isn't the mother, must always accompany the new mother for the first forty days. I went back to the therapist from my youth, and together with my husband, we decided that I would stop working for a few years to focus on raising my child and taking care of my physical and emotional well-being.

That's when I saw life as a second chance: to be reborn with my children and learn all over again. Although I love my childhood, I understood what was beautiful and what wasn't so beautiful, and no matter how much I consciously thought or said – “Come on! Why so much sadness if I haven't experienced famine, I haven't seen wars, or catastrophes” – my subconscious had registered the other side of my experiences.

In that process, I began to explore my religion from a spiritual perspective, which saved me from chronic depression. And if there is a time when the soul seeks profound answers, motherhood is undoubtedly one of them.

And the most rewarding aspect of the spiritual quest, as it teaches us over the years, is that ultimately it doesn't matter where or into what family you are born. We all carry an "invisible burden" that is heavy for everyone, both to others and to each of us. The important thing is to raise our consciousness: that's what it's all about. This way, you don't focus solely on your own experiences, nor do you wallow in self-pity for what your life is or was, but rather you begin to empathize with and easily understand others.

Do you still have family in Kyrgyzstan?

My brother and his family, along with my paternal aunts and uncles, are still in Bishkek, the capital. Some are in Talas. And my mother lives in Valencia with my sister, but she wants to return to Kyrgyzstan after more than ten years in Spain.

How do you see the situation of women in Kyrgyzstan?

As I've been saying, Kyrgyzstan is a Muslim country, but very different from what people here think about Muslim countries or Muslim women. I have friends who are teachers, entrepreneurs, and textile factory managers, all with three or four children, their jobs, and beautiful homes without "thousand-year" mortgages, and I always wonder how they do it.

Do you want to share a dream?

My dream is to be able to pass on to my children the values ​​that have been passed on to me, so that, despite the difficulties, they know how to do good, seek the meaning of truth and know how to share it.

What advice would you give to young women?

My advice to young people: dreaming of making a lot of money is fine (especially if you know you'll be in debt to the bank for life here in Spain), but don't forget that material wealth isn't everything. It's essential to cultivate moral and spiritual knowledge, which helps us resolve internal conflicts and conflicts with others, and to understand life better. And never stop learning and growing as individuals: your professional identity can change with a change of boss or a crisis, but your personal identity doesn't. As Confucius said, we are not complete without the union of mind, body, and soul.

Which woman has inspired you in your life and why?

There are several women in my life who inspire me: my father, who instilled in me the same sensitivity as the strength of the steppes; my mother, with her handmade spaghetti, a recipe she learned from her own mother; my sister, with her concern for every member of the family. And among great figures in history, I'm left with two: Kurmanjan Datka, the Queen of the Mountains who ruled Kyrgyzstan during its annexation by imperialist Russia. A fascinating leader and politician of the Kyrgyz people in the 20th century. XIX, whose film I highly recommend, and Mother Teresa, for her unconditional love for others.

Asyl recommends us….

Kurmanjan Datka's film, "Queen of the Mountains." Leader and politician of the Kyrgyz people in the 20th century XIX.

Links and networks:

Instagram: @amorespetoinspiro
As an author: https://editorialcirculorojo.com/autores/asyl-ryskulova-ibraeva/

This interview was conducted by Gaëlle Patin Laloy, head of the Diversity and Interculturality Program, on the occasion of March 8th.

Anoushka was born in Jaipur, India, though her parents are from Kolkata and Pune. She has lived in London and has been in Barcelona for over 20 years. She divides her time between kathak dance and her family's restaurants. Her most notable stage project was with Abhir Hathiramani, a rapper from the Canary Islands with Indian heritage. She tells us about it here.

You have two lives (at least). How do you like to introduce yourself: dancer, entrepreneur…?

I like to introduce myself as a kathak dancer, although I'm also exploring other dance styles like ballet, contemporary, and urban dance. My strength is kathak: I've been training for ten years under the mentorship of Shreyashee Nag. I'm part of his dance company and I also teach some classes. Kathak is one of the eight classical dances of India and has many similarities to flamenco. In fact, it's said that flamenco may have its roots in kathak: they are similar in footwork, turns, hand movements, and even rhythms.

