Figure 1: Poster for Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986. Source: IMDb.

Introduction¹The title is derived from a quote in the film: “ū misl-i hamah-yi bachah-hā farzand-i āftāb u zamīn ast” (Like all children, he [Bāshū] is the child of the sun and the earth). Translated by the author. Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayza’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:42:09.

Bāshū, the film’s protagonist, is a young black Arab boy hailing from Khūzistān, located in the southwestern region of Iran. Tragically, he lost his entire family during the devastating bombings of the Iran-Iraq war (1980-1988). Filled with fear and confusion, Bāshū flees through the vast fields until he stumbles upon a truck. Seeking solace, he hides on the back of the truck and eventually drifts into a deep sleep. When Bāshū wakes up, he finds himself in a completely unfamiliar world, a stark contrast from the land he once knew. This new place is the northern part of Iran, adorned with lush green forests and a serene rural atmosphere. With a leap of faith, Bāshū jumps off the truck and ventures into the forest, eventually finding Nā’ī’s paddy field.

Figure 2: Bāshū jumping into the back of a truck where he falls asleep. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (00:03:48).

Nā’ī, a strong and independent Gīlakī woman, resides there with her two children and a playful dog. Suddenly, Nā’ī’s children spot Bāshū, trembling in the bushes under a small wooden bridge. In an instant the entire screen is filled by a close-up of the concerned face of their mother (Figure 3). Nā’ī’s eyes, framed by the sharp angles of her white scarf, hold a mixture of worry and suspicion. Holding each end of her scarf tightly, she gazes anxiously at her children, then casts a wary glance at the stranger nearby. The intensity and beauty of this tableau linger with viewers throughout the duration of the film.

Figure 3: Nā’ī’s close-up after hearing her children call to visit the stranger hidden under the wooden bridge. Frame enlargement from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (00:11:37).

Although Nā’ī decides to shelter Bāshū in her family, the people of the north are taken aback by the unfamiliar dark color of Bāshū’s skin, which sparks fear and concern upon their first encounter. Nā’ī extends her compassion by offering him rice, bread, and water. Throughout the film Bāshū experiences post-traumatic stress disorder and sees visions of his dead mother (Figure 4). Slowly but surely Nā’ī begins to bridge the gap between them, welcoming Bāshū into her home and caring for him as if he were her own eldest son. As time passes Bāshū’s fearful and rebellious nature subsides, and he wholeheartedly contributes to the household and farm chores.

Figure 4: One instance of the vision of Bāshū’s mother, whom he occasionally sees during the film. Frame enlargement from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (00:23:07).

Despite Nā’ī’s unwavering support, the villagers remain suspicious of Bāshū’s presence. Even the letters received from Nā’ī’s husband express doubts about accepting a mute stranger into their home. Nevertheless, Nā’ī remains vigilant, keeping a watchful eye on Bāshū. Over time they manage to communicate with each other, using a unique blend of Gīlakī, Persian, and Arabic, forming a language that serves as a mediator between them. Towards the end of the movie, Nā’ī’s husband who had apparently left the family for work, returns home, with a lost arm.²Bayzāʼī refrains from explicitly disclosing the whereabouts of the husband, yet the absence of one of his arms hints at his return from the Iran-Iraq war, a topic that, according to authorities within Iran’s Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, should remain concealed. He confronts Nā’ī for keeping Bāshū against his wishes, leading to a tense argument. However, as Bāshū arrives to shield Nā’ī from her husband, he boldly questions, “Who is this man?”³Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:51:55. Astonishingly, the husband’s demeanor undergoes an unexpected transformation, and he responds, “father.”⁴Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:52:04. Bāshū asks “Where were you?” and the husband’s answer is heartwarming: “I was looking for you”⁵Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:52:09. Bāshū offers his hand in a handshake, only to notice the father’s missing limb. In that moment their shared experiences of loss and hardship bring them together. This astonishing yet somewhat unbelievable change in the husband’s attitude eradicates the last barrier hindering Bāshū’s complete assimilation into Nā’ī’s chosen family.The film concludes with an exciting scene where the entire family, including the children, run joyfully into the farm field and make loud noises to scare away a troublesome boar. This image symbolizes their unity and resilience in the face of adversity, proving that love and acceptance can triumph over prejudice and war.

Bāshū, the Displaced

The figure of the street boy with a flute in Satyajit Ray’s short Two (1964) resonates intertextually with a kindred presence in Bahrām Bayzāʼī’s feature film of mid-1980s Iran. Both films are about human connection yet while Ray’s short depicts the failure of connection in a hierarchical society, Bayzāʼī goes further to cultivate human connection between two racially, sexually, and ethnically different characters: a boy from southern Iran and a woman from northern Iran. Two is a 12-minute film without dialogue that depicts a contrast between a rich child from a privileged background and a poor child from a slum area in India. The rich child initially enjoys his toys and the comforts of his lifestyle, while the poor street child plays a hand-made flute. The rich boy tries to show off his toys to the poor child through the window of his home, but the poor child responds with his own homemade instruments and toys in the street. The rich child, still unsatisfied, continues playing with his toys, but notices a kite being flown by the poor child. Out of anger and jealousy, the rich child uses his slingshot and air-rifle to shoot down the kite, taunting the poor child. The poor street child, unable to compete, returns home with tears in eyes and a torn kite giving up on trying to be friends with the rich child, while the rich child reflects on his actions as his toy tower falls when we hear the poor child’s flute melodies. As the film was made during the Vietnam war (1954-75), Ray’s short can be seen as a metaphor for the Vietnam War, with the rich child representing the United States and the poor child symbolizing Vietnam. In this case, both Ray’s short and Bayzāʼī’s feature can be seen as anti-war films.  

The theme of an outsider who accidentally or purposely ventures into an unknown world and the obstacles they encounter in communication and forming relationships with the locals and the new culture is a recurring theme in literature and cinema. François Truffaut’s L’Enfant Sauvage (1970) adapted from Dr. Jean Marc Gaspard Itard’s novel The Memorandum and Report on Victor de l’Aveyron, explores the challenges and eventually the success of communication between an educator and a boy who spent his preteen years without human contact. So does the adaptation of Michael Blake’s 1988 novel of the same title to the film Dances with Wolves (1990).

Figure 5: Bāshū playing the flute for the scarecrow he created. Frame enlargement from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:45:18).

Figure 6: The street boy playing the flute. Frame enlargement from the film Two, directed by Satyajit Ray, 1964 (00:03:56).

