Namito, is known worldwide for his electrifying DJ sets, now unveils a deeply personal side through his visual art. Each piece in his exhibition is a window into his life - the places that shaped him and the defining moments along the way. From his earliest beginnings to transformative experiences, beauty, and the moments that have defined Namito's unique path.
Caroussel of Recollection
My earliest memories are from our apartment in Safaraniyeh, northern Tehran. The building stood out, with broken coloured glass embedded in its facade.
The flat was dark. My mother ran a small hair salon there, colouring clients’ hair in bright tones that were fashionable at the time.
I remember seeing snow for the first time. Heavy snowfall would sometimes close schools, and we used those days to play outside.
Life was simple then, before things began to change.
Bullet in the Heart
I don’t remember if it snowed in the winter of 1979. The uprising against the Shah was so overwhelming that it pushed almost everything else aside—but not this.
One day, my uncle Hossein didn’t come home. He was not a political man, just an architect, on his way to be with his parents before curfew. My parents grew increasingly restless as the hours passed. Eventually, they left us—me and my two sisters—while they searched hospitals and police stations across the city. Outside, the sounds of the revolution filled the air: chanting, helicopters, distant gunshots. Inside, there was only fear.
When they returned, I understood immediately. My mother’s face said everything. She shook her head, and my sister’s scream cut through the room. It was the moment we knew we would never see him again. A stray bullet had struck his heart. He died instantly.
Everyone cried—except me. I was seven years old and couldn’t fully grasp what had happened. I didn’t cry at the funeral, or in the days that followed. Instead, I carried a quiet sense of guilt for years. The tears came much later, suddenly, when I was alone in my room in Berlin.
After his death, everything changed. We left our home and moved to my grandparents’ house on Doostan Street, trying to fill the absence he left behind.
Forbidden Games
War became part of our life, as much as the aftermath of the revolution. The Revolutionary Guards implemented the new laws with an iron fist. At first, women still had a choice whether to wear the hijab, but once the Islamic Republic of Iran was announced, there was no choice anymore. Patrols moved through the streets, searching for counter-revolutionary elements.
The list of things not allowed was long: violations of the hijab law, alcohol, drugs, pornography (including Western fashion magazines), political activities, gambling—and more. To our astonishment, it also included backgammon, popular card games that didn’t involve money, and even chess.
The reason for chess was the figures of the king and queen. It was taken so seriously that people hid game boards and cards in case of house raids. I remember tearing all images of women out of the fashion magazines of my German aunt, Alenka.
A few years later, the laws changed, and backgammon and chess could be bought again in the markets.
Doostan Park
At the end of Doostan Street, where five small roads met a forgotten valley, an entire neighbourhood turned empty land into life. Guided by solidarity, they built Doostan Park with their own hands—trees, a football pitch, and a fragile sense of freedom in the middle of a rigid society. When a wall later cut through that freedom, the neighbours gathered in the dark and tore it down together. What remains is more than a park: it is a memory of resistance, belonging, and joy reclaimed.
Mirage & The Moonshine
Our park became the centre of my life. I spent every possible minute there with new friends, mostly wild boys. It was there I first heard that Iraq had attacked Iran, the air felt electrified, and the boys were almost excited.
There was only one TV channel, and after the revolution, most of what remained were Second World War movies. Scenes were censored, at first awkwardly covered, later simply cut out, leaving gaps in the story.
When the war began, we decided to defend our country ourselves. In the park, we dug deep holes, sharpened branches, and built traps for Iraqi paratroopers, covering them with leaves. Weeks later, we realised how wrong we were. Tehran was too far from the border. The danger we had imagined became real in another way. Our traps threatened other children, so we dismantled them.
Years into the war, one night, sirens warned of incoming bombers. The city went dark. With no time to find shelter, I lay on the ground, looking up at the sky.
And then I saw it, a French fighter jet, unmistakable in shape, something I knew from childhood games. Strange as it may sound, in that moment, under the moonlight and between scattered clouds, it looked absolutely beautiful.
Decisions made
By 1985, five years of war had become our reality. Most of my family had already fled to Europe, but we stayed behind; between the international sanctions following the hostage crisis and our lack of money, getting a visa or a passport seemed as impossible as flying to the moon.
That summer, my Uncle Hassan visited from Berlin. He was a superhero to us, bringing gifts like Nikes and Hubba Bubba gum. While we were climbing a walnut tree, he suddenly asked, “Would you like to live in Germany?” I quickly said “No,” confused by such a "stupid" question.
Soon after, my mother called me into her room. With a facial expression that allowed no contradiction, she told me: “You are moving to Germany next week.”
My parents had spent a lot of money to secure a passport and a rare ticket out. They made this decision without consulting me, the one who had to live with the consequences. I was told to keep quiet to avoid trouble leaving the country, forced to leave behind a life and secrets they knew nothing about.
Kerosene Lamp
As the country deteriorated, food shortages and blackouts became our reality. I vividly remember eating dill rice and canned tuna by kerosene light for two weeks straight—a meal that, surprisingly, always tasted amazing.
When Saddam Hussein’s bombers attacked Tehran, the city was plunged into darkness to disorient pilots who lacked GPS. The first time it happened, we huddled in the basement, listening as the muffled thuds of random explosions grew louder and closer until we felt the vibrations. Over time, the fear turned into a lottery; we eventually stopped going to the cellar, realizing that if a bomb hit the house, being underground might not save us.
Our only precaution was putting X-shaped duct tape on the windows. Iraqi jets had a habit of breaking the sonic barrier after dropping their loads, and without the tape, the resulting shockwaves caused glass to implode into the house, turning windows into deadly shards.
Covert Affection
After the conversation with my mother, I was in a state of shock, unable to process being sent away alone. At thirteen, you don’t realize that such a dramatic step is taken out of pure parental love; instead, you just feel rejected. I didn’t care about the war, I only knew I didn't want to leave my friends or the secret life I had built. Deep down, I carried a hidden affection for a girl in my painting class. She had silky black hair and wore red lipstick, and every time I saw her, I felt a sensation in my belly. I had to struggle not to stare at her during lessons, especially with my sisters sitting at the same table. In a culture where sexuality is a taboo, I was left alone to navigate these sudden, overwhelming feelings.
Not even my best friend knew my secret. Now, facing a departure only one week away with no promise of return, I felt a despair that is hard to describe. To an adult, it might seem like a small thing, but for me, it was the end of my world as I knew it.
Leaving everything behind
After the conversation with my mother, I was in a state of shock, unable to process being sent away alone. At thirteen, you don’t realize that such a dramatic step is taken out of pure parental love; instead, you just feel rejected. I didn’t care about the war, I only knew I didn't want to leave my friends or the secret life I had built. Deep down, I carried a hidden affection for a girl in my painting class. She had silky black hair and wore red lipstick, and every time I saw her, I felt a sensation in my belly. I had to struggle not to stare at her during lessons, especially with my sisters sitting at the same table. In a culture where sexuality is a taboo, I was left alone to navigate these sudden, overwhelming feelings.
Not even my best friend knew my secret. Now, facing a departure only one week away with no promise of return, I felt a despair that is hard to describe. To an adult, it might seem like a small thing, but for me, it was the end of my world as I knew it.