I also work in Guest Relations, as I have a degree in Tourism and Hotel Management. I work at one of the restaurants in the Bembi SL Group, a chain of Indian restaurants in Barcelona, ​​each with its own distinct identity: from traditional cuisine to street food and South Indian dishes. My main role is handling reservations, emails, and group bookings, but since it's a small group, I do a bit of everything: marketing-related art direction, front-of-house support as a waitress… a little bit of everything, really.

Before arriving in Barcelona, ​​your family lived in London. Did you have family connections in Spain? What kind of relationship do you have with India?

I was born in Jaipur, India, but only lived there for the first three years of my life. I often visit my family and feel Indian in many aspects of my life.
We moved to London when I was three years old, due to my parents' job opportunities. Later, when I was almost eight, we came to Barcelona again for a job opportunity, this time as entrepreneurs. They created their own restaurant company and became pioneers in bringing quality Indian cuisine to Barcelona in 2006 with our first restaurant, Bembi. Before moving, we already had family here (cousins ​​and aunts and uncles), who are still our closest family today. My grandparents live in India, so we travel there frequently, and they also come to visit us.

Did your path in the restaurant sector come from a family business?

Absolutely. Having parents who have dedicated their entire lives to the restaurant and hospitality industry, I grew up surrounded by that environment and learned to appreciate the details of service, food, and quality. They were the ones who introduced me, directly and indirectly, to this world. The hospitality industry is a very demanding job, and I've seen that reflected in their lifestyle. Entrepreneurship is often romanticized: it has its benefits, yes, but it always involves a significant personal cost. I would say that my parents are a huge source of admiration for me. I've grown up to be a resourceful, energetic, and disciplined person, thanks to seeing the efforts they have made—and continue to make—every single day.

I've read that your family has opened some of the best Indian restaurants in Barcelona. What's it like being part of a family business?

(Laughs) It would be immodest to say we're the best Indian restaurants in Barcelona, ​​but I can assure you that we're pioneers in our culinary offerings and that we've been in the Barcelona restaurant industry for over 20 years. Simply put: what we do, we do well. In 2022 we won a national competition (Game of Cartes) as the best Asian restaurant in Barcelona.

We currently have four restaurants with distinct offerings. Bembi, founded in 2006, provides a traditional Indian dining experience in a modern setting. Rangoli, founded in 2011, focuses on Indian street food and some traditional dishes. Both share certain similarities. Mumak Tropical, in Ibiza, founded in 2015, is the only one that doesn't belong to the Bembi Group and isn't an Indian restaurant: it offers tropical cuisine (Peruvian, Jamaican, Mexican, and Indian dishes, exotic sandwiches, cocktails, etc.) and caters to a very different clientele.

The latest is Little Andaman, founded in 2020, which offers coastal and South Indian cuisine in a tapas format, along with signature cocktails. I've worked at Little Andaman since its inception, primarily with my father. Initially, I thought working with family might be more challenging, but the experience has been very positive: I'm given responsibility, and my ideas are highly valued. I think that's key: giving space and recognition to new generations.

My parents are the heart and soul of the project. When a project is yours, you nurture it like a child, and that's why the work doesn't just stay at work: it often comes home with us. It's something we've normalized and that's part of our lives.

From culinary tradition to entrepreneurship… and on your path as a dancer, how did traditional dance lead you to rap?

My mentor, Shreyashee Nag, is the one who introduced me to the art of kathak. It's a discipline that's not very well known in Spain, and besides connecting me with my culture, it sets me apart as a dancer. Thanks to kathak, I've had some amazing opportunities, the most notable being the 2024 tour with the Indo-Canarian rapper Abhir Hathiramani, with his album Brown Boy. I was his lead dancer during the tour, choreographing and performing in about 40 concerts throughout Spain and at festivals like Sónar, Arenal Sound, and Fan Futura, among others.

I'm always grateful that I trained first in classical dance and not directly in commercial dance. Technique gives you the foundation to develop other skills: understanding comes not only from movement, but from body awareness and the roots of movement.

How did you develop a passion for dance?

I've been dancing since I was little, but I started taking it professionally when I began kathak. It wasn't immediate, because it's a very demanding classical dance. I started for the love of it, because I've always loved to dance and face challenges. Kathak is one of the greatest challenges of my life, and I know it always will be. You never truly finish learning: there's no basic level, everything can be advanced if you pay attention to the nuances.

