Blogpost by Anna Skenderoglou The decision to stay – or to be allowed to leave. About a place, but also about a love
Published on 01.10.2025.
Straight into the uncomfortable – but by choice
‘Get out of your comfort zone’ – this phrase has been plastered on the walls of my generation since the pandemic began. And I, too, have followed it: two years ago, I left Germany to live abroad.
It was a decision I made entirely on my own. I chose the place, was able to prepare myself and could return at any time if I felt like it. This simple sentence – ‘I want to be somewhere else right now’ – is a luxury that I didn't recognise as such for far too long. It's only during those small, annoying moments abroad, when I long for home, that I realise: I can just go back. For a few weeks or months. I can move between places. I am free.
This freedom cannot be taken for granted. And it only becomes painfully clear when you see who is denied it. Then the mental merry-go-round starts spinning through all the ways in which freedom can be taken away, and how deeply those effects are felt.
Filmmaker Sejad Ademaj uses film as a medium to shine a light on this reality. Three of his films pull audiences out of their comfort zone and into a deeply uncomfortable examination of widespread injustices and social roles.
Fifteen Minutes: Jasmina and the Weight of a Quarter of an Hour
Jasmina is one of those people who does not share the same freedoms as I do. I first met her in Sejad Ademaj's short film “Fünfzehn Minuten” (Fifteen Minutes) and I haven't forgotten her since. Although Jasmina is a fictional character, her story reflects the reality experienced by many young people living in Germany with an insecure residence status, whose opportunities and sense of belonging are limited by legal and bureaucratic barriers.
In Sejad's fictional story, Jasmina was born in Germany, went to school there and speaks fluent German. She doesn't even have an extraordinary dream; she simply wants to stay in Germany and only visit the neighbouring district, precisely Berlin. All young people dream of the big city, and so she too is eagerly awaiting her school trip to the capital. But even that is only possible to a limited extent with her temporary residence status in Germany. Every trip has to be registered and she is not allowed to leave the district without permission. That means no spontaneous holidays, no quick trips with friends and, more profoundly, no secure future or equal opportunities.
The gently frustrated conversations with her parents, switching between languages, helping interpret official letters: in her everyday life, she is close to me and I know this special form of ‘childhood’ in which so much adulthood is required. But there is still a German passport between us – one that gives me a freedom Jasmina can only dream of.
Jasmina always knows what's going on with the authorities, which is why she wants to make sure ten times over that everything is sorted for her school trip. But even an approved trip offers no protection, as the film shows. In the middle of the night, the police ring the doorbell. The family is to be deported and has just 15 minutes to pack their most important belongings. Jasmina, who sees her world shattering and the entire weight of her fate collapsing on her, desperately seeks help from her boyfriend's mother, a lawyer. However, she can't do anything for the family, and so human rights gradually lose their value that evening.
The film ends with a quiet, devastating image: Jasmina locks herself in the bathroom, the camera lingering on a razor within her reach and her pained, searching expression. When she does not respond, a police officer eventually calls for help. It is not over-staged or melodramatic, but realistic and therefore all the more powerful.
Who is actually telling the story here? Sejad Ademaj and his perspective
‘Fifteen Minutes’ is a short film that, in just under a quarter of an hour, is more moving than many feature-length productions. Director Sejad Ademaj clearly knows what he is talking about. He himself fled Montenegro with his Roma family as a child and lived in Germany for nearly two decades with temporary residence status. His films are based not only on observation, but also on experience. Today, Sejad speaks openly about how profoundly those years shaped him and how early he had to understand what displacement does to families and the human psyche.
In an interview, the director explains that the right to security, peace and freedom of movement, as well as the pursuit of personal happiness, are fundamental human rights, yet in reality, are denied to many migrants. After 18 years (!), his family was granted a residence permit, giving them permission to remain in Germany indefinitely. Still, he notes, true security is far from guaranteed given the current political climate.
After secondary school, Sejad trained as an event manager at the E-Werk in Freiburg, a cultural centre for visual arts, theatre, music and dance. His growing interest in media and its power to shape narratives around minorities and migration contexts eventually led him to study media design and production at the University of Applied Sciences in Offenburg. He later continued with screenwriting studies at the Film Academiy Baden-Württemberg where he created his short film “Fünfzehn Minuten” (Fifteen Minutes).
Where to take ‘Fünfzehn Minuten’ beyond the short film screen?
After its premiere at the Hof Film Festival in 2022, the film went on to win the German Human Rights Film Award. This independent German media competition is supported by over twenty organisations, including human rights groups, educational and cultural institutions, media organisations, as well as trade unions. Every two years since 1998, , a jury representing these organisations selects films that make an outstanding contribution to the respect and protection of human rights. There are six categories for the films, each with a prize money of 2,500 euros.
Sejad's film won the education category, which considers submissions from all the other categories and highlights work particularly suited for educational purposes. As a result, the film will also be published as a teaching aid by the Institute for Film and Image in Science and Education (FWU).
German Language, Difficult Language: Ten Minutes of Being a Foreigner
Sejad Ademaj's second short film, “Deutsche Sprache, schwere Sprache” (German language, difficult language), explores once again how everything can change in fifteen minutes. This time, a car accident causes a right-wing extremist singer to suddenly lose the ability to speak his mother tongue, German. Instead, he can now only speak Arabic – the language of the person who caused the accident and who he encounters again in hospital as his attending doctor.
The comedy in the film arises from the tension between ideological conviction and linguistic reality. A right-wing extremist singer who can suddenly only communicate in a language he usually hates is not only a contradiction, but almost a caricature of himself. The film raises a fundamental question: how deeply is ideology tied to language and what happens when that language is no longer available?
