SISTER OUTSIDER

This documentary photographic project aims to bridge gaps between diverse communities within Ireland, amplify voices, dismantle stereotypes, inspire dialogue, and strengthen relationships between migrant women and the local community. It also reiterates the indisputable fact that migrant women are fully formed individuals who contribute significantly to society, despite facing many avoidable barriers.

The title Sister Outsider was chosen with deep respect for the immense contributions of Audre Lorde, particularly the work from which I borrowed the name. I was drawn to her words because they resonate with the experiences of migrant women, and especially with the women I photographed, with whom I felt a strong connection.

During autumn of 2024, over the course of five months, I interviewed and photographed ten migrant women from different backgrounds and nationalities who have either lived or are currently living in Ireland. They shared not only their personal stories, but also their perspectives on social issues and what it means to navigate life in the country.

This project offers a glimpse into the lives of these ten women living in Ireland as they embody perseverance, resilience, success, and representation. Each story reflects unique experiences and viewpoints shaped by the realities they encounter in Ireland. Throughout our conversations, we spoke about migration, workplace violence, housing, homelessness, domestic violence, mental health, abortion, the healthcare system, motherhood, community, feminism, and society.

Luciana

During a cold January afternoon, Luciana welcomed me into her Dublin home. She offered a handmade handwarmer filled with seeds that could be heated in the microwave for a few seconds. The thoughtful gesture broke the ice and allowed the conversation to flow naturally for the entire afternoon.

We began by discussing her motivation for joining Grupo Mulheres do Brasil – Núcleo Irlanda, the Irish chapter of a Brazilian women’s organisation focused on promoting empowerment and supporting migrant women in Ireland. Luciana had known about the group since her time in Brazil, where she worked as secretary to the organisation’s president, gaining firsthand experience with its initiatives before continuing her involvement in Ireland. Originally from São Paulo, Brazil, she has lived in Ireland for six years and remained closely connected to the group, including volunteering with Grupo Mulheres do Brasil for two of those years.

After two years in Ireland, she felt the need to contribute her time and energy to a meaningful cause and joined the group’s Women’s Rights Committee. Her volunteer work involves writing, communication, developing campaign ideas, and sharing information about cancer based on her personal experience. She also participated in a Brazilian podcast in Ireland called Irlanda Talk Show, representing the Mulheres do Brasil group and speaking about cancer care. At the time, she was undergoing cancer treatment in Ireland, and alongside a friend living with metastasis, she shared reflections on navigating cancer services in the country.

“I am very proud of and care deeply about this podcast because it was a great opportunity to speak openly about cancer, which I believe is a topic that needs to be discussed more. We see more and more people dealing with the disease,” she said.

Access to rights, information, and responsibilities emerged as a central part of our conversation, as Luciana shared her experience seeking protection from domestic violence in Ireland.

“Here in Ireland, I’ve been through domestic violence. I’ve been through the whole process. I’ve been through the process of going to the authorities; I’ve been through the process of women’s aid; I’ve been through the process of going to court. I know the whole process because I’ve been through this,” she said.

Despite knowing that this is not always the case, Luciana described her experience with the system as surprisingly positive and hopes to change perceptions among migrant communities.

“I think that maybe the difficulty, thinking about the Brazilians who are here, is taking away a little bit of the prejudice that the authorities don’t do anything,” she said.

Luciana believes that dialogue and mutual responsibility are essential. From the perspective of a Brazilian immigrant, she stressed that migrants need to seek information, communicate their views, and take action, while official institutions and the Irish government must also fulfill their responsibilities.

Language was a key part of our discussion, as it remains one of the main barriers. Although the responsibility often falls on migrants, she highlighted ways the government could actively help, such as increasing translation services, supporting translators, or providing bilingual information in public spaces.

“Because, for example, when the authorities ran a campaign against violence against women, they did it every day for sixteen days, each day in a different language. When it was Portuguese, the whole Brazilian community was like, ‘Ah, Portuguese,’ and everyone shared it. Maybe this has happened in other communities as well, in other languages,” she added.

Drawing from her experience with cancer treatment, Luciana contrasted healthcare systems in Brazil and Ireland, noting differences in protocols and access to medical services. She underscored the importance of understanding cultural nuances in healthcare and encouraged immigrants to learn how to navigate and benefit from the system.

