Filmmaker Aysun Bademsoy is among the most precise documentary observers of social transformation in the German-Turkish context. Over more than three decades, she has followed a group of young women whose life trajectories are closely intertwined with soccer, migration, and identity.
Aysun Bademsoy's body of work begins with Mädchen am Ball (1995) and Nach dem Spiel (1997), in which she portrays Europe’s first German-Turkish girls’ soccer team in Berlin and offers deep insights into family and social dynamics. With In the Game (2008), Bademsoy continues this long-term observation: the players now stand at the threshold of adulthood, balancing work, family, and cultural expectations. Her most recent film, Game Changers (2024), reflects on generational questions of belonging, identity, and self-determination in a society where ideas of integration and cultural belonging are being renegotiated. Bademsoy’s careful, time-intensive storytelling avoids sensationalism and instead unfolds a lasting intimacy that allows viewers to reflect on time and life itself.Deniz Sertkol (DS): Your films follow the same group of young women over many years—beginning with "Mädchen am Ball", continuing with "Nach dem Spiel", "In the Game", and most recently "Game Changers". What originally interested you about these girls? And when did you realize that this might become a long-term cinematic relationship?
Aysun Bademsoy (AB): At the time, a friend told me about Turkish girls playing soccer in Görlitzer Park. I knew nothing about it and went there out of curiosity. At first, I thought it was simply a leisure activity. I had a small camera with me, filmed a little, and later showed the material to friends—many of them soccer fans themselves. They were completely surprised and impressed.
At the same time, Harun Farocki, my producer and friend, got a project inquiry. Too busy to take it, he asked if I had an idea. I told him about the girls. Soon after, I wrote an exposé, began researching, attended the games, spoke with the coach, and visited the families.
What fascinated me immediately was the clarity and strength of these girls. In the locker room, they were typical teenagers—they dolled themselves up, laughed, and were a close-knit group. But on the field, they transformed: focused, powerful, tactically strong. It was as if they were walking down an imaginary catwalk—everyone was watching them, and they were present. I found this duality incredibly exciting.
They were also the first German-Turkish girls’ soccer team in Europe—and excelled on the field. But what interested me was how naturally they occupied that space. For them, soccer was structure, expression, and self-assertion all at once.
At that point, I didn’t know it would become a long-term observation. Mädchen am Ball was a commissioned film for the broadcaster ORB, today rbb. Only later, when I realized how intelligently and carefully they organized their everyday lives—for example, dating—I began to ask myself: What will become of them? Will they marry? How do they imagine their future?
For Nach dem Spiel, I deliberately applied for funding for a theatrical production. Twelve years later, I asked myself again: Where are they now? I never broke off contact—we weren’t together every day, but I stayed connected. Many of them still call me 'Aysun Abla,’ the big sister, and my protagonists have also come to know my life.
AB: Access never happens automatically—it always requires persuasion. But through the first film, I was already known and had built trust. I explained very clearly what interested me: not exposing anyone, but offering a different perspective on migration and belonging in Germany, and portraying the diversity of Turkish culture. In the later films, it was no longer about family permission; the husbands became more involved in the conversations. Interestingly, for example, the twins' partners, Nazan and Nalan, tried to convince the husband of the older sister, Özlem, to participate in the film. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out.
Of course, I asked intimate questions—about family histories or difficult biographies. Many Turkish families came from rural backgrounds, worked extremely hard, and in Germany were often left to fend for themselves. For a long time, Germany denied that it was a country of immigration, and that had consequences for integration and educational structures. Many children, like Safiye, for instance, essentially grew up on the streets because their parents worked nonstop and there were no childcare structures available to them. German politics and society clearly failed in that regard. The difficulties many migrant families faced at that time are also evident in Cem Kaya’s film Love, D-Mark and Death (2022).
I have also always worked respectfully. If teenagers, in moments of exuberance, said things that could harm them, I intervened. One example: a dramaturgical consultant wanted a statement about 'virginity' in the film at all costs. I resisted that. You cannot sensationally insert such topics without seriously contextualizing them. That was not what my film was about.
