"Ways of Belonging"
Mariana Sesma
Independent curator
Belonging. Had I ever put much thought into that word before migrating? Probably not. And maybe that says something about how naturally embraced I used to feel.
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I am a Brazilian woman who migrated to Germany at the end of 2019 for family reasons. Back home, I worked in various roles within contemporary art institutions. Like most people who relocate, I had to reestablish myself and my professional path in a new country. That process has been filled with uncertainty and challenges. Some are expected: language, culture, weather. Others are more subtle: how to express an outgoing personality in a place where that is not the norm, or how to deal with losing parts of your identity when speaking a different language.
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Migrating puts me in a permanent state of negotiation between my own cultural background and the one surrounding me. A constant estica e puxa - a tug-of-war - between what I choose to absorb and what I reject from the surrounding culture.
And, after some years, a sense of estrangement sets in when I realize I have already adopted some of the habits of this place. Sometimes willingly, other times under social pressure. As complex as that process is, something else also emerged: I discovered more about myself and found the space to reinvent who I am.
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Professionally, having to build a network in a new culture and understanding how you and your experience fit (or are welcome) can be very intimidating. There were days when simply leaving the house felt like an achievement. Gradually, I decided to pursue curating more actively - something I had always kept at a distance, in a kind of platonic relationship.
I see my curatorial work as a way to contribute to this society by sparking conversations, at times uncomfortable, but clearly necessary. I see integration (as problematic as that word is) as going beyond learning the language and paying taxes. It feels reductive - and a bit offensive - to think of migrants only in economic terms. Adopting a new country means building a life, creating a social circle, contributing to the culture, and inevitably shaping it. I wanted to take an active role, both in my profession and as a citizen. Someone ready to contribute and critically engage with society, just as I did in my home country.
I once shared those views with a friend, and she replied: “Have you considered that ‘they’ may not want to listen?”
Well, she was right. Maybe they do not. And that made me question how much energy I want to invest in trying to make a difference in a place that does not always feel welcoming.
Still, I reminded myself that they is also plural.
While it is true that large parts of German society may not be open to voices from non-European backgrounds, I decided to seek out the spaces and initiatives that do listen. To carve out space where space can be carved. And I have been fortunate to realize projects that brought me pride and joy. ​
Installation image of "We were on the same branch" by Betül Aydin, photographed by Birgit Haubner
​​It is important to remember that we are talking about migration to Germany, to Europe - a continent that has left its colonial stain across the globe. A place that, for centuries, has othered cultures through both physical and symbolic violence. A continent that has long seen itself as the center of the world, the epitome of humanity, and the holder of an idea of civilization.
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Sadly, the marks of colonialism extend far beyond European territory - they are embedded in our minds. In my work with artists from the Global South, there were moments when they questioned the validity of their own practice against European standards. A couple of years ago, a Southeast Asian artist living in Germany asked me how she could make her work more “international”. Her art explored her and her family’s migratory journeys - a deeply transcultural theme. Yet by “international,” she really meant: how can I make my work more acceptable to Euro-American tastes?
Meanwhile, I recently questioned the curator of an important museum about what she meant by stating the museum had an international collection of modern and contemporary art, when in fact it was overwhelmingly made up of European and North American artists. These moments reveal how deeply the idea of “the international” has been shaped by Euro-American dominance - so much so that it continues to define both what is valued and who gets to belong.
Within this context, finding a place for yourself and your culture can be full of traps - ones that do not seem to fade, even with time. That sense of not fully belonging can appear in small, unexpected ways. In my first year in Germany, I took a short trip to London. I saw a beautiful, colorful skirt in a shop and instantly thought: “I can’t wear that in Munich”. It still puzzles me that I thought that. “I can’t. I cannot.”
I had created my own interdito - a self-imposed restriction. How could I blend into this pale, monochromatic world if I showed up in bright colors?
After that moment, I chose to embrace my colorful aesthetic, both for myself and as a quiet act of defiance. Of course, passing as Western-looking makes it easier for me to do so. As unsettling as my aesthetic may sometimes be, I haven’t experienced the overt racism faced by, for example, women who wear headscarves.
Navigating these ambiguous feelings - both internal and projected by others - is very tiring. And yet, I am constantly moved by artists who, despite everything migration demands of them, manage to create their own places of belonging through their work. As if their art becomes a kind of refuge and resistance. And luckily for us, they are often generous enough to invite us into that space where we can, collectively, create moments of togetherness.
It is with those artists that I am learning to build my own ways of belonging - to belong to myself, to what I hold dear, and to those who, along the journey, are co-creating this sense of belonging with me.
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