Photovoice Project

Capturing the Experience of Displacement

This digital exhibition brings together photographs and stories created through our Photovoice project exploring the experiences of queer people in forced displacement. The project was held in Zurich, Switzerland, in the autumn and winter of 2025 and led by the Liminality Research Consortium and Photovoice Worldwide. As co-researchers, project participants use images and words to express the challenges, strengths, and hopes that shape their encounters with wellbeing, health, and healthcare in the Swiss context. Each photo shared here reflects personal insight and collective reflection, offering a powerful window into the barriers, supports, and changes needed to make healthcare more inclusive and accessible.  

La catedral de sant Gallen me hace recordar que ser queer siempre ha sido un desafío por el entorno familiar profesional de trabajo, cultural y profundamente religioso cuando vivía en mi país de origen a ese desafío agregó hoy día ser una persona refugiada en un nuevo país, donde debo aprender un nuevo idioma, adaptandarme a una nueva cultura y en mi caso particular en el cantón donde vivo que es a simple vista bastante tradicional conservador y quizá no muy abierto para inmigrantes que además somos queer. The cathedral of St. Gallen reminds me that being queer has always been a challenge due to the professional, cultural, and deeply religious environment of my family when I lived in my home country. Today, I add to that challenge the fact that I am a refugee in a new country, where I must learn a new language, adapt to a new culture and, in my particular case, to the canton where I live, which at first glance is quite traditional, conservative and perhaps not very open to immigrants who are also queer.
(impfausweis) Soy visto cuando sin importar quien soy, tengo acceso por igual a todos los servicios de salud que reciben personas distintas a mí la salud garantiza, mi vida y el ejercicio de ella con igualdad me devuelve la dignidad. esta foto esta relacionada con la pregunta número 4. (vaccination certificate) I am seen when, regardless of who I am, I have equal access to all the health services that people other than myself receive. Health guarantees my life and the exercise of it with equality restores my dignity. This photo is related to question number 4.
"Bu binanın önünden her geçtiğimde, hem umut hem de korku taşıdığımı fark ediyorum. Bir mülteci ve trans kadın olarak, sağlık sistemine adım atmak bile bazen cesaret gerektiriyor. Bu yüksek duvarlar bana hayatımda sayısız kez karşılaştığım kapıları hatırlatıyor: Ya açılmayan kapılar... ya da beni yanlış anlayan insanlar. Yine de, her aydınlık pencerede bir olasılık görüyorum; birinin beni yargılamadan veya sınıflandırmadan dinleme olasılığı. Bu binanın önünde durmak bazen yalnız hissettirebiliyor; bazen de iyileşmenin mümkün olduğuna dair küçük bir işaret."" ""Every time I walk past this building, I realize I carry both hope and fear. As a refugee and trans woman, even stepping into the healthcare system sometimes requires courage. These high walls remind me of doors I've encountered countless times in my life: Doors that either don't open... or people who misunderstand me. Yet, in every bright window, I see a possibility; the possibility of someone listening to me without judgment or classification. Standing in front of this building can sometimes feel lonely; sometimes it's a small sign that healing is possible."
(impfausweis) Soy visto cuando sin importar quien soy, tengo acceso por igual a todos los servicios de salud que reciben personas distintas a mí la salud garantiza, mi vida y el ejercicio de ella con igualdad me devuelve la dignidad. esta foto esta relacionada con la pregunta número 4. (vaccination certificate) I am seen when, regardless of who I am, I have equal access to all the health services that people other than myself receive. Health guarantees my life and the exercise of it with equality restores my dignity. This photo is related to question number 4.
(Ser oidos) Ser oídos es más que un derecho porque significa que existo, que no soy invisible por mi condición sexual migratorio color de piel, ser oídos no solo es recibir un gesto amable, sino además que tu dolencia, problema o situación tenga la oportunidad de encontrar una solución. esta foto esta relacionada con la pregunta número 1. (Being heard) Being heard is more than a right because it means that I exist, that I am not invisible because of my sexual orientation, immigration status, or skin colour. Being heard is not only receiving a kind gesture, but also having the opportunity to find a solution to your ailment, problem, or situation. This photo is related to question number 1.