Although Luciana shared many ideas about improving the lives of migrant women and the broader community, she also emphasised the importance of migrants taking initiative, adapting, learning the system, and actively applying themselves in order to thrive in Ireland.

For the portrait, Luciana posed naturally, her expression reflecting the tone of our conversation. The low light from the kitchen filtered through orange glass, reaching just enough to illuminate her face and hand. I felt the scene perfectly captured her poetic presence.

Jessica

I met Jessica in September 2023 on a sunny Saturday in Cavan. She greeted me at the hotel reception where she was staying at the time. We had been communicating via text for the previous few days, during which she shared some of the difficult conditions she had endured during her three years in Ireland. Currently homeless, she had previously lived under Direct Provision for two and a half years, until harassment by centre staff forced her into homelessness. During that time, she was relocated across four different centres.

Jessica is an American social justice activist who sought asylum abroad after facing threats related to her activism. Before coming to Ireland, she was heavily involved in political work in Rhode Island, fighting against workplace bullying and advocating for marginalised communities. Using her IT skills, she helped construction workers and other underrepresented groups access technology they otherwise lacked. Her activism, however, allegedly put her at risk, ultimately prompting her to leave the United States and seek safety in Ireland.

“Nothing makes me afraid of speaking up when it comes to helping people. What I’m doing now fills me with as much joy and a feeling of beauty,” said Jessica.

Once in Ireland, she was accepted into the Direct Provision system and placed in an IPAS centre. Over a short period, she was moved between multiple locations. Jessica recounted experiences of harassment by centre staff, including intrusion into her room at night, being pressured to carry out illegal tasks, and other behaviours that left her feeling unsafe and disrespected. These experiences had a severe traumatic impact and worsened her health.

“So I opened the door, and there he was, and he was demanding that I help him with a passport. Because I had good English. Okay. And I knew that was illegal. It is illegal for him to come to me and ask me to do something like that,” she said.

Her own experiences sparked a broader concern. Jessica said she witnessed systemic mistreatment affecting other residents as well. She began reporting these issues to multiple agencies, newspapers, politicians, and even the Gardaí.

“So I made it my job to go to every single agency that purported to protect victims of crime, asylum seekers, immigrants, everything,” she said.

From her perspective, the system is deeply broken. Her conclusion was stark: the IPAS system does not exist to help residents but instead perpetuates cycles of toxic situations, leaving it nearly impossible for people to grow or build a life in the country.

“It’s clear to me that in any case, the IPAS system is not meant to help the residents at all. Not to help anyone but themselves, to collect their money for whatever, from whatever,” Jessica said.

Yet amid all this, Jessica’s warmth and humanity shone through in small moments. During one of our conversation breaks, she paused to watch a group of young women celebrating a hen party at the hotel. They were loud, playful, and carefree, wearing masks and holding toys. She looked at them with a gracious expression and said, “That is amazing, they should be loud indeed. We all have to experience that. Nothing more beautiful than loud and spontaneous young women.”

That day, I photographed Jessica intermittently, capturing both candid and posed moments throughout our time together to convey her strength and sense of justice. Later in the day, as I was preparing to leave to catch my bus, I checked the app and saw it would arrive in less than ten minutes. Jessica began speaking again, passionately, about her activist work. Even though I had already taken many portraits of her, when I looked at her with the light coming through the window, I realised this was the one. I grabbed my camera from my bag and made the portrait.

I thought I had already captured the essence of her, but just as I was about to leave, checking my bus schedule and packing my camera, she began passionately recounting her activism again. Later, while editing, I realised that none of the other photographs had worked. If it were not for that last moment, I would not have her portrait.

Izabele

Last October 2023, I met Izabele, or Belle, at her brother’s bicycle rental and repair shop, Seven Ebike, where she sometimes helps with work. We sat at a small table inside the shop while enjoying some Brazilian coffee she had prepared.

We began the interview by talking about her age and hometown, then moved on to her experiences as a delivery worker. She shared both the positive and challenging aspects of the job.

“Well, there were a lot of positive things. I could work a lot of hours and set my own schedule. There was also the independence. But there were difficult moments too. In delivery, we are subjected to everything—rain, sun, accidents. If you stop, you won’t earn anything. It’s very different from a permanent job. Once I got hurt and had to stop for a week. I had nothing to do,” she said.

Although she never experienced theft or robbery, which are common risks for delivery workers, she did face a violent assault she believes was motivated by xenophobia.

