Bureaucracy vs. Inclusion: Having a job is not allowed.

Mariam Soliman is a photographer, media designer, passionate hiker and used to be IN-VISIBLE’s project manager. That was lucky for us, and a lot of hard work for her - not just in the office, but “behind the scenes” as well. In this very personal interview, Mariam shares her experience of living and working in Germany as an Egyptian citizen, the challenges of bureaucracy and inclusion, and what administration and employers can learn from her stressful journey.

Mariam, unfortunately you had to leave IN-VISIBLE last year. How have you been since then and what have you been up to?

Oh yes, unfortunately I’m no longer part of IN-VISIBLE — even though I still feel very connected to it internally and remember my time there with a lot of appreciation. At the same time, over the past few months I consciously allowed myself to breathe a little. To really take time off. To relax. To not immediately turn everything into something productive. And out of that space of calm, new — or maybe rather old, long-desired — steps began to emerge quite organically. I’m currently rebuilding my freelance work as a photographer. It’s something that had been quietly growing inside me for a long time, and after leaving IN-VISIBLE I made the official decision: I’m doing this now. The past few weeks have therefore been quite intense — I completely redesigned my website, updated my equipment, reached out to people, sorted through ideas, and gave my creative work more room again. It’s all still a process, but it feels deeply aligned to take this part of myself seriously again.

At the same time, I started a small hiking challenge: one hike every week for a full year. Alongside it, I write about these hikes on Substack — very personally, reflectively, and with a touch of honest humor. (https://walkingwithwolves.substack.com/) This project enriches me on so many levels. It motivates me physically, but even more so mentally. It takes me to places around Berlin and beyond that have long been on my list, and it allows me to experience the seasons and their transitions much more consciously. All of this keeps me quite busy — but in a lively, joyful way. And I think this sense of movement, this new orientation, has made it much easier to no longer be at IN-VISIBLE.

From university to freedom: Why come to Germany?

That sounds lovely! And I’m really glad that you can take the time and freedom to do all these things, because I know that wasn’t always possible. But let’s start at the beginning: You’re originally from Egypt - what brought you to Germany? 

That’s a question I always find a little difficult, because the answer has many layers. But if I were to keep it simple, I would say: I wanted and needed more freedom. And I’m speaking very consciously from my own experience at that time — not as a universal judgment about an entire country. Growing up as a young woman in Egypt meant, for me, constantly feeling both visible and invisible boundaries — culturally, socially, and religiously. The older I became, the more I realized how much this limited my desire for growth and self-development — physically, creatively, but also intellectually and spiritually. A very simple example is something that is still essential to me today: walking alone. I love being on foot — through streets, through nature, simply with my thoughts, at my own pace, without having to coordinate or explain myself. That sense of movement is, for me, a form of inner spaciousness.

In Egypt, however, this was not something I could take for granted as a woman. Sexual harassment was very present in my everyday life, to an extent that can sometimes be difficult to convey here in Germany — even though, of course, problems exist here as well, just in a different dimension. Back then, it often felt as if I wanted to walk through a park to listen to birds, and instead was constantly being whistled at, commented on, and sometimes touched without consent. On top of that, freely accessible public spaces were rare. Often you had to pay just to sit somewhere green, and even there there seemed to be unspoken rules: don’t sit alone, don’t sit on the grass, don’t sit with male friends, don’t sketch, don’t photograph — sometimes not even a tree. If I defended myself, I was more likely to be advised to stay quiet and move on. As a woman, I shouldn’t raise my voice, I shouldn’t be so angry. I was often criticized simply for being out alone at all, or for dressing “too conspicuously” (which usually meant jeans and a T-shirt, occasionally a knee-length skirt).

I realized that I had to leave. I needed more space and more freedom on every level.

Perhaps some things have changed since then, and I know that many women today courageously claim their spaces. But at that time, this was my reality. I also constantly tried to claim my space. Yet I grew increasingly angry, burned out, constrained, and eventually truly desperate. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel genuinely understood either, because I was repeatedly advised to adapt — that nothing could be changed anyway. What others may have meant as well-intentioned advice felt, to me, like a prison sentence. I realized that I had to leave. I needed more space and more freedom on every level.

At the same time, because of my biography, I had always felt connected to Germany. I went to a German school, my mother speaks German, and many relatives had lived or worked here. Berlin in particular was a place I knew early on — a place considered liberal, open to different ways of living, to creativity, to people engaging with questions of identity and human rights. That drew me in.

When my university in Egypt offered the opportunity to spend my final semester in Berlin, I immediately said yes. I very much wanted that experience — even if it had only been temporary. And honestly, a part of me already knew back then that I would not return. It felt less like a strategic decision and more like a survival instinct. I wanted to find out who I could be if I moved through the world more freely.

Today, I see some things more nuanced than I did then. Freedom here is not absolute or self-evident either. But relative to my experience at the time, it was — and still is — deeply tangible. And that is how I came to Germany: step by step, carried by the desire for more freedom.