Similarly, Bashu, The Little Stranger explores the experiences of a displaced boy as he tries to adapt to a new culture and language while also highlighting the struggles faced by the villagers in understanding and accepting this outsider. The film’s exploration of the themes of cultural identity and displacement starts and continues with the challenges faced by Bāshū as he grapples with his own identity and the loss of his homeland. Bayzāʼī raises questions about the impact of displacement on one’s sense of self and the search for a place to call home. The language barrier between Nā’ī and Bāshū can be seen in the film’s first half, in which Bāshū and Nā’ī do not understand each other’s language and yet, ambiguously, communicate through Bāshū’s feeling of loss and Nā’ī’s feelings of motherhood and compassion.

Nā’ī possesses a unique ability to connect with nature, effortlessly communicating with the non-human such as birds.⁶Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:21:17. However, Nā’ī finds it unexpectedly challenging to communicate with Bāshū, whose Khūzistāni dialect is initially incomprehensible. Through empathy and creative nonverbal strategies, she eventually becomes a bridge between southern and northern Iranian cultures. For example, she gestures and models eating with bread and rice to teach him proper eating manners in Gīlān, and exchanges objects like a buckle and an egg to establish shared understanding.⁷Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:15:42, 00:29:41. Nā’ī also comforts Bāshū during flashbacks of his war-stricken mother, providing emotional grounding that helps him integrate into her household.⁸Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:23:07. Her consistent care facilitates Bāshū’s gradual acceptance by her children too. These moments of patience, creativity, and human connection gradually break down ethnic and linguistic barriers, highlighting the film’s portrayal of cross-cultural empathy and inclusion.

Bāshū’s sense of displacement is reinforced through Bayzā’ī’s use of contrasting landscapes, from the war-torn south to the lush serenity of the Gīlakī village. However, these contrasts are not merely aesthetic; they expose how race, language, and geography intersect to mark Bāshū as an outsider. Situating the film within critical race theory emphasizes how racial difference is socially constructed, how it functions to uphold hierarchies of power, and how it is embedded in ordinary, everyday interactions.⁹Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic, Critical Race Theory: An Introduction, 3rd ed. (New York: NYU Press, 2017), 7–10. Bayzā’ī dramatizes precisely this ordinary, systemic racism when the Gīlakī villagers ridicule Bāshū for his dark skin, calling him a siyāh-sūkhtah (“burnt black”) and treating his difference as a threat to communal purity. This hostility reflects what critical race theory scholars describe as “everyday racism,” the normalized practices through which dominant groups sustain exclusion without necessarily invoking formal institutions.¹⁰Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic, Critical Race Theory: An Introduction, 3rd ed. (New York: NYU Press, 2017), 8–9. Bāshū’s racialization is intensified by his linguistic difference: his Khūzistāni dialect, incomprehensible to the Gīlakī speakers, positions him as doubly alien. Language here functions as what critical race theory terms a “racial signifier”—a marker of belonging that polices the boundary between insider and outsider.¹¹Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic, Critical Race Theory: An Introduction, 3rd ed. (New York: NYU Press, 2017), 25-26.

At the same time, Bayzā’ī complicates this exclusion by showing how race is not fixed but negotiated. Nā’ī, through acts of care and embodied recognition, challenges the villagers’ prejudice and models what critical race theory scholars call “counter-storytelling” ⸺disrupting dominant narratives by centering the perspective of the marginalized.¹²Richard Delgado and Jean Stefancic, Critical Race Theory: An Introduction, 3rd ed. (New York: NYU Press, 2017), 43. Bāshū’s survival, then, is not only a personal triumph but a critique of ethnolinguistic nationalism and racial hierarchy in Iran. By embedding these tensions within the domestic sphere of Nā’ī’s household, Bayzā’ī reveals how systemic racism is reproduced at the most intimate level, yet also how resistance can emerge from within. Upon Bāshū’s arrival in Gīlān, he comes face to face with Nā’ī and the new community, who are taken aback and struggle to comprehend Bāshū’s mere presence. In a community where the elders and the supposedly wise believe Nā’ī should not keep and support a stranger who is different, Nā’ī’s empathy triumphs and fosters acceptance, challenging the locals’ narrow sense of community. Several members of the community visit Nā’ī’s house, they attempt to dissuade her from sheltering Bāshū, for example, a woman states “My brother (Nā’ī’s husband) went to look for work, and you bring another mouth to feed?”.¹³Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:35:35. However, Nā’ī’s intervention symbolically represents a strong female agency, going beyond the typical motherly love for a boy. A particularly touching scene showcases Nā’ī’s attempt to communicate with Bāshū by exchanging everyday items, like eggs and a buckle, to find their equivalents in his language.¹⁴Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:29:41.

In their first encounter with Bāshū when visiting Nā’ī’s house, all the villager guests discourage Nā’ī for sheltering a stranger. They view him as an enigma, comparing him to a smoke blackened lamp, labeling him a thief, and associating him with bad fortune.¹⁵Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:32:17, 00:32:43. However, after a few minutes, Nā’ī defends Bāshū and asks them all to leave her house. The stark contrast between Nā’ī’s affection and empathy and the villagers’ lack thereof highlights the villagers’ inability to comprehend Bāshū’s skin color. In one scene, desperate to rid him of his darkness, Nā’ī attempts to scrub away his blackness using soap and water, hoping to transform him into a clean, white entity (Figure 7).¹⁶Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:52:00. For a critical discussion of race in Bāshū, see: Zavier Wingham, “Blackness on the Iranian Periphery: Ethnicity, Language, and Nation in Bashu, The Little Stranger,” Ajam Media Collective, September 23, 2015. https://ajammc.com/2015/09/23/blackness-on-the-iranian-periphery/ Nā’ī’s actions reveal her willingness to challenge the status quo and support Bāshū, even if it goes against the norms of her community. However, the fact that Nā’ī also attempts to change Bāshū’s physical appearance suggests that she, too, is not immune to the community’s institutionalized biases.

Figure 7: Nā’ī uses water and soap to wash away Bāshū’s skin color. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (00:52:00).