I’m often confronted with stereotypical questions—why are women not more ‘emancipated’? But emancipation takes many forms. It doesn’t have to follow a Western ideal. The women in my films are self-confident—just perhaps not in the way people expect.
DS: During "In the Game", you work extensively with flashbacks to the earlier films. How did the women react to that?
AB: I explained to them beforehand that I wanted to watch the old material together with them. The shared experience of remembering was very moving. You see them laugh, see their old team again, and feel the melancholy.
For me, it was a cinematic goldmine, but for them, it was self-reflection. In the early films, they had left traces that they later followed up on. Of course, you only see that in hindsight. When Nalan once said she simply wanted to marry and be happy, today she sees it differently. She has five children, yet she continues to work and organize her life independently. That independence was always important to them—earning their own money, not being entirely dependent.
Looking back allowed them to reflect on decisions—on freedoms, on failure, on strength. It was very touching.
DS: In mainstream sports films and documentaries, women’s soccer is often closely tied to empowerment and success stories. In your films, soccer appears more as a social space of migration and belonging. How would you describe that difference?
AB: Success stories are always popular—also in Germany. But at the same time, you hardly see players with migrant biographies in the German women’s national team. That is rarely questioned.
At the time of Mädchen am Ball, hardly any structures supported these girls. There were no development programs or systematic guidance. Their struggles were different. They had to carve out freedom within their families and communities. Nalan, Nazan, and Arzu received an offer from a Turkish women’s soccer team. They could have joined successful Turkish teams, including in championship competitions, but in the end, they didn’t dare. There was no support system or organized mentoring. Normally, youth teams and major clubs provide that. Families who stand behind the players and support these opportunities are also essential.
But empowerment meant something basic for these young women: being allowed to play, being taken seriously, and being respected. They created a fan community and gained recognition on the field. They had to fight small wars in their families and earn freedom the hard way. Professional sport simply was not a realistic horizon.
Today, that is different. But back then, this infrastructure simply didn’t exist.
DS: Across the four films, we see not only sporting developments but also the transition into adulthood—with work, marriage, and family expectations. How has your perspective as a filmmaker changed as the girls have grown into women and later had families of their own?
AB: I’m not sure whether it has fundamentally changed. In all my films, I deal with migration, belonging, and also my own history. My mother came to Germany against my father’s wishes in order to become financially independent. That biography shapes my perspective.
I live in Kreuzberg, a district with strong conservative and religious structures, as well as great diversity. There, I see increasing social control within the community. In Charlottenburg or Wannsee, it is very different. At the same time, I observe how German mainstream society continues to operate with clichés—and how political developments reinforce fears.
In Game Changers, one can clearly observe the weakness of the integration debate, and that really irritated me: the daughters continue to experience being labeled as outsiders despite having German citizenship. When Selina says she is not accepted as German—even though both she and her mother were born and raised in Germany and see themselves as part of German society— that's a societal problem.
My films also offer an ethnographic view of a generation, showing how complex identity is—beyond narratives of integration or success.
DS: Your cinematic style avoids sensationalism and instead develops intimacy over time—in an era of fast media and highlight clips. What can slow, observational documentary filmmaking still achieve today?
AB: I’m often asked whether it is still possible to make films like this today—without music, without fast editing, without dramatic escalation, and without commentary. For me, the question hardly arises, because I can’t really work any other way. I want to be able to watch my films myself without feeling ashamed of aesthetic effects or having the sense that I artificially intensified something.
I don’t use imposed music, only the music that actually exists in the lives of the protagonists—for example, when they sit in a bar in Izmir, drinking, listening to their favorite songs, and singing along. Moments like that say much more about them and their culture. That atmosphere, in which they are relaxed and happy, without me having to dramatize anything.
Sadly, Frederick Wiseman has just passed away. I love his films. They accompanied me throughout my entire time studying and still do today. I’m interested in films that take their viewers seriously. Films that leave space, that do not dictate thinking through constant cuts. Every cut influences perception—especially in documentary film, which claims to be close to life. That’s why one has to handle it responsibly.