“What happened was that I got the food, put it in my bag, and was getting off the sidewalk on Dame Street when an old man pushed me onto the street with both hands. Fortunately, there was cardboard nearby, so I fell on it instead of the street. I could have been seriously hurt. I was kind of without a reaction,” she recounted.

She described the moments immediately after the assault, questioning the aggressor:

“Then I asked him, why did you do that? What happened? What did I do to you? He said: ‘You’re wrong; you’re on the sidewalk.’ But everyone saw the situation. I gathered a lot of people and said, I’m not wrong. I just left the restaurant. I just got my food. I started to get nervous. I started to cry,” Izabele said.

“It was possible to see that he knew I was not from his culture and that he did it on purpose. It was a huge sidewalk with enough space. I wasn’t in the middle; I was in the corner. So, it was clear he targeted me as an immigrant,” she added.

Support came from people nearby, including a Brazilian woman, and despite the trauma, she decided to continue delivering the order.

When asked about her experience as a female delivery worker, Izabele highlighted respect and solidarity within the delivery community.

“The people who work in delivery help each other a lot. It’s a strong community. These days, if help is needed, you can get it. When the first protest happened, I was there. I was already working here at Seven, but I wanted to help, to do something,” she said.

While she felt respected, she occasionally received comments on her gender from customers.

“Sometimes people would say, ‘Dude, you’re a woman, how come?!’” she recalled. Over time, she began avoiding late-night shifts as she gradually felt more insecure.

The conversation then moved to policing in Dublin. Since July 2023, the Minister of Justice, Helen McEntee, announced an extra €10 million for policing Dublin, adding over 240,000 policing hours after an assault on a US tourist. Many delivery workers criticized the move, arguing that daily attacks on workers often go unnoticed unless they involve tourists.

“I think it would be essential, but the authorities need to fulfill their role. They should protect not only people born in the city but also immigrant workers. Immigrants generate an economy here—they do work many don’t,” she said.

We also discussed the responsibilities of delivery companies.

“There are rules that companies often don’t comply with. If a person suffers an accident, they have to send detailed data from the hospitals. But there’s rarely any response,” Izabele explained.

Finally, we spoke about the quality of life for migrants in Ireland, addressing housing, cost of living, and government support.

“For me, as a first-world country, costs have increased a lot, but quality hasn’t kept up. Rent and food are expensive. What has the government done to help immigrants here?” she asked.

Coline, originally from Normandy, France, has been living in Ireland for the past 1.5 years and works as a French teacher at UCD. Among her passions are dance, writing, music, and singing, which she has practiced since childhood. However, she describes justice as her primary passion:

“I think I have a deep passion for all those questions. Like, justice. Now that we can define, we can spend lots of time trying to define what justice is. I want to understand the world I live in and make sense of it in a way.”

Coline 

I’ve been friends with Coline since she moved to Ireland, having shared a home for a while in Clontarf, a residential neighborhood in Dublin, along with three other working women. Our friendship grew as we talked about our lives, dreams, and the challenges of living abroad. Coline’s interest in a project I was working on led to her participation. We met at the Clontarf house, where she was still living at the time, for a portrait session, followed by a conversation at a local café about her reasons for leaving France and relocating to Ireland.

"I felt an emergency. For myself, as in my own life. I have nothing that is keeping me in France. And although the economic conditions pushed me to stay, personally, there was an emergency to leave. To create a sense of who you are and what you're doing in the world. On the practical side, it was also to go away from a family or a certain pressure in society. I would feel in a society that when you're a woman and past 30—job-wise, career, couple—there are expectations that weigh heavily. Going abroad is more like a willingness to understand and know the world a bit more and find meaning."

Apart from seeking a freer society, Coline was drawn to Ireland culturally:

"I had interest in Irish culture and history, as a colonized country. Ireland resonated with me. Also, when I think of Ireland, I think of the music, the warm atmosphere—which surprised me when I arrived because the reality is quite different from what you idealize."

Unlike many migrants, Coline doesn’t face visa-related challenges, and her difficulties are comparable to those of native residents. Yet she highlighted the impact of Ireland’s housing crisis:

"I cannot afford to live on my own, being 34 and 35 years old in Dublin. For that reason, I don't really see myself here long-term. And I think that's what many people face."

She emphasized that while individuals should take responsibility for their lives, governments must also provide supportive conditions. Politicians in France and Ireland, she noted, often promote a meritocratic illusion, expecting citizens to secure a dignified life independently.

