Hamrah's Story
داستان همراه
Written by Nazafarin Lotfi
In August 2021, when the U.S. military withdrew from Afghanistan, I was already working with several refugee networks and nonprofits in Tucson, Arizona, supporting people from Iraq, Syria, the Republic of Congo, Tibet, and other regions. Within months, Tucson saw an influx of Afghan families evacuated to the United States after spending weeks or even months in military camps across the country. Because of a severe housing shortage, many newly resettled families, often with multiple children, were placed in hotel rooms with no private quiet space to study, rest, or simply be alone.
During this time, through my connections with local resettlement agencies, I met a young painter from Kabul who had just arrived in Tucson. We would explore the city and visit art museums together. As we drove through the desert landscape, we began imagining a space where young artists—especially those new to the city and still searching for community—could gather, make art, and connect. From that shared vision, Hamrah was born: a response to the absence of physical and emotional space to connect and make art.
The name Hamrah, meaning ‘fellow traveller’ in Farsi, is taken from a protest anthem that was often sung in student uprisings in Iran. The song calls for listeners to come together rather than remaining isolated in pain—reminding us that collective wounds cannot be healed alone.
همراه شو عزیز
تنها نمان به درد
کاین درد مشترک
هرگز جدا جدا درمان نمی شود
Come along dear,
don’t be alone in pain,
this common pain,
will not heal in isolation.
I began asking myself how I could translate my drawing and sculptural practice—concerned with space, the body, and presence—into real, lived, and communal spaces. As a visual artist who often works alone in the studio, I have long sought to expand my practice beyond its walls. I am drawn to the collective practice of imagination that flourishes outside academic and institutional settings, where creativity itself becomes a transformative force, capable of reshaping the everyday and redefining our sense of reality.
Hamrah began with just three participants who met weekly for open studio sessions at the Museum of Contemporary Art Tucson (MOCA), which generously hosted the project from its inception. Each Sunday, we gathered in the studio, bringing our materials and a shared intention to work alongside one another, to create, to share our stories, and to listen.
Hamrah Arts Club emerged from a deep longing for community—something many of the young people I met carried with them. Forced to relocate as children, leaving behind everything familiar, they struggled to reconcile their past lives and the loved ones left behind in Syria or Afghanistan with their new realities in the sunbaked American West.
By Fall 2022, the program had grown to fifteen participants, most of them recent evacuees from Afghanistan whose education, life plans, and sense of future had been abruptly interrupted by their country’s rapid collapse. Many of the original members were in their early twenties. Some went on to college or found jobs, while their siblings, friends, and neighbors began to join. With each new season, some members left, others stayed, and new faces arrived. Gradually, the group expanded.
We secured small grants to invite guest artists, hire community drivers, purchase art supplies, and bring on youth mentors to support new participants. Together, we made art, cooked and shared meals, danced, meditated, and planned creative projects that engaged our local environment.
Over time, Hamrah evolved into a transnational, intergenerational, and multilingual family—a safe space to share the experiences of crossing borders, to process the challenges of migration, and to imagine the future collectively.
As of Fall 2025, more than thirty young people have participated in the program, joining our growing community. Together, we’ve collaborated on a range of projects including painting, creative writing, experimental photography, and most notably our ongoing Oral History Project, which already includes over a dozen interviews with members. Currently, Hamrah operates through two active chapters—in Tucson, AZ, and Chicago, IL—offering both in-person and virtual engagement.
The Hamrah Arts Club envisions a world where every individual is recognized as worthy of taking up space—a world that grows horizontally, where everyone is seen and heard, and where belonging and dignity are shared. When we gather for our creative workshops and art projects, our focus remains on the meaningful time spent together rather than the final product. The space itself and every moment shared within it becomes art.
Rather than attempting to recreate lost homelands, Hamrah’s gatherings model collective care. Participants share skills, knowledge, and lived experience, helping one another prepare for driving tests, find affordable housing, tutor younger students in English or math, or navigate the job market.
We remember that generations before us have endured wars and displacement—and that we, too, will persevere. Through collective solidarity, we seek to mend historical wounds and grow stronger in the present, planting the seeds of world-building and a future that can hold us all, here and now.