Foreign Language?
In hospital, Theo, the right-wing extremist singer, is diagnosed with “Foreign Language Accent Syndrome”, which leaves him only able to speak Arabic. Meanwhile, Mahmoud, the doctor who caused the accident, is about to receive his naturalisation and fears deportation when confronted with his accidental crime. Theo then pressures him to help regain his German fluency before his next big concert. When that fails, Mahmoud finds himself forced to take on the role of singer for a right-wing extremist band – and caught up in new police trouble as a result. Against the backdrop of police interrogation, the film plays with the irony of fate and highlights not only the power of language, but also institutional racism.
Theo has lost his mother tongue but retained his problematic ideology. Yet, the police favour him over Mahmoud, who speaks German fluently and is able to explain the incident. Mahmoud, as a migrant, is condemned more harshly by default. The irony being that it does not make any sense for him, as victim of right-wing extremism, to be involved in the right-wing extremist concert out of conviction.
Body Language!
The visual reference in the final scene to the opening scene ultimately condenses into a bitter allegory about social power relations and institutional racism: in the first scene, Mahmoud sits visibly tense during the police interrogation. The camera shows him reaching for the empty coffee cup, which is promptly taken away until he agrees to speak; at this point the cup is returned. Meanwhile, Theo can be seen drinking coffee comfortably next to him. What appears to be procedural fairness towards all those involved quickly reveals itself as subtle prejudice about who is guilty and who deserves care – after all, the police interrogation is not about a traffic accident, but about the right-wing extremist concert.
In the final scene, a parallel moment takes place. Both characters return to the interrogation room. Similar to the opening scene, the audience sees the same sequence of giving and taking of the provided food; this time, sweet pastries. Mahmoud reaches for the plate of pastries, but the plate is taken away from him and passed on to Theo, who helps himself with relish. Between the bitter black coffee and the sweet pastries, the film sharply exposes its satirical yet serious message: Who receives care and who is excluded? Who is allowed to make mistakes and who has to do everything right in order to be heard?
Role Language?!!
The answer to these questions – who receives care and who is excluded – depends largely on our social role. Whether as a migrant or a member of the German majority, as a mother, father, daughter, patient, police officer or someone seeking protection. Our scope for action, our reputation, our error rates – all of this is defined less by our intentions than by the roles society has assigned to us. This is especially evident in migration contexts: those who are perceived as ‘foreign’ often have to explain themselves twice, prove themselves twice, adapt twice – and usually have half as much room for failure or doubt. This is also the case for Mahmoud in the film.
But these attributions extend beyond origin or residence status. Gender roles, too, are full of such double standards. Who is allowed to be soft? Who is allowed to be angry? Who is believed to be strong – and who is denied the right to be sensitive?
Let's Call it Love: (Un)deciding Against the Old
These questions resonate in Sejad Ademaj's latest short film, “Let's Call it Love”, which had its German premiere in January 2025 at the Max Ophüls Festival. In the film, Rebecca and Paul explore universal themes that affect all people: love, separation and memory. The audience follows Rebecca and her ex-husband Paul for an afternoon after they have signed the divorce papers. They discuss the reasons for their separation and exchange accusations, share news about their son, but also talk about their favourite ice cream flavours and old habits.
Right at the beginning, a chalk drawing on the asphalt hints at a playful childhood. A flower-decorated archway in a café frames the former couple as though in a wedding scene, while Rebecca's dark sunglasses casually allude to grief and farewell. The bright colours of the summer day reflect the warmth of their shared memories. What unfolds is not a classic break-up drama, but a poetic reflection on the lasting traces of love lived, beyond pain and disappointment.
Old and new roles
Looking at this encounter through the lens of classic gender roles, some things seem reversed: Rebecca is the more matter-of-fact, composed character, who lost touch of her love and family life because of work. Paul, on the other hand, seems more vulnerable, quieter, almost softer. Isn't that actually the opposite of what has been portrayed in stories, advertising and culture for decades? Wasn't it “always the man” who threw himself into his work and remained emotionally distant?
But perhaps that's not something we should say anymore. Because these images no longer work – if they ever truly did. Rather than presenting us with a role reversal, the film suggests that roles are negotiable, not fixed.
“Let's Call it Love” does not comment on this loudly, but allows us to see it – if we look closely. How people deal with closeness, how they process separation, how much they show or hide is not purely personal. It is also shaped by experiences, expectations and the environment in which one grew up.
Even though the film reveals nothing about the origins of its characters, attributions are never completely silent: to many, the characters probably look ‘German’ – whatever that means. But what if it were different? Or if we simply didn't know? Would we then invent a tragic backstory to explain their behaviour? Would we judge their behaviour differently? More harshly? Or perhaps even wrongly?
What remains in the end – after the anger, the powerlessness, the unanswered questions
is perhaps something very simple: we humans are very much different but we all have similar needs. We want security. Closeness. We want to be allowed to stay when we have arrived. Or to leave when we feel drawn elsewhere. Sejad Ademaj's films remind us of this – quietly, intelligently, humanely. They show differences and at the same time reveal what connects us at our core.
So when we talk about the ‘comfort zone’ today, we should also ask ourselves: Who actually has the choice to leave it – and who fights every day just to have one?
About the Author
Anna Skenderoglou combines a background in French cultural and languages studies with philosophy at Heidelberg University and a strong focus on film and media. Growing up bilingual and speaking five languages has given her a strong awareness of cultural diversity and the subtle role language plays in shaping perception. Through her experience as a film curator at the Nice Short Film Festival, she explored the challenges of programming across linguistic and cultural boundaries. With a particular interest in how original language and translation affect film perception, she is continuing her academic path in an international master’s program.
