By Farnaz Abdoli
I am an Iranian-born multidisciplinary artist, writer, and activist, now based in Munich, Germany. From 2010 to 2016, I worked as a fashion designer and stylist in Iran, creating collections that challenged restrictive dress codes and introduced variety, color, and freedom into women’s fashion. My work was celebrated—in 2013, I was named one of CNN’s ten most influential women of the year for the wide social changes it inspired—but it also led to persecution. I was arrested by Iran’s Revolutionary Guard, spent one month in solitary confinement, and was sentenced to five years in prison along with a ban on all activities in fashion and clothing. To escape this, I was forced to leave Iran and lived seven years in Turkey in a state of limbo. During that time, I began collaborating with Spectrum—an anti-racist, intersectional feminist, trans, and gender diverse inclusive organization—where I finally found the courage to speak openly about my bi+ identity, a part of myself that had been silenced for many years. Today, my artistic and written work weaves together themes of exile, identity, migration, fashion, and human rights.
When I first learned the distinction between “ally” and “accomplice,” it resonated deeply with my own story. As a bi+ woman, an artist, and someone who has lived through exile, I know what it means when support goes beyond kind words and transforms into action. Allyship is important. It acknowledges our struggles and offers moral encouragement. But accompliceship is different: it is when someone uses their position, their privilege, or even their safety to stand beside you in a concrete, risky, and visible way.
Throughout my journey, I have experienced both. There were many allies who expressed sympathy when I was forced to leave Iran, after facing persecution for my artistic work. They offered kind words, promises of solidarity, and hopes for a brighter future. I am grateful for their intentions, but in moments of crisis, I learned that allyship alone is often not enough.
The people who made survival possible for me were not only allies—they were accomplices. They took risks. They opened doors. They gave me their keys when I had no safe place to stay. They vouched for me when institutions hesitated. They used their privilege—whether in the form of citizenship, professional networks, or institutional influence—to ensure that I could continue my work and rebuild my life. Some wrote official letters for me, stood up to authorities on my behalf, or shared their own reputations so that I could gain entry into spaces from which I had been excluded. Their actions carried personal cost: time, energy, and sometimes reputational risk. That is the essence of being an accomplice.
In the art world, where visibility and access often depend on gatekeepers, accompliceship has meant even more. As a migrant and a bi+ artist, I have often found myself standing at the margins of institutions. An ally might say, “Your work matters,” while an accomplice will physically insist that my work be shown, included, and supported. An ally applauds from the sidelines; an accomplice steps onto the stage with you, even when it is uncomfortable.
I remember moments when people crossed this threshold. One curator insisted on showing my collection despite pressure to avoid politically sensitive themes. Another activist shared their platform with me, allowing my voice to be heard at an international conference where I would otherwise have been invisible. A friend translated endless documents and navigated bureaucracies with me, treating my struggle as their own. These acts were not symbolic; they altered the trajectory of my life.
Of course, I have also learned how fragile allyship can be. Some people disappear when solidarity requires effort or risk. Their silence is painful because it shows that their commitment was conditional. Yet this distinction has also shaped how I want to show up for others.
As someone who has lived through persecution, exile, and constant displacement, I carry a responsibility to practice accompliceship myself. Within queer spaces, within migrant communities, within artistic networks—I try to use my experiences and my platforms to create openings for others. When I see someone being excluded, I do not want to be only an ally who says, “I support you.” I want to intervene, to invite, to act. Sometimes that means recommending another artist for an opportunity instead of keeping it for myself. Sometimes it means refusing to participate in a project unless it includes marginalized voices. Sometimes it means sharing my resources or networks with people who are just beginning their journey.
My bi+ identity shapes all of this. Being bi+ often means living in-between, navigating invisibility, or being questioned by both queer and straight spaces. That experience has taught me empathy for others who are erased, silenced, or doubted. It has made me attuned to the difference between symbolic gestures and real risk. It is why I insist on the word accomplice—because real change only comes when people step beyond comfort.
So, what does it mean to be an accomplice today? It means asking yourself: What can I risk? What can I give? What doors can I open that might remain closed otherwise? And it means recognizing that solidarity is not passive; it is an active, living practice.
I dream of a future in which accompliceship is not rare but expected, a future in which supporting bi+ people, migrants, women, and marginalized voices does not rely on extraordinary courage, but becomes part of our everyday ethics. Until then, I continue to honor those who have been my accomplices and to practice this role for others. Because only through risk, action, and shared struggle can we truly transform the structures that keep us apart.
Farnaz Abdoli is an Iranian-born fashion designer, writer, and visual artist based in Munich. In 2013, CNN named her one of its Ten Women of the Year for the social change her work inspired in Iran. After being arrested, spending one month in solitary confinement, and receiving a five-year prison sentence with a ban on all fashion activities, she was forced to leave Iran. She spent seven years in Turkey in a state of limbo, where she began collaborating with Spectrum and, for the first time, found the courage to speak openly about her bi+ identity—a part of herself that had been silenced for many years.
Featured image credit: Augustas Didžgalvis