"I can relate to taking responsibility, but how can you do that somewhere where you cannot afford to pay rent or live in okay conditions? Then some politicians' answers would be, move your ass or whatever," she pointed out.

Coline also reflected on her personal experience with ADHD diagnosis:

"My own experience of life involved having a lot taken from me health-wise. The condition I had led me to feel lost and needing assistance. Schools don’t have time to care for special needs. It doesn't help you become responsible for yourself. If you don’t fit the mould, you either find a way, or good luck… it creates broken people."

Transportation, while often overlooked, significantly affects daily life. Dublin’s public transport was rated the worst among 30 European capitals last year by Greenpeace. Coline explained:

"Transportation can be challenging and an impediment for actually going out or just getting to work. It takes so much time—sometimes an hour and a half. You have no time for your life. It creates a burden on people’s lives here."

She stressed that improving availability, capacity, and reliability would not only benefit her but also others struggling with the cost of living.

Juliana

I met Juliana in her apartment in Smithfield, where she quickly made both of us feel at ease and ready to talk. Before we began discussing the project, she read some of her beautiful and honest poetry for me, offering a glimpse into her personal perspective and voice.

We then had a long conversation about her personal life before moving on to her volunteer work with Grupo Mulheres do Brasil. Juliana has been part of the group for over six months. In addition to being a member of the Comitê de Boas Vindas (Welcome Committee), she also provides tutoring within the group.

Juliana spoke passionately about her volunteer work. She is responsible for tutoring Brazilian women as they navigate the job market in Ireland, helping them with tasks such as preparing for interviews, refining CVs, using LinkedIn effectively, and building confidence for professional settings. She explained that the project is structured in modules, and her module focuses specifically on job interviews.

She described some of the challenges the group faces, particularly the limited number of volunteers. “The difficulties I encounter involve the need for more volunteers. It's unavoidable because social problems persist. Each person requires individual attention,” she said.

Juliana also highlighted the need for more support from authorities. Although the group has already made a meaningful impact, she believes that with additional volunteers and institutional support, it could assist many more people.

Andrezza

I met Andrezza in 2023, on a night out at Fibbers, a rock bar in Dublin’s city centre, which she often attends, as she has been part of the metal and rock scene since a young age and continues to go to gigs and festivals. We connected immediately, sharing personal and intimate stories. I remember feeling an immediate sense of understanding between us; we skipped the mundane and went straight to our core and inner desires. I was particularly struck by the way she spoke about motherhood. We stayed in touch after that night, and over time, I asked if she would be open to sharing her story as part of this project, which she agreed to.

On an icy night in January 2024, I met Andrezza at the emergency accommodation where she lives with her two-year-old twins and her 24-year-old son, as part of this project. We couldn’t pass the gate, as it was prohibited, so she stood outside while I photographed her beside the entrance. As she cannot show her face publicly, I decided to create a silhouette portrait to preserve her anonymity. She placed the camera flash behind the gate for me, allowing us to achieve the image. It was freezing, yet she waited patiently while I worked to get the right shot.

During the portrait session, we were interrupted a couple of times by cars entering the accommodation, one of them belonging to the manager. She remarked that they were “lucky” he liked them, as he even allowed her mother to visit on Christmas Eve. That stayed with me—a stark reminder that something as basic as being with your mother at Christmas can become a privilege under such conditions.

Afterwards, we went to a local pub to continue our conversation, where she shared her story and also spoke a bit about herself. She told me she studied journalism in Brazil, but that in Ireland she discovered a new passion for working with children. She completed a childcare course and has since gained experience in the area, and her dream in Ireland is to open a crèche, combining her skills with a long-term personal and professional aspiration.

Andrezza came to Ireland ten years ago after completing her journalism degree in Brazil, intending to learn English. On her first day, when she received the keys to her accommodation, she met the man who would become her first husband. They built a life together for several years, but over time, his behaviour changed, becoming aggressive towards her and eventually towards her son.

“Then he started threatening my son. When he began threatening my son, I said, ‘No, I'm not going to stay here.’ I went and moved to an apartment,” she recounted.

After leaving that relationship, Andrezza later entered another, which also became abusive. Her second husband, the father of her twins, subjected her to domestic violence. Despite not wanting more children, she became pregnant after he insisted.