Ser trans, lesbiana gay o Queer no es una elección así como tampoco elegimos el lugar donde nacimos lo que ha acumulado una serie de experiencias que principalmente han afectado nuestras emociones, amor propio, nuestra salud mental y espiritual siendo nuestro mayor anhelo, el vivir sin temor a ser vistos por quien somos. esta foto está relacionada con la pregunta número 2.
" “Burası benim için sadece bir adres değil: bir yabancı ülkede ‘anlaşıldığımı’ ilk kez hissettiğim yer. Psikoloğumun biseksüel oluşu ve trans bireyler üzerine uzmanlaşmış olması, beni ilk defa ‘yanlış beden, yanlış ülke, yanlış kimlik’ gibi etiketler olmadan görmesine izin verdi. Birçok mülteci danışman, sağlık sisteminde yanlış anlaşılmaktan ve önyargıdan şikayet ederken; benim burada bir kadın olarak, bir trans birey olarak, bir mülteci olarak duyulmam bir şans gibi. Bu kapıdan her girişimde, içerdeki odanın bana nefes aldıracağını biliyorum. Bu klinikte depresyonla mücadele eden yatılı hastalar da var. Belki de bu sokak, hepimizin farklı acılarını aynı çatı altında taşıdığı bir buluşma noktası.” “This isn't just an address for me: it's the place where I first felt understood in a foreign country. My psychologist's bisexuality and specialization in transgender individuals allowed him to see me for the first time without labels like 'wrong body, wrong country, wrong identity.' While many refugee counselors complain of misunderstanding and prejudice in the healthcare system, it feels like a blessing to be heard here as a woman, a transgender person, a refugee. Every time I walk through this door, I know the room inside will give me a breath of fresh air. This clinic also has inpatients struggling with depression. Perhaps this street is a meeting point where we all carry our different pains under one roof.” "
Cuando miro la luna puedo sentirme seguro, siento que su luz no me discrimina, ella alumbra a todos por igual de manera serena apacible y su energía me transmite paz. no hace distinción si soy Queer o extranjero en el suelo que piso, ella solo me da su luz y su comprensión. esta foto está relacionada con la pregunta número 3.
Si tu mente está bien tu cuerpo también puede sanar, la salud mental es indispensable y más aún cuando no tenemos el acceso o posibilidades de atención integral de un sistema de salud. cuidar nuestra mente con una visión holística nos permite avanzar en los días difíciles. esta foto está relacionada con la pregunta número 7.
In the Shadow of a Suitcase A suitcase… It stands before me like a sealed past. No matter how far I go, its contents always follow. Beneath it, a few boxes of pills. Small, silent witnesses. Each one a proof of the day my body whispered, “endure.” Every pill swallowed feels like a little less hope remaining. And on top of the suitcase, a shadow falls… My shadow. But sometimes even I don’t recognize it. Because this shadow isn’t only mine. It’s the system’s weight pressing down on me. For being “too much,” for being “different,” for daring to be “seen.” To be queer, to be a refugee— it’s to breathe and drown at the same time. You want to live, yet each day you live feels a little more like dying. Health, you say? Here, health is not a right… It’s an exam. You must leave a thousand identities behind just to pass through one door. Say “I’m trans,” and their eyes change. Say “I’m a refugee,” and the doors close. Sometimes I sit beside that suitcase, staring at the pills… Each one whispers to me: “Hold on, your place is still not here.” But even my shadow exhausts me now. Because sometimes, even your own shadow abandons you. Still… A quiet sentence runs through me: “They broke me, but I’m still here.” And that sentence becomes the heaviest suitcase my heart will ever carry.