Bureaucracy vs. inclusion: The long road to being allowed to work

I’m sure those steps haven’t always been easy. Can you share a little about your experience with German bureaucracy? 

Oh, where do I even begin? If I’m honest, the largest part of my journey here consisted of overcoming bureaucratic hurdles. And that was actually one of the biggest shocks after my arrival. I had expected the usual challenges — but not such a mixture of lack of transparency, contradictions, and at times deeply condescending treatment.

My first defining experience happened when, after my final semester, I found an internship at a small animation studio in Potsdam. For me as a media design student, this was an absolute stroke of luck. Three months in advance, I had booked an appointment for an internship visa and prepared all documents exactly according to the official requirements — including transcripts, an invitation letter from the studio, and all necessary forms.

Hundreds of students, no clear structure, locked doors, desperate applicants, no information whatsoever.

At the appointment, I was asked whether I was still a student. Since my semester was technically still ongoing, I answered honestly: yes — the internship was scheduled to begi  immediately afterward. I was then redirected to a different department in the same building. There, I encountered a completely overcrowded situation: hundreds of students, no clear structure, locked doors, desperate applicants, no information whatsoever. Despite my confirmed appointment, I was told to come back the next day “very early.” When I asked what that meant, I was told that some people already stand in line since midnight. Other than that, they could not help me that day — appointment or not.

The next morning, I stood outside the building at four o’clock in the morning in the cold. Eight hours later, sitting in front of another official, it turned out that I had originally been in the correct department — an internship is considered work-related, not a student matter. I was eventually assisted, though with the remark that this was being done only “as an exception.” Three weeks later, when I followed up, I was informed that my application had been rejected because I was allegedly not qualified — even though the case worker refused to take my qualification documents at the appointment. I was told to contact an institution called ZAV if I wished to object. They, in turn, informed me that they had nothing to do with the matter and had no idea what the immigration office was referring to.

What followed were months of contradictory statements, unclear responsibilities, and emotional states of emergency. At one point, I was told that I needed to briefly leave Germany and re-enter in order to “activate” a different visa — one I fortunately already had and which was still valid — even though no decision had yet been made regarding my pending application. Later, a lawyer explained to me that many of these hurdles were connected to the nationality of my passport. Certain transitions — for example from student status to work status — are relatively straightforward for some nationalities, but for others are either not structurally intended or come with disproportionately high requirements.

It was not about my qualifications, but about structural regulations beyond my control that placed me at a significant disadvantage.

In order to be allowed to stay at all, I began a second bachelor’s degree, even though I already held a bachelor’s degree and could in principle have started working directly. This decision to study again was not driven by academic curiosity, but by strategic necessity, so I could stay here. Later, I learned about the so-called artist visa in Berlin. One caseworker was even prepared to issue it to me on the spot — until a brief phone call with her supervisor clarified that a change of status was not possible for my nationality. I’d have to finish my studies first and then switch to an artist visa. Moments like these were particularly difficult, because they made it clear: it was not about my qualifications, but about structural regulations beyond my control that placed me at a significant disadvantage.

During the pandemic, the situation escalated further. The immigration office remained closed for weeks at a time, did not respond to emails, did not schedule appointments, even if your residence permit has expired. This meant that you can’t leave Germany, as you can’t re-enter without a valid residence permit. Again I had to wait in the cold outside, twice — but it did not work. The first time, seven hundred people waited at night outside the building, when I arrived at four AM. You can’t even begin to imagine the length of the queue. They falsely claimed that they had already assigned all the numbers. When we logically realized that they were lying to us, they reacted extremely aggressively, began to threaten us, and called the police, even though none of us were violent or showed any signs of violence. That was a very difficult moment for me. I felt like we were being treated like criminals. Not like human beings. Not like people who work and study and have a clear right to extend their residence permits. I felt like we were some kind of burden, a disruptive factor, not an enrichment for the country.

Of course, I was so grateful that it worked out for me. But I had to think of the many other desperate people for whom it hasn't worked out.

Fortunately, the visa service at Humboldt University, where I was enrolled, was able to help me beyond all expectations. They told me that it would most likely not work, as even they were having contact problems with the immigration office, but they would try. To my surprise, late in the evening, out of nowhere, I received an invitation for an appointment the next morning. There I was able to obtain a fictitious certificate—a kind of temporary residence permit that allows you to travel—so that I could travel to Egypt. That was the greatest relief ever. If I hadn't had this opportunity, I wouldn't have been able to be there when my grandmother died. Of course, I was so grateful that it worked out for me. But I had to think of the many other desperate people for whom it hasn't worked out and who can't visit their families because they can't extend their residence permits due to structural chaos.

Only after completing my second degree did I finally receive a job-seeker visa, and later the work permit for my position at IN-VISIBLE. That process was not entirely smooth either, but compared to the previous experiences, it was almost the most straightforward step. It was the first time I was officially granted permission to work in Germany in a normal capacity — even if initially tied to a specific position.

If you'd like to know how this situation affected Mariam's life and what she wants administration officials and employees to do differently, check back for part 2 next week.