“From the beginning, when we started going out, he always wanted to have a son. I said I didn't want to, because I already had Chris. Chris was grown up, so I told him, ‘I don’t want to have a child anymore.’”

Tragically, she lost a baby at four months of pregnancy due to health risks, an experience that deeply traumatised her, particularly as she went through it without her husband’s support.

“I was sure I wouldn't survive because of the pain of losing my daughter. Everywhere I went, I saw a child. I couldn't see a child, a baby, that I started crying, and then I thought: I'm only going to have a cure if I became pregnant again,” she said.

After some time apart, her former partner reappeared, seeming changed and remorseful. Still grieving, Andrezza allowed herself to believe things might improve. They decided to try again, this time through IVF.

The treatment was invasive and physically demanding. She became pregnant with twins, but the pregnancy was high-risk, marked by bleeding and long periods confined to bed.

“I was the one who had to give injections to my own belly. The hormones I had to take for the treatment made my belly swollen, and I felt very sick, as if it were pregnancy,” she said.

During this time, signs of emotional abandonment became clear. Her partner withdrew both emotionally and financially, leaving her older son to pause his college education to help support the household.

Determined to regain control over her future, Andrezza applied for a driver’s licence as soon as she was physically able, recognising it as essential for both childcare and returning to work. Despite everything, she passed on her first attempt.

“I told myself, ‘Either I pass now, or I don't pass.’ I was determined… and I succeeded. When I found out, I was ecstatic.”

The first act of physical violence occurred during her pregnancy, on Christmas Eve, as she prepared to attend an ultrasound appointment alone.

“Suddenly, he appeared, opened the front door, and stood in front of the car, threatening to break the window… I felt terrified, fearing for my life,” she recalled.

She called the Gardaí, who arrived, arrested him, and stayed with her until she could safely attend her appointment. Following this, she obtained a five-year safety order.

After the twins were born, her partner eventually left, abandoning the family and leaving Andrezza solely responsible for their care and all household expenses.

For a time, she received support from a social worker through the National Maternity Hospital. However, this support ended abruptly, and her requests for documentation—crucial for legal protection—were never fulfilled.

“After my sessions with the social worker ended, I lost all access and support without warning… She refused to compile a report on my experiences,” she said.

For over a year, the father did not provide child support. Although a court eventually ruled in her favour, the earlier period remained unaddressed.

Reflecting on her experiences, Andrezza said:

"It's hard to remember, you know? But it's good at the same time because it makes me realise that everything I've been through has brought me to where I am today. It shows me that despite all the hardships I've faced, I've survived, and in a way it gives me strength when I reflect on it. It also triggers me to remember, but it's good to recall how terrible it was sometimes, because our memory tends to erase bad things for survival." She said.

After her partner left, Andrezza could no longer afford the rent alone. Following instructions from local authorities, she asked her housemates to leave to qualify for housing support, only to have her application denied due to rent limits. Despite continuous efforts to negotiate and comply with requirements, she was left without support.

Facing eviction, she appealed through the RTB to gain time, while simultaneously losing her job as a childminder due to the loss of her home. With no viable housing options, she began storing her belongings, making repeated trips to move everything before the eviction date.

“On September 14, 2022, the woman from the agency arrived. She stepped out of the car accompanied by a man who was changing the keys of the house, a key-chain already in hand. We hurriedly began to empty the house, as we hadn’t had enough time to take everything out. I had rented a van, which made two trips. It carried some of our belongings, but the rest of my things were left strewn in front of the house. That’s when reality hit me. I broke into tears; my mind was in chaos. I was with my two babies during their lunch break, unable to feed them. I needed to use the restroom, but the house I lived in was locked. I had nowhere to go, so I sat on the ground in the grass,” she said.

That day, she and her children remained on the street until late evening, when emergency accommodation was finally arranged—a B&B, with the condition they leave the next morning.

This marked the beginning of a month and a half moving between multiple emergency accommodations. In total, they lived in five different places. Although conditions gradually improved from one to the next, each place still fell short of providing adequate housing, with limited access to basic facilities and services typically expected in stable accommodation. These conditions fall short of the minimum standards for adequate housing as defined by the United Nations.
In the first B&B, where they stayed for five days, there was no access to food or cooking facilities. They also had to share a single bathroom with several other families, leading to constant overcrowding and very poor hygiene conditions. These environments had a clear impact on their daily life and overall well-being.