By Fall 2022, the program had grown to fifteen participants, most of them recent evacuees from Afghanistan whose education, life plans, and sense of future had been abruptly interrupted by their country’s rapid collapse. Many of the original members were in their early twenties. Some went on to college or found jobs, while their siblings, friends, and neighbors began to join. With each new season, some members left, others stayed, and new faces arrived. Gradually, the group expanded.
We secured small grants to invite guest artists, hire community drivers, purchase art supplies, and bring on youth mentors to support new participants. Together, we made art, cooked and shared meals, danced, meditated, and planned creative projects that engaged our local environment.
Hamrah began with just three participants who met weekly for open studio sessions at the Museum of Contemporary Art Tucson (MOCA), which generously hosted the project from its inception. Each Sunday, we gathered in the studio, bringing our materials and a shared intention to work alongside one another, to create, to share our stories, and to listen.
Hamrah Arts Club emerged from a deep longing for community—something many of the young people I met carried with them. Forced to relocate as children, leaving behind everything familiar, they struggled to reconcile their past lives and the loved ones left behind in Syria or Afghanistan with their new realities in the sunbaked American West.
I began asking myself how I could translate my drawing and sculptural practice—concerned with space, the body, and presence—into real, lived, and communal spaces. As a visual artist who often works alone in the studio, I have long sought to expand my practice beyond its walls. I am drawn to the collective practice of imagination that flourishes outside academic and institutional settings, where creativity itself becomes a transformative force, capable of reshaping the everyday and redefining our sense of reality.
The name Hamrah, meaning ‘fellow traveller’ in Farsi, is taken from a protest anthem that was often sung in student uprisings in Iran. The song calls for listeners to come together rather than remaining isolated in pain—reminding us that collective wounds cannot be healed alone.
همراه شو عزیز
تنها نمان به درد
کاین درد مشترک
هرگز جدا جدا درمان نمی شود
“Come along dear, don’t be alone in pain,
this common pain, will not heal in isolation.”
Written by Nazafarin Lotfi
In August 2021, when the U.S. military withdrew from Afghanistan, I was already working with several refugee networks and nonprofits in Tucson, Arizona, supporting people from Iraq, Syria, the Republic of Congo, Tibet, and other regions. Within months, Tucson saw an influx of Afghan families evacuated to the United States after spending weeks or even months in military camps across the country. Because of a severe housing shortage, many newly resettled families, often with multiple children, were placed in hotel rooms with no private quiet space to study, rest, or simply be alone.
During this time, through my connections with local resettlement agencies, I met a young painter from Kabul who had just arrived in Tucson. We would explore the city and visit art museums together. As we drove through the desert landscape, we began imagining a space where young artists—especially those new to the city and still searching for community—could gather, make art, and connect. From that shared vision, Hamrah was born: a response to the absence of physical and emotional space to connect and make art.
Over time, Hamrah evolved into a transnational, intergenerational, and multilingual family—a safe space to share the experiences of crossing borders, to process the challenges of migration, and to imagine the future collectively.
As of Fall 2025, more than thirty young people have participated in the program, joining our growing community. Together, we’ve collaborated on a range of projects including painting, creative writing, experimental photography, and most notably our ongoing Oral History Project, which already includes over a dozen interviews with members. Currently, Hamrah operates through two active chapters—in Tucson, AZ, and Chicago, IL—offering both in-person and virtual engagement.
The Hamrah Arts Club envisions a world where every individual is recognized as worthy of taking up space—a world that grows horizontally, where everyone is seen and heard, and where belonging and dignity are shared. When we gather for our creative workshops and art projects, our focus remains on the meaningful time spent together rather than the final product. The space itself and every moment shared within it becomes art.
Rather than attempting to recreate lost homelands, Hamrah’s gatherings model collective care. Participants share skills, knowledge, and lived experience, helping one another prepare for driving tests, find affordable housing, tutor younger students in English or math, or navigate the job market.
We remember that generations before us have endured wars and displacement—and that we, too, will persevere. Through collective solidarity, we seek to mend historical wounds and grow stronger in the present, planting the seeds of world-building and a future that can hold us all, here and now.