I only recently began to see Kathak as a career path. My guru, Shreyashee Nag, has always seen potential in me and has encouraged me to focus my energy on rehearsal and prioritize this discipline. In addition, for the past three and a half years, I have been complementing my training with Western-based techniques: ballet and jazz with Andrea Sala, and instruction from Albert Sala.

How do a traditional dance like kathak and rap interact? How do these two narratives coexist?

They may seem like completely different worlds, but they have many things in common. Kathak is a classical dance closely tied to rhythm. As dancers, we always strive to complete the rhythmic cycles effectively, and recitation is fundamental to our practice. If you think about it, rap is also based on reciting over a beat. In Kathak, we use words that imitate percussion instruments like the tabla or the pakhawaj. When we recite fast compositions, it almost sounds like we're rapping.

With Abhir Hathiramani, that dialogue was very natural. His album embraces his Indian roots and the classical cultural element, which is what I represented. Sometimes I danced to his rhythm, other times to his lyrics. I even suggested an interlude where I recited a technical piece at high speed, as if I were rapping. The audience was blown away.

What are your future plans?

My goal is to develop my own projects, especially Jhansi ki Rani, which is what I'm most focused on this year. It's a piece about a historical female figure: a warrior queen who fought against the British during the colonization of India. On April 18th, I'll be presenting a five-minute excerpt, with the idea of ​​expanding it to at least fifteen minutes. It's about female empowerment and blends kathak with martial arts, as I'm a black belt in judo. I want to produce the music, record it, and take it to different performance platforms. I feel very motivated.
I also have other choreographic projects in mind, although they don't require as much dedication as Jhansi ki Rani.

As a woman, how do you navigate between all these worlds?

We live in a world where the effort a woman has to make to achieve the same results as a man is usually greater. I feel like we constantly have to prove our worth and that we aren't always given the same opportunities. From a young age, a phrase really stuck with me: "Do whatever you want, but whatever you do, do it well; be the best at it." It's a powerful phrase, but it also carries a lot of pressure. Even so, it's what motivates me to keep fighting and give my best.

I have the support of my family and those around me, and that helps me a lot. I'm an energetic, determined, and quite uninhibited person. I strongly believe in being natural: it's undervalued and inspires a great deal of confidence. Speaking your mind is something women are often not taught to do. You have to speak up, communicate, and not let yourself be paralyzed by the judgment of others, because that judgment will always exist.

Which women have been a source of inspiration for you?

Many: my mother, my grandmother, my sister, my teachers, my friends. I learn every day from my surroundings and I surround myself with women I admire.

Anoushka recommends…

Music: emerging talent in Spain such as Judeline, Ralphie Choo, Abhir, Mala Cotton, San Tosielo, Bad Gyal, among others.
Films: mamma mia, the movie I've seen the most times.
A corner of Barcelona: strolling through the Born is always a good choice.

Links:
https://www.instagram.com/anoushka_dasgupta/
https://www.youtube.com/@anoushka_dasgupta

This interview was conducted by Gaëlle Patin Laloy, head of the Diversity and Interculturality program at Casa Asiaand Claudia MarIban Lopez, a student at UPF, on the occasion of March 8th.

Rosie Nguyen was born in Hanoi and currently lives in Mallorca. She is a visual artist and writer, although in Vietnam she led a completely different life and had entirely different aspirations. She studied two degrees—Finance and Law—and worked in a bank, a marketing agency, and for seven years as a police officer. She left it all to study Fine Arts in Barcelona and later settled in Mallorca, where she pursues her artistic career. She also spearheaded the creation of the Union of Creators of Mallorca, with the aim of transforming the island's cultural ecosystem.

What were the circumstances of your arrival in Spain?

I arrived in Spain at 34, after making the most difficult decision of my life: leaving everything behind in Vietnam. I had traveled all over Europe, and Barcelona was the city that left the biggest mark on me, so I decided to return on a student visa to learn Spanish and, later, pursue a master's degree in business.

And how did you end up becoming an artist in Mallorca?

The pandemic changed my plans, and deep down, it was for the better. After a year of the pandemic, I studied Fine Arts in Barcelona for a year. In March 2022, I moved to Mallorca. The relationship that had brought me to the island ended a month after I arrived, in Caimari. At that point, I had to choose: return to Barcelona or stay alone on an island I barely knew. I decided to stay, and it was the best decision I've ever made.

You arrived in Spain at 34. What did you do before?