Despite these circumstances, Andrezza and her children were eventually transferred to more stable accommodation. Since our conversation, they have been allocated a home, which they moved into at the end of 2025, after years of instability and uncertainty.

Luz

I visited Luz at her home one weekday evening. Originally from Belo Horizonte, Brazil, she has lived in Ireland for the past 12 years and has a background in journalism and cinema, having produced short films before becoming more deeply involved in community-focused work. She is a co-founder and co-leader of Grupo Mulheres do Brasil (Ireland), a grassroots organisation established in 2020 that supports women through initiatives related to domestic violence, entrepreneurship, and career transition. Motherhood is an important part of her life, and she is the mother of two-year-old twin girls, balancing this with her ongoing work within the community.

Before setting up my camera, we spoke about our lives, shared interests, life after the pandemic, and the Dublin riots that had taken place two months earlier. In conversation, we reflected on the importance of creating space for dialogue that includes migrants, minorities, and vulnerable communities, and how such exchanges can help amplify underrepresented voices.

Luz explained that when Élida, co-founder of Grupo Mulheres do Brasil, proposed establishing the Ireland branch and invited her to join, she accepted immediately. Having previously been involved in volunteering in Brazil, she felt a strong sense of responsibility to support the Brazilian community in Ireland, particularly in response to the needs and challenges she observed.

Within the organisation, Luz plays a role in guiding and supporting new members while helping to uphold the group’s values and objectives. One of the challenges she highlighted is the limited financial and logistical support available from public institutions, which can restrict the group’s capacity to expand its work.

Reflecting on her own path to motherhood, Luz spoke about the experience of undergoing IVF and how it shaped her sense of purpose. She described becoming a mother as something she had long hoped for, saying that she felt she had found her purpose through the process of pregnancy and the maternity ward. She explained that although the journey was long and demanding, it was one she entered with certainty.

She also emphasised her commitment to speaking openly about fertility and IVF, noting that she has taken part in conversations and podcasts through the organisation to help raise awareness. For her, sharing these experiences is also a way of addressing the silence that often surrounds fertility challenges. By speaking publicly, she hopes to encourage others to do the same, recognising that many women go through similar experiences in isolation until dialogue begins to open up.

“There are funds for community groups, but they don’t always reach the small groups. It feels to me that the ones with larger infrastructures end up always accessing what should be granted to the community initiatives that are actually doing the groundwork, but sometimes don’t meet bureaucratic criteria. So it seems like the deal remains; it almost feels like a rigged game, as harsh as it may sound. I think that organisations like ours, which are community initiatives, could perhaps develop better and work more if these funds were better distributed and targeted,” said Luz.

Feeling that greater structural support is needed, Luz suggested the introduction of a community liaison within public bodies, such as the city council, to ensure grassroots organisations have representation and a more active role in decision-making processes.

“My suggestion is to have a community liaison within public bodies like the city hall, so that community groups like ours can have a voice and participate more actively,” Luz said.

Balz

Balz received me at their home in the evening, and we began our conversation over tea. The setting was quiet and intimate, allowing the discussion to unfold naturally before I set up my camera.

At the beginning of our conversation, Balz spoke about their name and its meaning. “Balz” is a shortened form of Balzacian Bacchic, a name rooted in literary and symbolic references. “Balzacian” comes from the French writer Honoré de Balzac, while “Bacchic” refers to Bacchus, the Roman god associated with festivity, theatre, and creativity. The name reflects Balz’s engagement with literature and cultural expression. As someone who identifies as gender-fluid, Balz explained that they chose an English version of the name, as English does not assign gender to nouns in the same way as other languages.

“I don’t like to define myself as a woman, but socially I suffer the violence. I’m seen as a woman, even when I have privileges, I have privileges for being seen as a cis woman and such,” they said.

As the conversation progressed, Balz reflected on their experience as a migrant living in Ireland and the challenges of navigating everyday systems. One of the recurring themes was access to information and understanding how services operate.

“I think one of the main differences from when I arrived to now is mainly access to health and understanding how health services work. For example, to this day, I keep explaining to people how the Leap Card works,” they explained.

Although Balz had some knowledge of English prior to arriving, adapting to life in Ireland required more than language proficiency. It involved learning how systems function, engaging with local structures, and gradually integrating into both professional and social contexts. At the same time, Balz’s connection to Ireland had begun years earlier, during their studies in Brazil, where they were introduced to Irish literature and writers such as Samuel Beckett and Sean O’Casey.