Fertility and Zār Rites

In his later film Travelers (Musāfirān, 1991), Bayzāʼī demonstrates the significance of fertility and its associated rituals. Ac accordingly,  during a conversation with Nūshābah Amīrī, He believes that “Travelers is a film about fertility, which may be what all my films are about: creation, fertility, and rebirth.”¹⁷Nūshābah Amīrī, Jidāl Bā Jahl [Fight Against Ignorance: A Conversation with Bahrām Bayzāʼī] (Tehran: Sālis Publication, 2013), 95. Translated by the author. This highlights his recurring exploration of fertility as a central theme. Rituals can be pivotal performances in human communities to encourage collective cohesion and to support life-affirming themes such as fertility and the reduction of anxiety and fear during uncertain times or crises by fostering a sense of connection and support. They can also provide a sense of control over the surroundings. Furthermore, rituals bring people together to celebrate important life milestones, strengthening bonds with friends, family and other members of the community. Specifically, they act as a social glue during times of displacement and adversity as they provide continuity, stability, and a sense of belonging.¹⁸For more discussion on rituals and their relationship to reducing anxiety and fear see: M. Lang, J. Krátký and D. Xygalatas, “The role of ritual behaviour in anxiety reduction: an investigation of Marathi religious practices in Mauritius,” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society Publishing 375, no. 1805 (June, 29, 2020), https://doi.org/10.1098/rstb.2019.0431 Meanwhile, rituals serve as a cultural expression and manifestation of the sacred and provide a means for humans to connect with the transcendent. Although Bāshū is unfamiliar with the Gīlakī dialect and culture, he can communicate through Shamanistic media such as Zār and fertility rites, in addition to Persian as the communal language of the diverse ethnicities in Iran.

Bāshū as Shaman/Minoritarian

According to the historian of religion Mircea Eliade, Shamanism principally developed in northern and central Asia and in North America, includes various categories of medicine men and wizards who flourish in other primitive societies.¹⁹Shamanism is a consciousness, spirituality, and healing discipline and practice that encompasses a range of beliefs and practices found in various cultures around the world. It involves individuals, known as shamans, who are believed to have the ability to communicate with spirits, including ancestors, nature spirits, and deities. They often enter altered states of consciousness through various techniques such as drumming, chanting, dancing, or the use of hallucinogenic substances to establish a connection with the spirit world. It is important to note that shamanism is a diverse and complex practice, and its specific beliefs and practices can vary greatly across different cultures and regions. According to anthropological studies, the emergence of a shamanic vocation is frequently precipitated by an accident or an extraordinary event. Among the Buriat, the Soyot, or the Eskimos, the path may begin after being “struck by lightning,” falling from a “high tree,” or by enduring a particularly arduous “ordeal.” As Mircea Eliade notes, the initiation of the shaman is rarely a gradual process of learning alone but often involves a dramatic rupture in the individual’s ordinary existence. Central to this rupture is the presence of a deep “crisis,” one so extreme that it can border on “madness.” However, it is precisely this experience of disintegration that provides the grounds for transformation. The youth cannot become a shaman until he has confronted and resolved the depth of this inner crisis, which ultimately functions as a form of “mystical initiation.”²⁰Mircea Eliade, Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy, trans. Willard R. Trask (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1964), 33–35; See also Mircea Eliade, Rites and Symbols of Initiation: The Mysteries of Birth and Rebirth, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Harper Colophon Books, 1975): 87-88.

While the Dihkhudā dictionary defines the word Bāshū as chalpāsah, the Persian equivalent to lizard,²¹See “Bāshū,” in Vajehyab, accessed September 15, 2025, https://vajehyab.com/dehkhoda/باشو. it is crucial to examine the significance of the name Bāshū within its unique geographical and cultural framework. For example, in Kirmāni dialect (Southeast of Iran) the word Bāshū always refers to grandfather. The Name Bāshū, drawn from the dialect of the southern Khūzistān, means “Be”-a plea to God by parents for their child’s preservation.²²See “Bāshū,” in Gahvare, accessed September 15, 2025, https://gahvare.net/names/باشو. Therefore, Bayzāʼī’s naming has symbolic weight: as Bāshū flees the devastation of war and seeks refuge in northern Iran, his very survival embodies the imperative of “being” (staying alive) in the face of violence.

Arguably, Bāshū’s survival works as a passing process of initiation into a Shaman entity. He is supposed to “be” to transfer his healing and reconciling power to Nā’ī’s family who are missing the father. In this regard, Bāshū’s survival of war and dislocation can be read as such an initiation, a passage into a liminal state that equips him with a shamanic dimension. His role is not simply that of a child refugee but of a figure whose presence channels healing and reconciliation into Nā’ī’s fractured household, which has lost its paternal anchor. Bāshū’s shamanship becomes evident in his ritual acts: the crafting of the scarecrow, the playing of the flute to animate it, his evocation of Zār and fertility rites, and ultimately the climactic scene where, alongside Nā’ī and her children, he drives away the invading boar. In this sense, Bayzāʼī uses Bāshū’s shamanic role not only to dramatize resilience but also to critique ethnic exclusion, superstition, and patriarchal structures, suggesting that cultural renewal can emerge precisely from the margins of society.²³Erika Friedl, Women of Deh Koh: Lives in an Iranian Village (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989), 142–47.

Figure 8: Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:45:26).

Shamanism, being one of the oldest systems of human healing and ritual practice, can be seen as a form of consciousness, spirituality, and healing discipline, as it encompasses all of these aspects.²⁴Roger N. Walsh, The World of Shamanism: New Views of an Ancient Tradition (Llewellyn Publications, 2007), 16. According to Claude Lévi-Strauss, the French structuralist anthropologist, “The shamanistic complex” is built upon the experiences of the shaman, the effects on the sick individual, and the involvement of the community. These elements are interconnected and revolve around the shaman’s personal experiences and the consensus of the group. This creates a transformative reality that combines personal healing, collective support, and unknown possibilities. When treating a patient, the shaman also presents a performance to the audience. This performance typically involves the shaman reenacting the “call” or the initial crisis that led to their revelation of their condition.²⁵Claude Lévi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, trans. Claire Jacobson and Brooke Grundfest Schoepf (New York: Basic Books, 1963), 180. By doing so, the shaman, aided by their guiding spirits, embarks on a journey to the supernatural realm to retrieve the captured spirit and restore it to its rightful owner, thus achieving a cure.²⁶Claude Lévi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, trans. Claire Jacobson and Brooke Grundfest Schoepf (New York: Basic Books, 1963), 188.