Ver el hospital del cantón de Sant Gallen trae a mi memoria gratos recuerdos, desde mi llegada a Suiza han cuidado de mi salud en diferentes áreas, un apoyo que indiscutiblemente es esencial para seguir viviendo. Estas instalaciones de varios edificios son más que una estructura de construcción ha sido un lugar donde me he sentido seguro sin discriminar que soy queer o inmigrante una realidad que con nostalgia dista a la de mi país de origen. Seeing the hospital in the canton of St. Gallen brings back fond memories. Since my arrival in Switzerland, they have taken care of my health in different areas, providing support that is undoubtedly vital for me to continue living. These facilities, consisting of several buildings, are more than just a structure; they have been a place where I have felt safe, without discrimination for being queer or an immigrant, a reality that is nostalgically different from that of my country of origin.
Ser una persona queer y refugiada aborda diferentes aspectos de los cuales quizá no se habla mucho y la salud sexual es una de ellas donde nunca será suficiente los esfuerzos o la información que se disponga para nosotros. La salud sexual es intrínseca a la naturaleza humana sin embargo, está rodeada de estigmas y tabús como por ejemplo, el uso del condón versus el PREP y otras alternativas que no son de fácil acceso especialmente cuando eres migrante. Being a queer person and a refugee involves different aspects that are perhaps not talked about much, and sexual health is one of them where there will never be enough effort or information available to us. Sexual health is intrinsic to human nature, yet it is surrounded by stigmas and taboos, such as the use of condoms versus PREP and other alternatives that are not easily accessible, especially when you are a migrant.
"""The Place Where Time Stopped"" The waiting room was silent. The clock on the wall had stopped, and no one had even noticed. Time no longer moved there. The chair, the table, the walls… they were all like witnesses. Everything stayed the same; only the faces changed. In that small room of the camp, people would come and go. But one thing always remained in the room: the waiting. A translator was awaited, a message, an approval, or an ID card… Sometimes even a simple smile was enough for that silence. And at night, the room would talk to itself. “Today, no one smiled,” said the wall. “Someone cried quietly again,” said the chair. And as the light slowly filtered down from the ceiling, the shadows grew, and the stories stretched. Time didn’t really stop there; only people did. And as they stopped, another kind of patience began to grow inside them. Perhaps waiting was a form of hope. Because even if some things never come, waiting for them keeps a person alive."
Que existan leyes más humanas inclusivas y sensibles a la realidad de las personas refugiadas de las personas queer desde nuestra llegada y durante el proceso de integración que particularmente en el sistema de asilo quiebra e incluso re victimiza entre muchos aspectos por causa del retardo burocrático que nos hace sentir personas de inferior categoría en la sociedad. esta foto guarda relación con la pregunta número 04.
This photo isn't just a medicine for me; it's a symbol of the challenges I face in the healthcare system as a refugee. When I reported needing treatment for ringworm in the camp, the process was slow. I was referred to my family doctor, and an appointment with a dermatologist was scheduled months later. Cortisone treatment proved insufficient, and I was told I needed this medication. However, due to insurance and bureaucratic procedures, it took me nearly two years to reach Olumiant. This process demonstrates how being a refugee and the delays in accessing the healthcare system affect my mental and physical health. Currently, not having easy access to medication is an obstacle to a safe and respectful healthcare experience. Bu fotoğraf, benim için sadece bir ilaç değil; aynı zamanda mülteci olarak sağlık sisteminde yaşadığım zorlukların sembolü. Kampta saçkıran hastalığı tedavisine ihtiyacım olduğunu söylediğimde, süreç yavaş ilerledi, aile doktoruna yönlendirildim ve cildiye randevusu aylar sonra verildi. Kortizon tedavisi yetersiz kaldı, bu ilacı almam geretigi söylendi. Fakat sigorta ve bürokratik süreçler nedeniyle Olumiant’a ulaşmam yaklaşık iki yıl sürdü. Bu süreç, mülteci olmanın ve sağlık sistemine erişimde yaşanan gecikmelerin ruhsal ve fiziksel sağlığımı nasıl etkilediğini gösteriyor. Şu anda hâlâ ilaca kolay ulaşamamak, benim için güvenli ve saygı gören bir sağlık deneyimi yaşamanın önündeki bir engel.”