Balz also spoke about the period surrounding their marriage and the role that immigration status played in their relationship. What began as a personal relationship became closely tied to legal and bureaucratic processes, including visa requirements and residency permissions. Navigating these systems proved challenging and, at times, limiting.

“I had the impression that I suffered for much longer than I needed to if I had known about those things before, you know?” they said.

Over time, the relationship became marked by increasing emotional, financial, and bureaucratic dependence. Balz described how this dependence affected their ability to make decisions and, at moments, was used as a form of pressure.

“He would say, I’m going to immigration, and I’m going to tell them to send you back to Brazil. In our fights, he used this argument many times. And it was very painful,” they said.

After securing their Stamp 4, Balz reached a turning point that allowed them to consider leaving the relationship. In December 2019, following an episode of violence, they made the decision to seek formal protection and end the relationship.

“That day, when I was getting ready to go to work, another assault happened. And then I said, no, today is the day that it’s over,” they said.

On the same day, Balz went to Dolphin House, Dublin District Family Law Office, to request a protection order. The experience left a lasting impression.

“I was completely alone inside the court, with the judge and a clerk. And then, when I got out of there, it was that feeling that it was just me and myself in the world,” they recalled.

During this period, Balz also encountered challenges in accessing information and support services. While some forms of assistance were available, they were not always clearly communicated or easy to navigate at critical moments.

“I had to ask for free legal aid… Nobody said, ‘Hey, you could also be getting an income.’ I could, from the moment everything happened until COVID started… I could have received some help, but instead, I spent all my savings,” they said.

These experiences highlight the importance of access to clear information, particularly for migrants navigating unfamiliar systems. Language, awareness, and guidance can play a crucial role in determining how effectively individuals are able to access support.

Balz also described the emotional toll of this period, which included isolation, uncertainty, and significant mental health challenges. At one point, they experienced a severe low in their mental well-being, leading to suicidal ideation.

“I started writing some suicide notes on Facebook, and then my therapist from Brazil saw it. She called me, and I went back to therapy online during the pandemic,” they said.

Over time, Balz began rebuilding their life through a combination of therapy, community, spirituality, and reconnecting with personal interests. They have since travelled back to Brazil on two occasions and are now focused on restoring stability in both their personal and professional life, with plans to return to their field and continue engaging with art, culture, and education.

A perspective that continues to guide them is the importance of self-respect and pacing one’s own healing process. They referenced a note by the writer Clarice Lispector as a way of expressing this idea.

“There is a note from Clarice Lispector… ‘Don’t touch my punctuation. My sentences have their own way of breathing… Respect them. Even I was forced to respect myself,’” they said.

“So that’s it. We are obliged to respect ourselves… I had to learn to respect myself,” they added.

We said goodbye as I left to catch the last train of the night. It was a cold evening, and as I stepped outside, I realised I had brought the wrong scarf. Balz adjusted it around my neck before I left, in a small gesture that stayed with me. The following day, we met again at Fibbers, where they kindly brought back some camera equipment I had left behind. I was glad to see the more Bacchic layer of Balz.

Beyond their personal journey, Balz has also been active in cultural production. At the end of last year, they produced, directed, and performed in a theatre play focused on migration, further reflecting their engagement with themes of identity, movement, and expression.

Beatriz

I met Beatriz at the hostel where she was staying in Dublin city centre. We spoke informally in the shared kitchen over coffee before beginning our conversation. She quickly reflected on her experience working as a delivery driver, focusing in particular on the conditions she encountered while navigating the city.

“The work itself wasn’t too challenging… I think what is particularly challenging here in Ireland, especially at night, is the street lighting. There’s hardly any lighting — very minimal. It’s difficult to see the streets well,” she explained.

She described how some delivery routes required passing through parks or less populated areas, where visibility was especially limited. Even with a flashlight, movement felt restricted and uncertain.

“You can only see five steps ahead,” she said. “That was something that greatly concerned me.”

As the conversation continued, Beatriz reflected on her interactions with customers and the occasional frustration linked to delivery delays and navigation issues. Within a short period of working in this role, she also experienced verbal abuse.

“Yes, I experienced an insult. I heard something like, ‘You stupid immigrant’ or something similar,” she recounted.