I had a very structured life in Hanoi. I studied two degrees simultaneously—Financial Administration at La Trobe University and Law at Hanoi Law University—and then worked at a bank, a marketing agency, and finally for over seven years as a police officer. It's a family tradition: most of my relatives have served in the military or security forces. It was the path laid out for me. I followed it for many years, but there was always something inside me pulling me in a different direction.

What would you highlight about your childhood?

I grew up in Hanoi in a family with limited resources. My parents studied and worked for the government at the same time, and there were times when I was left alone at home, staring at the ceiling and inventing characters. I was very imaginative. Despite the financial difficulties, my mother never hesitated to invest in my education: I learned dance, martial arts, and drawing. No one in my family is involved in the arts, but she always found good teachers for me, no matter the weather. I owe her a great deal.

What do you miss?

What I miss most about Vietnam is the food. Vietnamese culinary culture is extraordinary, especially in Hanoi, where there are secret cafes known only to those who know where to look. And, of course, I miss my family.

I also miss the smells and sounds of Hanoi: the bustle of the market in the morning, the aroma of the Noodle Soup Freshly made coffee, those cafes hidden in inner courtyards behind discreet facades. I also miss the human density, that way of living very close to one another that doesn't exist in Mallorca, although here I have found something equally valuable: the space to be with myself.

What was the most surprising thing when you arrived in Spain?

The pace. In Vietnam, everything is fast-paced, communal, noisy. Here, I discovered calm as something valuable, not as a lack. The hardest thing was learning to be alone in a practical way: in Vietnam, I was always surrounded by family and a constant support network. Here, I had to learn to cook, to take care of myself, and to solve problems on my own. Even so, I was never completely alone: ​​the people of Mallorca—especially in Muro and Cala Millor/Cala Bona—opened their doors to me with a generosity that still moves me.

Can you explain your artistic career?

As a child, I won my first drawing prize when I was about 12, and from then on, my mother always guided me down that path. However, when I took the entrance exam for art school in Vietnam, I missed it by half a point. That half point led me to study Law and Business Administration, and for years art took a backseat, though it never completely disappeared.

So, were you already interested in art studies? What was the turning point?

The pandemic was the catalyst. I started creating my first watercolor paintings during lockdown, and then I enrolled in a year-long drawing course at the Barcelona Art Academy. It was a revelation. At 36, surrounded by students fresh out of high school, I realized I'd waited too long and couldn't afford to take it any less seriously. I worked hard. Since 2021, I've made great progress, and I think I had a talent that had remained dormant for far too long.

Can you explain your artistic work to us?

I primarily work in realist painting: portraits, the human figure, and nature. I trained in classical 19th-century techniques. XIX—graphite, charcoal, watercolor, and oil—copying masters like Fortuny, Sorolla, Ramón Casas, and Miguel Blay. Precision is fundamental: precision in structure and in the values ​​of light. But within that rigor, I also seek to capture something more subtle: what lies beneath the surface of a face, a flower, or a landscape.

And are you also a writer?

Yes. Painting isn't my only language. I'm also a writer, and for me, writing is a tool for action. In Vietnam, I studied how great leaders used the written word to transform realities. Ho Chi Minh, one of the greatest communication strategists in modern history, used writing as a weapon to help the world know and understand Vietnam. I carry that lesson with me.

Today I apply that same principle as founder of the Union of Creators of Mallorca: I write articles, proposals and manifestos —not to make noise, but to change real conditions and reach the heart of the public and institutions—.

I also teach drawing and painting, and that exchange with the students is another form of practice. Everything I learned in Vietnam—rigor, strategy, the ability to communicate precisely—I apply here now. My mission is clear: to make Mallorca a fairer place for all artists.

Sayeh Somayeh Sabokbar was born in Kermanshah province, Iran, and currently lives in Barcelona. She is a poet, artist, writer, and teacher. Sayeh is her stage name and symbolizes a constant presence, like an ever-present yet subtle image. She teaches Art History and Persian (Farsi). She is the author of a book of poetry. Shadows (in Persian), from the graphic novel 23 hours plus 60 minutes on the street, and of the books A new look at the art of the Qajar period y The color of the gender. Some of his poems have been interpreted as songs and also adapted for musical compositions and film soundtracks.

Are you a poet, artist, and illustrator? Can you explain your career path?

