The boy is the son of a friend of mine, who was once an opposition fighter. After the fall of Assad, everything shifted, and we ended up connected through the border areas between Lebanon and Syria.

In the photograph, he stands next to his father's weapon. But the moment itself was entirely ordinary — he was simply waiting for me, slightly annoyed, with his siblings nearby. I think we were all just waiting to get shoes.

So nothing dramatic was happening in that moment. And yet, because of the context — his father, the weapon, Syria — the image carries something much heavier.— Chiara Wettmann

This image shows the ID card of a stateless person in Lebanon. At first glance, it looks like a form of recognition — some kind of official document. In reality, however, it offers very little. It allows him to pass through checkpoints, but beyond that, it carries no real weight. He can't legally work, vote, or own property. It doesn't protect him, and it doesn't truly identify him.

In the end, it becomes little more than proof that he exists in a place, but without belonging to it. It grants neither citizenship nor rights. That is where the contradiction lies — you are given a document, but not the things that should come with it.— Chiara Wettmann

That image captures exactly how it felt to be there. We would sit in a circle — seven to ten men — for hours, talking about life, personal things, philosophy, faith. It was never forced; it simply unfolded.

There was always black coffee. Far too strong for me. During the first visit, my heart was racing from it, so they quickly realised I wasn't made for that kind of coffee. After that, they adjusted it — adding water, sugar, sometimes milk. I still didn’t like it, but the effort itself stayed with me.

The conversations were led by Axel Wiesbock, the chaplain, though they never felt structured. At first, I was clearly an outsider. Then, gradually, something shifted. I was no longer just observing — I was included, asked questions, drawn into the space. I never forgot where I was, and I don't want to romanticise it. But being accepted, even in small ways, meant a great deal.

After a few visits, some of them invited me into their cells — a very personal space. I was never there alone, always with Axel and a police officer, but even that invitation felt like a sign of trust.

I deliberately chose not to show their faces. Partly because it was one of the prison rules, but also as an ethical decision.

These photographs were taken in 2020. Many of the men may already be out, or will be in the coming years. Even if they agreed to be photographed at the time, including their faces, you can't know what might follow. What if one of them applies for a job and is recognised? What if the image continues to shape his life long after prison?
It felt like the more responsible choice.— Chiara Wettmann

Especially in Berlin — though likely in most prisons — different religions and beliefs exist side by side. Christians, Muslims — Sunni and Shia — Jewish people, and those who don't believe at all, all share the same space.
Prison is already a difficult, often tense environment. People are confined, constantly in close proximity, and there is little room to step away. But faith can also act as a point of connection — if there is a level of acceptance.

In this image, the man is Sunni, and it was taken during Ramadan. He was fasting, not eating or drinking, yet still part of the gathering. At one point, he stepped away to pray.

For me, the image is about something quite simple: that this should be normal. People practising in their own way, within the same space, without conflict. In a place like prison — where everything is already heightened — that kind of coexistence becomes essential. — Chiara Wettmann

The history of statelessness in Côte d’Ivoire unfolds differently from places like Lebanon or Syria. Here, it is closely tied to the legacy of the slave trade. Many people are descendants of those brought to West Africa generations ago — to Côte d’Ivoire, Senegal, and other coastal regions. Over time, that rupture meant origins were lost, blurred, or simply never recorded.

And that absence carries forward. Without a clear line back — without documents or proof — belonging becomes difficult to claim.

This photograph stayed with me because, in a quiet way, it holds that reality. You don't see the man’s face, and that absence begins to echo something larger. Statelessness often works like that — not always visible, but deeply present. A kind of invisibility that sits alongside everyday life.

Life, of course, continues. You move, you work, you love — but without the structure that formally recognises you, or the rights that come with it.

In a way, statelessness feels like something you carry. Not obvious at first glance, not written across the surface — but woven into everything. It follows each step, quietly, persistently.— Chiara Wettmann