Notably, Bāshū’s reality is haunted by dark surrealism of his vision of his war-stricken mother (Figure 9). These spectral apparitions, delicately woven into the realistic fabric of the film, contribute to nuances of magical realism in the film, further amplified by the rituals of fertility and the mystical Zār ceremonies. In addition, the vision of Bāshū’s mother can be seen as the equivalent of what Lévi-Strauss refers to as “tutelary spirits” that assist and guide the shaman in their endeavors. Therefore, the shamanistic cure and the psychotherapeutic cure can be seen as parallel concepts.²⁷Claude Lévi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, trans. Claire Jacobson and Brooke Grundfest Schoepf (New York: Basic Books, 1963), 201. The modern version of shamanistic technique, known as psychotherapy, derives its unique characteristics from the fact that mythical time no longer exists in industrial civilization, except within the individual themselves. Psychoanalysis can find validation and strengthen its theoretical foundations by comparing its methods and goals with those of its predecessors, the shamans and sorcerers.²⁸Claude Lévi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, trans. Claire Jacobson and Brooke Grundfest Schoepf (New York: Basic Books, 1963), 204.

Figure 9: Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (00:57:43).

Bāshū embodies folk rituals, oral traditions, and healing practices tied to marginalized ethnic cultures—what Deleuze might call “minor” traits—that, despite his displacement, enable him to communicate with and adapt to his new environment. Bāshū’s transfiguration directly engages with rites of fertility and Zār, particularly when Nā’ī falls ill and requires healing.²⁹Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, trans. Dana Polan (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 16–18. As Nā’ī lies in bed, drenched in sweat, Bāshū starts performing Zār and his drumbeats guide Nā’ī’s body into a rhythmic movement. When Bāshū starts singing and dancing in Nā’ī’s farm, the same local children ask him about what he is doing. His response is quite illuminating: “plants grow better with this sound”³⁰Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:23:29. (Figure 10), which he repeats in response to Nā’ī’s husband in his first meeting with Bāshū at the end of the film.³¹Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:48:11. Other kids are astonished to the extent that they approach him to join his fertility rituals (Figure 11).³²Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:23:50. Similarly, Bāshū starts playing the flute for the scarecrow and for the plants as if breathing life into the inanimate scarecrow and the plants to stand guard over the farm.³³Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:45:17. Bāshū can be seen as the Shaman who transfers the seasonal blessing to Nā’ī’s farm through fertility rites performed by him using ethnic music and body movements to ensure the continuation of the life-cycle.

The way Bāshū carries the harvest resembles the practices of shamans. His flute-playing, intended to accelerate the growth of greens, becomes a shamanistic language that allows him to challenge the dominant Gīlakī culture while bridging his own ethnic modes of communication with those of northern Iran. Bāshū is also a creator, making a scarecrow to protect Nā’ī’s harvest and singing, dancing, and playing drums on various occasions, whether to heal Nā’ī’s illness or to fertilize the crops.

Figure 10: Bāshū playing the drum to help the plant grow better. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:23:29).

Figure 11: Other kids joining Bāshū in fertility rituals. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:23:50).

The shaman goes beyond simply imitating or reenacting performances; instead, he fully experiences them with all their intensity, authenticity, and brutality. Similar to the concept of abreaction in psychoanalysis, the shaman relives the original situation that caused the disturbance before ultimately overcoming it. Therefore, the shaman can be seen as a professional abreactor—someone who facilitates the intense reliving and resolution of traumatic experiences during ritual or ceremonial sessions, where the shaman aims to communicate with the spirit world, seek guidance, heal illness, or mediate between humans and spirits (which is called séance).³⁴Claude Lévi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, trans. Claire Jacobson and Brooke Grundfest Schoepf (New York: Basic Books, 1963), 181. The healing process of Zār holds great significance and connection to shamanic and religious practices.³⁵In another article on Mānī Haqīqī’s film A Dragon Arrives (2016), I explored and discussed Zār as a healing rite. See M. Behnam, “A Dragon Arrives! (2016).” In Cinema Iranica. Encyclopaedia Iranica Foundation https://cinema.iranicaonline.org/article/a-dragon-arrives-azhdaha-varid-mishavad/. Bāshū can be perceived as a vibrant embodiment of the energy of life and its vitality as his name connotates “Be.” Despite his bold strangeness to the local culture, Bāshū embodies a form of imaginative connection with Nā’ī and her farm.

Figure 12: Bāshū playing the Zār drum to heal Nā’ī, who is suffering from fever. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:39:48).

Figure 13: Nā’ī struggling with illness and fever. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:38:02).

Notably, Bayzāʼī is an artist of the Bahá’í faith³⁶The Bahá’í Faith is a monotheistic religion that originated in the 19th century in Persia (modern-day Iran). It was founded by Bahá’u’lláh (1817–1892), a prophet and spiritual leader, who is considered by Bahá’ís to be the latest in a line of messengers from God that includes figures like Abraham, Moses, Buddha, Jesus, and Muhammad. For more discussion, see: Moojan Momen, The Bahá’í Faith: A Beginner’s Guide (Oneworld Publications, 2008). and “a fiercely secular and oppositional director used to working in a type of unofficial internal exile, about which he regularly complained but which actually powered his movies.”³⁷Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema. Vol. 4, The Globalizing Era, 1984-2010 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2012), 38. Bayzāʼī can be considered a minor filmmaker who, unfortunately, faced the wrath of both the Pahlavī and Islamic Regimes, rendering his influence in the art and industry of filmmaking in Iran. However, his collection of creative works truly encapsulates his singular perspective as a member of a minority group. As a secular artist of the Bahá’í faith, Bayzāʼī’s films and his unwavering defiance against oppressive authorities have transformed his cinema and body of work into a testament of authorship, courage and resilience. In Bāshū, Bayzāʼī uses two distinct dialects—Khūzistāni and Gīlakī—within the Persian-language film to create a nuanced, sometimes disrupted, form of communication. This linguistic strategy contributes to the film’s positioning as minor cinema, as it establishes a symbolic and allegorical language that diverges from the dominant Persian tradition. By juxtaposing these dialects, Bayzāʼī complicates conventional modes of communication, a tension that is collectively enacted when other boys gather around Bāshū as he reads from a Persian schoolbook (Figures 15 & 16).

Figure 14: Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:54:03).