Soon after, she shared a physical assault that occurred on her very first day of work. While making a delivery near Trinity College, she entered a quiet street where she encountered a group of teenagers.

“I turned the corner, and there was a group of about ten teenagers… they started to shout at me. I ignored them… I just accelerated the bike,” she said.

The situation escalated as they chased her and interfered with her movement, causing her to fall.

“They kicked my bike’s tire and shook my bag… when I fell, the weight of the bike fell on top of me,” she explained.

She sustained injuries to her arm, knee, and waist, which took weeks to heal. In the moment, her primary concern was her safety.

“My concern when I fell was if they were going to do something to me on the floor,” she said.

Although the incident was distressing, it was interrupted when someone from a nearby restaurant shouted, after which the group dispersed.

Reflecting on the days that followed, Beatriz described the emotional and practical difficulty of continuing to work under such circumstances.

“In the initial days, I didn’t feel like working at all. But it’s a matter of necessity, isn’t it? We can’t simply stop,” she said.

Despite these challenges, Beatriz also shared a moment of unexpected connection that emerged through her work. While making a delivery, she met her Irish boyfriend, who supported her after the fall.

“He helped me, brought me tea, called me a taxi, even paid for it… I just felt something very good from him,” she said.

During our conversation, Beatriz reflected on her broader impressions of life in Ireland. She expressed appreciation for the kindness she encountered among many individuals, while also highlighting structural challenges that affect migrants, particularly in relation to healthcare access.

“My knee continued to ache, but I refrained from seeking medical attention due to the exorbitant costs,” she said.

For many migrants, she explained, especially those with limited financial resources, the cost of medical care can become a barrier to recovery and wellbeing.

Beatriz also spoke about the importance of awareness around the realities faced by delivery workers and migrants, noting that such experiences are not always visible or well understood.

“I believe it’s crucial to raise awareness… Some people think these incidents are just street hooliganism. A more informed dialogue is needed,” she said.

In addition, she suggested that improvements in urban infrastructure, such as street lighting, could have a meaningful impact on safety and quality of life for both migrants and the wider population.

“Enhancing the existing lighting infrastructure would undoubtedly be beneficial,” she noted.

Finally, Beatriz reflected on the need for broader access to opportunities and representation for migrants, particularly in employment and education, highlighting how exposure and inclusion can shape understanding across communities.

“To afford migrants more opportunities, there needs to be a concerted effort to expand access to education, employment, and awareness programs. It’s a matter of basic social psychology; without exposure to diverse perspectives, one cannot truly understand the value of different occupations.” She said.

Helen

I met Helen at St. Mark’s Church on Pearse Street in Dublin city centre. Although the Sunday mass had ended, she kindly invited me to stay and talk inside the church. As we walked through the space, she greeted several attendees from different nationalities, reflecting the multicultural environment she is part of.

During our conversation, Helen described her experience navigating the housing system in Ireland. While she acknowledged certain positives, she also highlighted the challenges she has encountered, particularly the administrative barriers and delays in securing accommodation.

“Since I came here, actually, Ireland is good. I can say there’s security, but still, there are some challenges. The housing crisis… it’s not easy to find accommodation. You apply for something; they take too long to reply,” she said.

Helen described her experience living in shared accommodation, where limited privacy and uncertainty are part of daily life.

“It’s not that easy, actually, because we share a room… there’s nothing I can do, but I just continue to sleep there because I have nowhere else to live,” she explained.

She also reflected on broader difficulties, including instances of discrimination in public spaces, while emphasising resilience and adaptation in the face of these experiences.

“In some places we get some challenges of discrimination as well, in the buses, but we just cope with life and hope maybe one day things will change,” she said. “The main problem is house prices… you are sharing bathrooms, sharing everything… you are not comfortable with the life you are living.”

Helen emphasised that the lack of stable and private housing affects not only comfort but also rest, wellbeing, and dignity in everyday life.

Even in shared environments, small disruptions can become significant stressors, particularly when individuals have limited control over their living conditions.

When asked about ways to improve inclusion and community connection in Ireland, Helen suggested creating more spaces where migrants and locals can interact through shared interests.

“Maybe they could create groups for sports for immigrants… for people to meet so they could have different sports… You can only go where you belong. They can create music programmes so that people from different countries all over the world can meet and socialise with each other,” she said.

"AGENCY: Vote with her" project, co-funded by EU.

Supported by European Network of Migrant Women and femLENS.