El arcoiris como símbolo de diversidad, de Esperanza, de la Luz después de la tormenta no solamente me identifica como Queer sino también como migrante, como ser humano y poder observar la bandera en mi entorno no solo me hace visible y más real sino digno de pertenecer a una sociedad que me respeta y reconoce como igual. Esta Foto guarda relación con la pregunta número 3.
"“Untouched” The first light of morning slipped through the thin curtains of the camp, falling gently onto the gloves resting on the table. One white, one blue — leaning toward each other, yet never truly touching. Once, those hands had wanted to reach someone. With tenderness, with hope, with fear... But there was a boundary between them — unseen, yet deeply felt. The gloves were not only for protection. Sometimes, they were walls keeping humans apart from one another. It was like loving someone but not daring to get close — the moment when the one who longs to touch, withdraws instead. As the silence in the room deepened, the shadows of the gloves slowly blended together. Maybe that was the only touch they ever shared — a quiet connection born when light met shadow. And in that fleeting moment, it became a story as long as every distance between two souls."
(10 Francos) Cuánto vale tu vida? Cuánto vale tu salud se puede cuantificar monetariamente el valor de un ser humano?. esta foto guarda relación con la pregunta la número 5.
"Bu iki küçük hap -Relaksane ve Ketiapin- benim için sadece ilaç değildi; kampta geçirdiğim 28 ay boyunca sesimi duyurma mücadelemin sembolleriydi. Trans bir mülteci olarak, psikolojik desteğe ihtiyacım olduğunu dile getirdiğimde, genellikle aldığım şey bir randevu değildi; müzik dinlemek, yürüyüşe çıkmak veya birkaç resim çizmek gibi basit tesellilerdi. Ancak kamptaki tek kuir kişi olarak, yalnızlık ve belirsizlik günlük hayatımın bir parçasıydı; beni gerçekten anlayan bir uzmana, bir psikoloğa ulaşmak hayati bir ihtiyaçtı. Bu haplar, bir doktorun sonunda beni ciddiye alıp psikiyatriye yönlendirdiği günlerin kalıntıları. Bir trans kadın için sağlık hizmetlerine erişim bir ayrıcalık değil, yaşam hakkının bir parçası; ancak mülteci kamplarında bu hak genellikle unutuluyor. Bu fotoğraftaki haplar hem gecikmiş bakımın hem de hayatta kalma isteğinin sessiz bir tanığı. These two little pills—Relaksane and Quetiapine—were not just medicines for me; they were symbols of my struggle to make my voice heard during the 28 months I spent in the camp. As a trans refugee, when I expressed a need for psychological support, what I usually received wasn't an appointment; it was simple comforts like listening to music, going for a walk, or drawing a few pictures. But as the only queer person in the camp, loneliness and uncertainty were part of my daily life; access to a professional, a psychologist, who truly understood me was a vital need. These pills are remnants of the days when a doctor finally took me seriously and referred me to psychiatry. For a trans woman, access to healthcare isn't a privilege; it's part of the right to life, yet in refugee camps, this right is often forgotten. The pills in this photo bear silent witness to both delayed care and the will to survive."
(el idioma) Ser migrante por fuerza mayor ya es un desafío pero no entender otra lengua o no poder hacerte entender nos hace sentir vulnerables impotentes frustrados y aún más cuando se trata de nuestra salud y bienestar. esta foto esta relacionada con la pregunta número 3.
(empatía) La empatía nos hace más humanos y ser humano, está por encima de cualquier nacionalidad orientación sexual color de piel o religión. esta foto está relacionada con la pregunta número 1.