Bāshū explores and displays the delicate threads that bind a diverse nation together, explicitly emphasizing the significance of Persian as the official language. At some point Bāshū, being unfamiliar with the local dialect, can only interact with the village children through the formal school book of Persian Literature. In a scene where he attempts to read aloud from a school textbook taken from the ground, he reads from the pages proclaiming, “Iran is our homeland. We are nurtured by the same water and land. We are the children of Iran” (Figure 15).³⁸Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:58:32. Suddenly in this heart melting scene, all other boys who used to humiliate Bāshū due to his skin color and lack of linguistic communication, gather around him attentively paying attention to what he says while being curious about his past and how he has learned Persian. As Hamid Naficy explains “His [Bāshū’s] knowledge of the formal Persian suddenly dissolves all the hostility.”³⁹Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema. Vol. 4, The Globalizing Era, 1984-2010 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2012), 37. In addition to Persian language as the unifying element between Nā’ī and Bāshū, the epistolary relationship between them, although indirect, is another element that proposes reconciliation.⁴⁰Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema. Vol. 4, The Globalizing Era, 1984-2010 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2012), 37. Similarly, when Nā’ī’s husband is absent, her sole means of communication with him is limited to Persian, despite her illiteracy. While Persian serves as a means of communication, it does not guarantee comprehension or complete inclusion for all ethnicities involved; However, it is displayed as a foundation for national unity yet simultaneously highlighting individual differences.

Figure 15: Bāshū finds a Persian educational book and reads a touching passage, which makes the other children sympathize with him. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (00:58:38).

Figure 16: The other children unexpectedly gather around Bāshū to hear his story. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (00:58:52).

The title Bashu, The Little Stranger foregrounds the protagonist’s dual condition of estrangement and marginality: the term “stranger” signals his unfamiliarity and displacement, while the qualifier “little” underscores both his vulnerability as a child and his minority status. Bāshū’s position, however, extends beyond mere otherness; he exemplifies what Deleuze and Guattari theorize as the “minor,” a mode of existence marked not by numerical scarcity but by transformative potential. As Verena Conley observes in  The Deleuze Dictionary, “a minority is not defined by the paucity of its numbers but by its capacity to become or, in its subjective geography, to draw for itself lines of fluctuation that open up a gap and separate it from the axiom constituting a redundant majority.”⁴¹Verena Conley, “Minoritarian,” in The Deleuze Dictionary, ed. Adrian Parr (Edinburgh University Press, 2010), 167. In this sense, Bāshū embodies in-betweenness and interculturality, articulating a new language of empathy, love, and connection that develops between himself and Nā’ī. His shamanistic performances—building a scarecrow, animating it with music, and channeling healing rituals—constitute practices of minor expression that resist assimilation to dominant cultural codes. For Deleuze and Guattari, minor literature (and, by extension, minor cinema) arises from marginalized or exilic positions and destabilizes hegemonic narratives by employing subversive forms of language and representation.⁴²Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, trans. Dana Polan (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 18. Bāshū’s presence within Nā’ī’s household, therefore, stages a minoritarian encounter, a reconfiguration of kinship and community that challenges both ethnic exclusion and patriarchal authority through acts of care and ritualized solidarity.

The notion of the minor is crucial for understanding the cultural and political stakes of Bahrām Bayzāʾī’s film, however yet its meaning must be situated carefully. Minor does not signify smallness of audience or peripheral importance, but rather a structural position vis-à-vis the dominant, a position that unsettles linguistic, cultural, and political hierarchies. Deleuze and Guattari’s theorization of “minor literature” provides a productive entry point. For them, minor literature is marked by three interlocking features⸺the deterritorialization of language, the imbrication of the individual with political immediacy, and the emergence of a collective assemblage of enunciation. This model helps illuminate how Bāshū mobilizes minoritarian expression, while also pointing to the limits of literary theory when translated into filmic practice.

In Bayzāʾī’s film, Bāshū’s Khūzistāni Arabic and Persian dialect are deterritorialized within the Gīlakī-speaking north, producing a radical linguistic estrangement. This estrangement pushes him to rely on ritual, gesture, and affect—forms of communication that exceed spoken language. At the same time, his displacement from the war-torn south to the rural north embodies the second element of the minor: his individual predicament is inseparable from the political trauma of the Iran-Iraq war. His very presence in Nā’ī’s household becomes a living index of the nation’s fractures. Finally, Bāshū’s gradual recognition by Nā’ī and the Gīlakī children enacts the collective dimension of the minor. When the children gather around him as he reads from a Persian text, the scene stages not assimilation into the major language, but rather the possibility of a collective enunciation forged through difference and negotiation.

Bayzāʾī underscores this minoritarian condition through his cinematic form. By deliberately withholding subtitles when Bāshū speaks Khūzistāni Arabic,⁴³Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:23:22. he positions the audience in the same situation as the villagers ⸺confronted with incomprehensibility and forced to acknowledge the exclusions created by linguistic dominance. This refusal prevents Bāshū’s language from being fully domesticated into the dominant Persian and instead makes the viewer inhabit the discomfort of the minor. In this sense, Bayzāʾī’s film is not only about a minor subject; it is itself a minor practice of cinema—one that destabilizes the authority of the dominant language and foregrounds marginalized expression as a site of aesthetic and political power. When considered alongside other postcolonial works such as Ousmane Sembène’s Black Girl (1966), Bāshū demonstrates how the “minor” exceeds literary categories and can be rethought as a transmedial strategy of cultural resistance. Both films show that minor expression does not merely depict the marginalized, but also restructures how audiences experience language, silence, and power. Another example of minor agencies in cinema can be found in films like Barry Jenkins’s Moonlight (2016), which challenges dominant narratives by giving a voice to a marginalized character ⸺a gay black individual navigating the complexities of race, sexuality, and class, the struggles faced by individuals at the intersection of these identities.

Despite all linguistic and ethnic differences between Nā’ī and Bāshū, they both manage to build a mutual bond through their individual abilities and ethnic characteristics. For example, the healing process is mutual as Nā’ī has already helped Bāshū heal when he suffered from fever by giving him medicinal syrup.⁴⁴Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 00:40:45. Similarly, towards the end of the film where Bāshū feels more at home with Nā’ī, he helps him with farming tasks and even with feeding her two children when Nā’ī is ill. At some point, Bāshū extends the influence of Nā’ī as a mother figure by imitating her and communicating with birds.⁴⁵Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:28:55.

Anti-Oedipal?

Bayzāʼī’s depiction of the dynamic between Bāshū, Nā’ī and her husband Hūshang complicates our understanding of their relationship. Although the film does not directly explore the Oedipal aspects, it offers a genuine portrayal of the bond between a woman and a young boy in the context of a war-torn society by portraying the nurturing relationship between the two characters as Nā’ī becomes a maternal figure to Bāshū, providing him with love, care, and protection.