My career path lies at the intersection of literature, art, and teaching. I began painting as a child, inspired by my mother, who was a still-unknown artist in the world of carpet pattern design. Her creative eye for color and form ignited my first sparks of interest in art and taught me to see image and word as tools for expressing emotions and experiences.

Over the years I began writing poetry and fiction, and I soon discovered that writing was not just a hobby, but a means of understanding the world and communicating profound human experiences. For many years I was a tenured professor in Iran, teaching Art History and Graphic Design, and guiding young generations in the discovery and practice of art, sharing with them a passion for critical thinking and creativity (I say "they" because in Iran, up to the university level, schools are often segregated by gender).

Later, I published essays on the philosophy of art, poetry collections, and narrative works, and in recent years I have focused on graphic storytelling and interdisciplinary projects, because I believe that the combination of image and word allows for a deeper exploration of identity, migration, and the female experience. Today, in addition to continuing my artistic and teaching projects, I am pursuing a doctorate in Humanities in Barcelona, ​​with the desire to transform my lived experiences into a bridge between cultures and a universal artistic language.

How did you get to Spain?

I could say that, perhaps, it was because of a great love. I came to Spain to continue my artistic and literary pursuits in an international and pluralistic environment, and also to develop my research on the art of Muslim women in a space where one can speak freely about the female experience. Barcelona, ​​with its cultural and artistic richness, offered the opportunity to engage with different languages, traditions, and perspectives, something I consider fundamental to my development as an artist and writer.

I should add that, despite the limitations women face in some countries, including Iran, many forms of creativity find new avenues of expression. Sometimes, that very voice that emerges from the silence acquires its own strength, which could be the story of many women in my country. On the other hand, migration means starting from scratch and leaving behind everything built in one's country of origin, a process that can be very difficult and demanding, but which at the same time opens up opportunities for growth and the discovery of new dimensions of creativity and experience.

How do you remember your childhood in Iran? What would you highlight?

My childhood was spent in a culturally rich family steeped in valuable traditions; I was born in the province of Kermanshah, in western Iran. In the warm and close-knit atmosphere of my home, the richness of our traditions and my interest in art gradually took shape, and my mother's works and teachings profoundly influenced this period, along with the stories of Shahnameh Ferdowsi, as my grandmother told me.

Figure 1. Excerpts from "A Persian Woman in Catalonia," an as-yet-unpublished graphic novel by Sayeh Somayeh Sabokbar

At the same time, life outside the home meant facing social limitations, especially for women. Even white shoes or shoes of any color other than black were forbidden for girls in primary school and at other educational levels. In childhood drawings, all the princesses from fairy tales, like BlancaSnow White or Cinderella wore dark (black) fabrics. That's right: the experience of censorship began in school. From then on, I learned to find ways to express my creativity within those limits. These experiences shaped my artistic and literary sensibility and motivated me to explore different disciplines, from painting to poetry and graphic storytelling.

Figure 2. Excerpts from "A Persian Woman in Catalonia," an as-yet-unpublished graphic novel by Sayeh Somayeh Sabokbar

My adolescence was marked by intellectual curiosity and the discovery of different forms of artistic and literary expression. It could be said that the combination of my family's support, protection, and constant encouragement, on the one hand, and the social challenges I faced, on the other, helped shape a critical, inquisitive, and creative perspective that still guides my work today.

Did you train in visual arts in Iran?

My training in art and design began in Iran. I first obtained an Associate of Science degree in Graphic Design from Kermanshah Technical University; subsequently, a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Tehran, and later a Master of Fine Arts degree in Visual Communication. Currently, as I have already mentioned, I am pursuing a PhD in Humanities at Pompeu Fabra University in Barcelona.

My education and research have always been deeply intertwined with my personal experiences and encounters with various limitations. For many, my lived experience appears only as a distant and mediated image, conveyed through layers of media, cultural biases, and social and religious restrictions. Confronting this distance and censorship, especially in Iran and during the publication of my third book, The color of genderIt defined my research and artistic path and led me to ask a fundamental question: why are the works of Muslim women in the history of art not shown, or when they are shown, do they appear as distant, strange, and silent images?

This question, along with my personal experience as a woman, a Muslim artist, and a migrant, marked the beginning of my doctoral research and shaped my critical, theoretical, and emotional approach. This path also led me to Spain, and especially to Catalonia, where for the first time I found the opportunity to create freely and for the voices of Muslim women to be heard in an open space without visible restrictions. This experience not only broadened my research on the art of Muslim women but also allowed me to continue my artistic and academic journey from an open, multicultural, and profoundly human perspective, transforming my lived experience into a tool for analysis and expression.