Filmmakers such as Harun Farocki and Hartmut Bitomsky also shaped me. I worked on some of Farocki’s films—his analytical precision sharpened my perspective immensely. The works of Raimond Depardon, Gerhard Friedl, Rithy Panh, and Abbas Kiarostami have also influenced me. This waiting, this observing, this enduring of time—that corresponds to my idea of life. Life does not consist of clips, but of reflection, pauses, and contemplation.
Today, it has become more difficult to make films like that. Editors who support my approach are rare. In the past, there were more opportunities, such as Das Kleine Fernsehspiel, where one could work in a protected environment. Today, even public broadcasters want to serve a ratings logic. I find that very worrying. Editorial departments in Germany need more courage and a sense of adventure again to support filmmakers' visions rather than focusing on supposed ratings.
DS: Your camera creates a great sense of intimacy—over decades. How do you work with your cinematographers?
AB: I begin with very intensive preliminary research. I film and photograph the people and the places where they live and work. Through these photos and research footage, I develop a perspective: Where do I stand? How do I look at this person? How do spaces tell us something about people?
Places are central for me. The living room, the kitchen, a café—they all carry history. In my documentary about 'returned Turks', On the Outskirts (2006), for instance, the furniture they brought with them, the postcards from former places of residence, and the father’s winter garden tell just as much as the conversations themselves. This simultaneity of images interests me: the mother prays, the father reads the newspaper, the son sings—and a sense of their world emerges.
With my cinematographers—often women, because I enter very intimate spaces—I discuss this approach in great detail in advance. I provide references and research materials, and explain my ideas. At the beginning, it sometimes takes a few shooting days to find a shared language. During filming, I often watch the monitor myself, give notes, and adjust framing. The camera’s gaze should also be my gaze.
Aesthetic care is also important to me. I want people to be shown beautifully—not idealized, but respectfully. Light, space, and composition matter. Even an apparently ordinary place like Kottbusser Damm can be seen differently.
The choice of interview locations is also deliberate. If a protagonist does not want to be filmed at home, I look for another place that tells something about them—for example, a café overlooking the street, where the inside and outside worlds meet.
DS: Identity—German, Turkish, Muslim, female—is always present in your films. Do you consciously set these categories, or do they emerge organically?
AB: Both. Of course, I repeatedly ask certain questions—for example, why daughters often marry within the community. Sometimes the men react to that with annoyance. But these are questions that arise across generations, and the answers only change slowly.
I observe small shifts: daughters today have more freedom than their mothers did, but they often move out only when they marry. Religious practice is interpreted individually—some fast, others do not. For this generation, identity is a constant process of negotiation. They have neither fully arrived in Germany nor are they fully rooted in Turkey.
At the same time, I see new forms of religious self-positioning that make me thoughtful—for instance, when young women veil themselves completely or withdraw socially. Sometimes that is a protest, sometimes a phase, sometimes an expression of uncertainty. I try not to judge too quickly but to listen and observe developments over time.
Migration does not only mean adaptation but also internal conflicts, generational tensions, and contradictory loyalties. Education is seen by many families as the only chance for social mobility, and yet children often encounter structural barriers. At the same time, there is also a new generation of young, liberal Turks who have fled from Turkey to Germany—especially Berlin—in recent years and who look very differently at the so-called 'Almancı' (Turkish expression for wannabe Germans). These contradictions interest me.
DS: Your films work with re-encounters—the same faces over decades. Do you also think of your work as an archive?
AB: Yes, increasingly so. The films are currently being restored and archived, among other places, by the Deutsche Kinemathek. That makes me very happy, because it means these stories will become part of German film history.
I’m interested in how the protagonists will view their younger selves in 10 years. Memory allows reflection—even if one cannot undo decisions. Cinema can be a space where we think about the past, about missed opportunities, about change.
I love films that stay with me for a long time—days, weeks. That lingering effect is, for me, cinema’s greatest strength. It opens worlds and invites us to continually reexamine our own position.