To understand the husband’s relationship to Bāshū, it is essential to theorize how the film uses symbolic absence—specifically, (Nā’ī’s husband) Hūshang’s missing arm—to structure power, masculinity, and the dynamics of presence and substitution. Although Hūshang only appears on screen near the film’s conclusion (approximately the last 10 minutes, following Bāshū’s symbolic integration into the household through farming and ritual labor),⁴⁶Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:47:32 onward. his missing arm is foreshadowed not by explicit depiction but by discursive absence and by the household’s balance of care and responsibility. Bāshū comes to function as the family’s missing father before the husband’s onscreen return. Therefore, Bāshū’s role is symbolically anticipated in how he performs labor, nurturance, and relational presence in Nā’ī’s household prior to the husband’s appearance. When Hūshang does appear, the symbolic function of the missing arm becomes explicit. The dialogue—his asking Bāshū for water, Bāshū’s astonished gaze, and his remark, “You appear to be a stranger”⁴⁷Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:47:50.—illustrates not just Bāshū’s otherness but also how Bāshū has already become a mirrored absence through which the missing masculine power is made visible. The mise-en-scène includes the scarecrow in the background (Figure 17),⁴⁸Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:47:32. which visually parallels Hūshang’s disfigurement: a hollow, “puppet”-like figure, evoking impotence and a hollow authority. Furthermore, when Hūshang remarks, “You have a Lolo (scarecrow) too,” Bāshū’s response catches him off guard as he confidently declares, “I made it … Is there something wrong with that?” Hūshang’s reply, “its hands,” symbolically addresses his missing arm,⁴⁹Bashu, The Little Stranger, dir. Bahrām Bayzā’ī (Iran, 1986), 01:48:20. which Bāshū notices a few minutes later when he offers him a hand-shake (Figure 18). Therefore, while the film does not show Hūshang’s missing arm until his reappearance, it does prepare the audience (through narrative, symbolism, and relational labor) to see Bāshū as filling—before the husband’s actual presence—the void created by that absence. When the husband finally appears, the void is enacted, confronted, and partially resolved in their encounter.

Meanwhile, Hūshang’s reappearance functions less as the restoration of patriarchal order than as a narrative of the new, fragile community that Nā’ī and Bāshū have constructed. His arrival momentarily destabilizes the household ⸺the dominant expectation is that the patriarch will disapprove of the outsider child, reinforcing the very communal hostility voiced earlier in the film. Instead, his acceptance of Bāshū, understated and non-verbal, closes the film by ratifying the minor, shamanistic family structure that has emerged in his absence. Therefore, Hūshang’s return does not overwrite Bāshū’s displacement but rather reframes it within the broader narrative of war, migration, and cultural negotiation. In this sense, his arrival — deferred until the narrative resolution — underscores the centrality of Bāshū and Nā’ī’s relationship: the war-torn child and the rural mother create a new social unit before the patriarch re-enters the scene.

Figure 17: Bāshū’s first encounter with Nā’ī’s husband, which parallels him to the scarecrow. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:47:32).

Figure 18: Bāshū suddenly notices that Nā’ī’s husband has lost his arm after offering him a hand-shake. Frame enlargement of a screenshot from the film Bashu, The Little Stranger (Bāshū, Gharībah-yi Kūchak), directed by Bahrām Bayzā’ī, 1986 (01:52:29).

Conclusion

In his deeply moving narrative, Bayzāʼī skillfully captures the genuine human connection between a woman and a young boy amidst the backdrop of Iran ravaged by war in the 1980s. Bashu, The Little Stranger delicately explores themes of displacement, identity, and the power of human connection, while also addressing the universal yearning for belonging across cultural boundaries with specific ethnic diversity in Iran. The story revolves around Bāshū, a figure who embodies both a marginalized and shamanic presence. Through his introduction of healing rituals and fertility practices, such as Zār and fertility rites, Bāshū adds a sense of healing and vitality into Nā’ī’s world which was already filled with her life-affirming manner. As they embark on a transformative journey together, love and empathy gradually bridge the gap between these two characters, enriching their lives. Bayzāʼī, a master of traditional performing arts and rituals, skillfully incorporates the enchanting customs of Iran’s southern region, examining their minoritarian significance within the context of northern Iran. The interethnic experience of Bāshū is seen and felt in the ethnically colorful background of Iran, creating a visually captivating and emotionally resonant film.

Bashu, The Little Stranger was released with a delay of three years due to Bayzai’s refusal to make some eighty-five changes demanded by the official censors, including the removal of the remarkable close-up shot of Taslīmī at the beginning of the film.⁵⁰Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema. Vol. 4, The Globalizing Era, 1984-2010 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2012), 141. It is evident that Bayzāʼī’s personal struggles with censorship, as informed by the oppressive power structure that has attempted to undermine his creative works across decades of creative practice, can be interpreted as social and political in nature. However, Bayzāʼī’s peculiar style and resilience subverted these could-be-disappointing restrictions and hostility.

Abstract

In Iranian cinema, the portrayal of social class is influenced by ideology, as economic interests and cultural values are hidden behind class distinctions. Consequently, the way social classes are portrayed depends on the distribution of wealth in Iranian society and the characteristics of popular culture. The present study employs Antonio Gramsci’s theory of ideology and narrative analysis to demonstrate how ideology influences the representation of social class in twenty-first-century Iranian cinema. The analysis of selected films will demonstrate the existence of at least three distinct ideological orientations in Iranian cinema. Firstly, an anti-bourgeois ideology that opposes the lifestyle of the upper classes. Secondly, a sympathetic ideology that commiserates with the lower classes. Finally, an ideology of interaction-confrontation that pits two classes against each other and supports the values of one class over another. All of these clearly demonstrate that the relationship between ideology and class is both significant and influential in Iranian cinema.