How have you seen the situation change in Iran, especially for women?

The situation in Iran has changed over the years, but these changes are often fraught with contradictions. On the one hand, civil society, and especially women, have developed a very strong social and cultural awareness. Iranian women actively participate in education, art, literature, and many other areas of intellectual and cultural life. Despite the social and legal limitations that still exist, what impresses me most is the strength and resilience of Iranian women.

Many of them continue to create, study, write, and participate in cultural life with great determination. For those who haven't experienced this reality firsthand, it can be difficult to grasp or even imagine the complexity of this experience. The daily lives of many women in Iran are marked by a constant negotiation between limitations and desires for freedom. In this context, art and literature become fundamental spaces for expression: not only as creative outlets, but also as spaces for reflection and cultural resistance.

Figure 3. Excerpts from "A Persian Woman in Catalonia," an as-yet-unpublished graphic novel by Sayeh Somayeh Sabokbar

How do you develop your creative process?

My creative work often stems from observation and memory. I'm interested in how personal experiences, history, and culture can be transformed into images and narratives. In my projects, I usually begin with an idea or a question, and from there I search for the most appropriate visual or literary form to develop it. Sometimes this process materializes in illustrations; other times, in writing or graphic storytelling.

For me, the creative process is also a form of research: a way to explore emotions, symbols, and experiences that often cannot be expressed solely with words.

And you're a multidisciplinary artist…

Yes, I work in a multidisciplinary way and I'm interested in exploring different artistic languages. However, poetry is a fundamental and primary medium for me. It allows me to express emotions, personal and social experiences, as well as my critical perspective, in a direct and profound way. On the other hand, graphic storytelling, comics, and illustration offer me the possibility of creating different combinations and generating a space where word and image converse with each other, allowing me to convey multiple layers of meaning and emotion.

Some of my poems have been published, and several have been adapted into songs, musical compositions, and film soundtracks. Perhaps it could be said that some of my poems function as a mirror of society: sometimes they are metaphors for equality; other times, voices of protest, defensive or born from silence and repression. In this way, poetry can remain alive and transmit its message through different languages.

How do you use art to express your ideas?

I use art and literature as forms of thought and dialogue. My projects begin with questions, observations, or personal and social experiences, and from there I seek the most appropriate way to express them. They allow me to transform emotions and experiences into images, symbols, and narratives that invite reflection and questioning.

What has been the most difficult challenge you have faced and how did you overcome it?

One of the biggest challenges was creating and disseminating my work in a context where censorship and cultural and social restrictions limited expression, especially as a woman in Iran. My first book of poetry, published in 2009, was not authorized due to the climate of protests from the Green Movement. I say “authorized” because all artistic and cultural productions—including poetry, novels, visual arts, and film—must first obtain official permission from the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance before being published.

This process is extremely demanding, as even certain words or images must be censored if they could be considered problematic. I remember one day when a visual art project and mural by my students was presented at the school, and the principal asked me to remove the lips from the images of women because they could be provocative and there would be male visitors. Experiences like this were tough and challenging, but they taught me to turn obstacles into opportunities to discover new voices and perspectives, enriching my artistic language and my way of telling stories.

Figure 4. Excerpts from "A Persian Woman in Catalonia," an as-yet-unpublished graphic novel by Sayeh Somayeh Sabokbar

What challenges have you faced since arriving in Barcelona?

I arrived in Spain, in Barcelona, ​​in October 2020. Like every country, Spain was immersed in the COVID-19 crisis, and at first, everything was confusing. The moment I set foot in the city, a wave of loneliness suddenly washed over me. However, I tried to move forward with determination and not look back. Leaving behind everything you've built over the years is very difficult, but I had made this decision with more resolve than ever before.

I told myself, "You're a strong woman, like your mother, so you can start over." I lifted my head and carried my suitcases—full of memories of my mother, my books, and a few clothes—on that rainy, lonely day.

At that time, my Spanish level was B2, as I knew I needed to master the language to participate in the PhD program. I soon managed to rent an apartment in the heart of Barcelona's historic district, near the beautiful Palau de la Música Catalana. Next, I needed to find a job, but I discovered that students weren't allowed to work at that time. During the COVID crisis, I began creating the graphic novel. 23 hours plus 60 minutes on the street, a work that speaks of the pandemic through the language of symbols and metaphors, at the same time as I began my doctoral research.