(Krankenkasse) Ser migrante y tener un acceso digno e igualitable al sistema de salud no debería ser diferenciado por el Bewilligung de tu billetera. esta foto esta relacionada con la pregunta número 5.
"“Beneath the Silence” The mask lay forgotten by the window, bathed in pale light. A trace of a face was still hidden in its fabric. No one knew who had worn it, yet every strap carried a story. Perhaps it had been fear, perhaps a farewell. Or maybe just someone’s quiet attempt to say, “I’m fine.” The mask was meant to protect, yet it had silenced too. Words, breaths, emotions — all trapped beneath that thin layer. No one noticed that when it was taken off, it wasn’t the face that was left behind, but everything inside. Sometimes people wear masks not to stay safe, but to disappear. When the wind slipped through the window, the mask stirred softly. As if someone were still wearing it. Silence echoed through the room. And in that moment, something was understood: The mask said nothing — yet its silence spoke more than a thousand words."
"Kelime: Sığınak<br /> Cümle:Hormon tedavimde beni anlayan ve destekleyen doktorumun kapısını açıyor — benim için bir sığınak.<br /> Word: Refuge<br /> Sentence: It opens the door to my doctor, who understands and supports me during my hormone therapy—a refuge for me."
"Klinik Stephanshorn’daki doktorum, hem sağlık sürecimde hem de psikolojik destek almamda bana çok yardımcı oldu. Türkçe konuşabildiği için kendimi güvende ve anlaşılmış hissediyorum. Trans bir mülteci olarak sağlık alanında zorluklar ve yaşasam da, onun sayesinde kendimi değerli ve görülüyor hissediyorum.”</p> <p>""My doctor at Klinik Stephanshorn has been very helpful to me, both in my healthcare process and in getting psychological support. Because she speaks Turkish, I feel safe and understood. Even though I face challenges in healthcare as a trans refugee, thanks to her, I feel valued and seen."
"<br /> Kelime: Güven<br /> Cümle: Bu binanın önündeki ışıklar, Endokrinoloji Doktorumun randevularda bana verdiği güveni simgeliyor.</p> <p>Word: Trust<br /> Sentence: The lights in front of this building symbolize the trust my Endocrinologist gives me during appointments."
"Cümle: “Herzlich willkommen” tabelesi, bu kliniği bana ait hissettiren ilk sıcak karşılama<br /> oluyor.</p> <p>The sentence: “Herzlich willkommen” sign is the first warm welcome that makes me feel like this clinic belongs to me."
"My long and arduous Integrated Camp process ended on June 27, 2025. Therefore, I was assigned to a new municipality for residency. The first day I moved, I had to register at the clinic where my family doctor was located.</p> <p>I went and presented my ID. The secretary then asked for my health insurance card. But I never had that card; it was with the camp administration.</p> <p>I told the secretary I didn't have it. However, she insisted on asking me questions, angrily, on the same subject. I then called my social worker and explained the situation. My social worker wanted to speak to the secretary, but she wouldn't answer the phone or accept the call. Because my German isn't very good, I couldn't express myself clearly. Or maybe the secretary didn't want to understand me. My social worker understood me perfectly.</p> <p>Finally, I turned on the speaker phone, and she had to listen. Then she told me to wait and called me from the living room, addressing me with a harsh and demeaning gesture. All the other patients there looked at me, and I felt very embarrassed. I felt completely alienated and helpless. Anyway, my little registration job was finally done, and I went out. I cried on my first day at my new place.</p> <p>About last month, my finger got stuck in a hard, heavy door. It hurt so bad I thought it was broken. But just because of the possibility of encountering this secretary, I didn't even go to the doctor for a small dressing. Over the next week, it gradually bruised. Finally, it broke at the base. But I didn't go because I was afraid of the secretary. I just wait for it to fall off on its own, and sometimes I just put on a bandage.</p> <p>I think I'm being treated this way because I'm an immigrant and a trans woman."