Introduction

The financial crisis in Iran reached its most severe point in the early twenty-first century. The lack of growth in the industry and agriculture sectors, inflation, unemployment, international sanctions, oil rents, and administrative corruption had a deleterious effect on the lives of the general public. This phenomenon served to accentuate the distinction between social classes. In contrast to their predecessors, the younger generation of wealthy Iranians did not hesitate to display their affluence. The possession of foreign automobiles, branded apparel, iPhones, costly watches, and gold jewelry is indicative of a demonstration of social class.¹‛Abbās Kāzimī, Amr-i ruzmarrah dar jāmi‛ah-yi pasā-inqilābī (Tehran: Farhang-i Jāvīd, 2016), 209. As studies have shown, even those in the lower socioeconomic classes have not been satisfied with the government subsidies. This is evidenced by the fact that they are not content with the cash subsidies, livelihood packages, and justice shares to which they are entitled. The imposition of economic sanctions and the reliance on a rent-based economy have eroded the purchasing power of the middle class, resulting in a larger disparity between the rich and the poor. This situation is at odds with the values espoused by the Islamic Revolution. In the aftermath of the revolution, the concept of class was regarded as a taboo subject. Islamic fundamentalists sought to construct a society predicated on piety, and the classification of individuals based on wealth was deemed to be a hallmark of the modernity they vehemently opposed. This aversion was further exacerbated by Islamist Marxists in the initial decade following the revolution.

Figure 2: Mahnāz Afshār in a still from the film Honey Venom (Zahr-i ‛asal), directed by Ibrāhīm Shaybānī, 2002.

In the cinema of the 1980s, the upper class represented the aristocracy associated with the Pahlavi government and was consequently condemned. Conversely, the lower class was depicted as espousing Islamic values and revolutionary ideals. In the 1990s, the upper class came to be regarded as a symbol of modernity, while the lower class was increasingly associated with social problems such as addiction, theft, and a range of other forms of deviance. Additionally, the emergence of a new middle class was depicted in cinematic narratives, and their espoused values, including individualism and moral rectitude, were subjected to criticism.²Ahmad Tālibīnizhād, Dar huzūr-i sīnimā: Tārīkh-i tahlīlī-i sīnimā-yi pas az inqilāb (Tehran: Fārābī Cinema Foundation Publications, 1998), 127; Hamid Naficy, A Social History of Iranian Cinema, Volume 4: The Globalizing Era, 1984–2010 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2012). 52; Sareh Amiri & Ehsan Aqababaee, “Tahlīl-i rivāyat-i barsākht-i tabaqah-yi furūdast dar sinimā-yi pas az inqilāb-i islāmī.” Mutāla‛āt-i farhangī va irtibātāt 15, no. 55 (2019): 107-129; Ehsan Aqababaee & Mohammad Razaghi, “Islamic fundamentalism and gender: The portrayal of women in Iranian movies.” Critical research on religion 10, no. 3 (2022): 249-266; Ehsan Aqababaee & Katja Rieck, “The Representation of Social Classes in Iranian Cinema During the Reformist Era, 2001–2005.” Contemporary Review of the Middle East 10, no. 2 (2023): 106-125. From 2000 onwards, a considerable number of movies were produced in the Iranian film industry that explicitly address issues of class. This article, grounded in the theory of Antonio Gramsci, will  examine the ideologies disseminated in modern Iranian cinema and elucidate their social and cultural origins.

Figure 3: A still from the film Superstar, directed by Tahmīnah Mīlānī, 2009.

Antonio Gramsci’s theory of ideology, which is pivotal to his concept of cultural hegemony, posits that dominant groups maintain power not solely through coercion but also by shaping societal norms, values, and beliefs in a manner that renders their dominance as natural and legitimate. Gramsci contends that the ruling class employs institutions such as education, media, and religion to disseminate its worldview, thereby ensuring the consent of subordinate classes.³Antonio Gramsci, “Selections from the prison notebooks.” In The Applied Theatre Reader, ed. Nicola Abraham & Tim Prentki (Routledge, 2020), 141-142. Gramsci’s concept of ideological control, or hegemony, is sustained through a combination of coercion and consent, with the latter being more pervasive and effective in maintaining long-term power. Gramsci emphasises the role of intellectuals in this process, as they help articulate and disseminate the dominant ideology. His insights highlight the importance of counter-hegemonic struggles, where marginalised groups challenge and reshape the prevailing ideology to achieve social change. An ideology that has achieved widespread acceptance by society can be regarded as a strategic endeavor on the part of a given social group to advance its interests through hegemonic means. According to Gramsci’s theory, cinema is a medium through which the ideological interests of social classes are expressed, and filmmakers and production agents play the role of organic intellectuals.

This article uses narrative analysis, which is defined as the examination of narrative genres and the systematic study of narrative and plot structure to look at film on two levels: story and discourse.⁴Luc Herman & Bart Vervaeck. Handbook of Narrative Analysis (University of Nebraska Press, 2019), 19. At the story level, the article examines the  representation of place, actions, and characters, and at the discourse level, the film’s orientation towards these two will be described.⁵Seymour Chatman. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film (Cornell University Press, 1980), 26. Discourse serves as the driving force that directs the narrative, operating under the influence of ideology.⁶Mike Cormack, Ideology (MI: University of Michigan Press, 1992), 30-33.

Figure 4: A still from the film Mr. Seven Colors (Āqā-yi Haft Rang), directed by Shahrām Shāh Husaynī, 2009.

Characterization is a term used to describe the process by which a researcher constructs a character’s personality by assembling various attributes present throughout the film. According to Rimmon-Kenan, characterization can be classified into three distinct forms: direct, indirect, and allegorical.⁷Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan, Narrative Fiction: Contemporary Poetics (Routledge, 2003), 61. Direct characterization involves the explicit narration of an individual character’s personality traits by the narrator. In contrast, indirect characterization is derived from the actions, social status, identity, and psyche of the characters, thereby revealing their personality. This article employs indirect characterization through the lens of purpose and action. Action, as defined by Berger, is the actions of the characters.⁸Arthur Asa Berger, Narratives in Popular Culture, Media, and Everyday Life (Sage Publications, 1996), 52. Place pertains to the determination of location, that is, the specific setting or environment within which the events of the narrative text unfold.

This study focuses on a sample size of forty-six Iranian films, all produced between 2000 and 2023. The selection of these films was purposeful, with a specific criterion guiding the inclusion process. Specifically, the films included in this analysis explicitly address issues of class representation. This selection ensures that the study captures a comprehensive range of perspectives on class dynamics within the context of Iranian cinema during the specified period. By concentrating on films that directly engage with this issue, the study aims to provide a detailed examination of the evolving narratives and portrayals of class within Iranian society over the past two decades.