Those were days full of stress and challenges, but, moving forward step by step, this book was published in Spain in 2022. I took my first steps in another country and had to keep going; and I'm still walking, always forward, never backward.

Figure 5. Excerpts from 23 Hours Plus 60 Minutes on the Street, a graphic novel by Sayeh Somayeh Sabokbar, published in 2022 by ECC, Spain

Do you have family in Iran, and what news do you receive, if any?

Yes, my family lives in Iran. Despite the difficult conditions, restrictions, and lack of communication, speaking to or maintaining any kind of contact with them is very complicated. Many people follow the news from Iran on television or their mobile phones, but my family and friends see the explosions from their windows.

With the sound and shockwave of the explosions, their hearts tremble, but they do not abandon their homes and remain steadfast until spring arrives. Though instead of the scent of flowers and buds they perceive the smell of gunpowder and smoke, and their sky has been gray for years, hope still lives on in the hearts of my people.

What future can we fear or dream of?

The future is unpredictable and may be full of challenges, but at the same time, it is brimming with hope. People and communities, especially women and young people, are always striving to make their voices heard and pave the way for change and justice. A future where freedom of expression, equality, and human rights are respected for all can become a reality if there is global awareness and solidarity.

Do you think the situation is well understood here?

Perhaps some people can empathize, others judge or even debate what is happening, but the true reality is only known to those who live it day after day. From the outside, the situation may seem simple or clear, but those who inhabit it perceive the complexity of every decision, every silence, and every gesture. Life there unfolds amidst visible and invisible restrictions, between fear and small acts of resistance; only those who experience it can fully understand that delicate balance between surviving, creating, and maintaining hope.

What can we do from here?

From the outside, our action can consist of listening attentively, learning about the realities others face, amplifying their voices, and supporting their struggles with solidarity. It's not just about observing, but about committing to justice and respect for human rights, offering support within our own means and contexts.

Do you want to share a dream?

I dream of a world where everyone can express themselves freely, create without fear, and live in communities where equality, mutual respect, peace, and tranquility are the norm. A world where cultural diversity and creativity are celebrated, and where young people and women can be fully heard and valued.

What advice would you give to young women?

I would tell them to trust in their strength and creativity, to learn to transform obstacles into opportunities, and to never underestimate the power of their voice. I would tell them to pursue their dreams with courage, cultivate curiosity and resilience, and remember that their experience and vision have unique value in the world.

Which woman has inspired you in your life and why?

The woman who has inspired me most is someone I've known since the moment I opened my eyes to the world: my mother. I will always be grateful for her efforts, her teachings, and her love. Although I lost her many years ago, her memory remains a constant source of energy, inspiration, and guidance in my life.

In the literary sphere, since my adolescence I have been deeply drawn to the poetry of Forugh Farrokhzad. His verses taught me to listen to my inner voice, to question established norms, and to express my emotions and thoughts with sincerity and courage.

Can you share some recommendations with us?

If you want to learn more about Iran and its people's culture, I recommend reading about its civilization and traditions. The works of contemporary Iranian writers and artists offer a vivid picture of the life, feelings, and resilience of its people. Iranian music, especially traditional and fusion music, is also a unique window into its culture and spirit.

And we would like to read a few lines of your poetry…

I would like to share here one of my poems, written for the people of my country; a poem about the sighs and weary longings of these days:

“I want to breathe, but the air smells like smoke,
to hot metal and half-burned dreams.
My chest rises and falls, but it's like the sea
I wouldn't want to give my lungs back.

I wish I had two wings.
Not big, mythical wings…
Solor two simple wings,
like a child's wish by the sea.

I would fly over the mines hidden in the earth,
between cities whose names have been lost under the ash,
far from the sirens that beat the heart like a cold wave.

I would climb, higher and higher,
until the war became small,
until people became people again,
until the earth remembered that it was created to flourish, not to burn.

And then, soft and light,
I would arrive at a place where light is only light,
without a shadow of fear, without a trace of gunpowder.

A place where I can breathe…
deep, without pain,
like the first breath after swimming in a calm sea.”

Interview conducted by Gaëlle Patin Laloy, head of the Diversity and Interculturality program of Casa Asia, on the occasion of March 8th.