Anti-bourgeois ideology

From the year 2000 onwards, despite the Iranian fundamentalists’ perception of globalization as an imperialist project, the expansion of the internet and satellite broadcasting had a profound impact on Iranian society, rendering it more susceptible to the forces of globalization. Over time, a number of chain restaurants were established in Tehran, with similar establishments subsequently opening in other cities. Chain stores such as Icepack were well-received in Iranian cities. The government’s increased oil revenue facilitated the introduction of commercial goods such as LED TVs. These developments gave rise to the emergence of a consumer society in Iran. Consequently, the display of wealth increased in urban areas, contributing to the growing opposition to class differences among the population. Moreover, in Iranian popular culture, there was a growing conviction that those of considerable wealth have amassed their fortunes illicitly, and that consuming prohibited substances will result in illness and misfortune for the affluent. The consequence of this process was an increase in the number of movies that espoused anti-bourgeois ideology.

Anti-bourgeois ideology is an attack on the values and interests of the upper classes, including the bourgeoisie, the nobility, and the nouveau riche. The ideology initially presents an opulent portrayal of the status of the upper classes, but then proceeds to delve beneath the surface of their lives, exposing the clandestine corruption that lies at their core. The ideology portrays the class as morally corrupt, exhibiting behaviors such as marital infidelity, promiscuity, rape, alcoholism, and authoritarianism. The family relationships of people belonging to this class are often accompanied by tension, insult, and humiliation. Economic corruption, such as embezzlement and bank debt, is also common. This ideology identifies this class of people  as responsible for the crises in Iranian society. Examples include: Astral (2000); The Smell of Roses (Bū-yi gul-i surkh, 2001); Tapster (Sāqī, 2001); Ghazal (2001); A House Built on Water (Khānah-ī rū-yi āb, 2001); Honey Venom (Zahr-i ‛asal, 2002); The Winning Card (Barg-i barandah, 2003); Parkway (2007); Satan’s Impersonator (Muqallid-i shaytān, 2007); Rock, Paper, Scissors (Sang, Kāghaz, Qaychī, 2007); Canaan (Kan‛ān, 2008); Kalāgh Par (2008); Mr. Seven Colors (Āqā-yi Haft Rang, 2009); Doubt (Tardīd, 2009); Superstar (2009); 24th Street (Khiyābān-i bīst u chahārum, 2009); Hello to love (Salām bar ‛ishq, 2010); Crazy Rook (Rukh-i dīvānah, 2015); and Labyrinth (Hazār-tū, 2019).

In Labyrinth (2019), Amīr-‛Alī, the main character, is a member of the upper class. He is a young businessman with a notable goatee. He wears branded clothes, lives in a luxury apartment, and drives a BMW x3 class. Amīr-‛Alī has no control over his emotions and gets angry quickly and acts violently. He consumes alcohol and, while driving intoxicated, he causes the death of his friend Esfandiar, who was seated next to him in the vehicle. The incident prompts him to experience feelings of guilt, which ultimately result in his decision to marry his deceased friend’s wife, Nigār, and assume the role of a stepfather. The relationship between Amīr-‛Alī and Nigār is characterized by a lack of romantic affection and even a lack of a marital relationship. Amīr-‛Alī engages in a secret relationship with Bītā, his wife’s close friend, betraying Nigār.

Figure 5: Amīr-‛Alī and Nigār in Labyrinth (Hazār-tū), directed by Amīr-Husayn Turābī, 2019.

At the time of her first husband’s death, Nigār was pregnant. She disregarded her mother’s counsel to terminate the pregnancy, making motherhood a defining aspect of her character’s identity. She maintains a strained relationship with her new husband, deeming him an inadequate father due to his lack of paternity. This woman’s essentialist personality is evident in her perception of the father-child bond. According to her perspective, the biological father is the de facto father.

Bītā is a young, middle-class woman who engages in the design and production of clothing in her home. In the past, she was in love with Amīr-‛Alī, but she was unable to express her affections to him. Following the marriage of her favored man, she has worked to establish a relationship with him. Bītā becomes pregnant as the result of her clandestine relationship with Amīr-‛Alī; however, she undergoes an abortion in order to ensure the continued secrecy of their relationship. Upon learning that Amīr-‛Alī intends to immigrate from Iran to the United States with Nigār, she devises a scheme to steal Amīr-‛Alī’s son, thereby seeking to avenge Amīr-‛Alī’s perceived unkindness.

The movie’s portrayal of the upper-class couples suggests a lack of warmth and intimacy in their relationships. These individuals are depicted as violent, corrupt, and treacherous. The primary focus of the movie is the disappearance of Amīr-‛Alī and Nigār’s children and the subsequent arrival of the police to investigate the case. This central conflict is ideologically significant in that it presents an obstacle for this couple to migrate abroad. In the aftermath of the incident, the film depicts scenes in which Amīr-‛Alī and his wife hold each other accountable, leading to verbal altercations between the couple. This conflict affects the development of other relationships within the upper-class community. The movie’s title, Labyrinth, is an ideological choice that reflects the tragic complications experienced by the upper class. The resolution of this complex narrative occurs in the final sequence, where the stolen infant is left in a shed and the perpetrator of the crime is also discovered to be deceased. As a result, the shed in question will not be located by the police. The process of untying several knots and retying them reveals the anti-bourgeois ideology. Amīr-‛Alī’s brother-in-law clandestinely exploits this circumstance and extorts a sum of currency from Amīr-‛Alī. Upon the revelation of Amīr-‛Alī’s betrayal, his wife states her intention to divorce him, citing the discovery of a child as the precipitating factor.

Figure 6: Amīr-‛Alī and Bītā in Labyrinth (Hazār-tū), directed by Amīr-Husayn Turābī, 2019.

Overall, the movie can be described as a following an anti-bourgeois ideology, which attempts to portray the upper classes as violent, corrupt, and treacherous. This antagonism is a consequence of the class divide that exists in contemporary Iranian society. The movie’s portrayal of the economic situation in Iran is informed by the windfalls, the use of oil rents, and the unbridled inflation caused by US sanctions. These factors have contributed to a growing dissatisfaction with the status quo, which is reflected in the anti-bourgeois ideology that emerges in the movie.

Sympathetic Ideology

Since 2010, the effects of international sanctions against Iran’s nuclear program have intensified. The government’s ability to control the currency has decreased, and despite the liquidity, inflation has increased. This has led to a change in the economic status of various classes, with some families falling from the middle class to the lower class. While cinema audiences in Iran are typically from the middle class of society, movies depiciting the pooer condition of the lower classes have become popular. Moreover, among Iranians, the value of assisting the impoverished is widely recognized. Throughout history, Iranians have consistently regarded assisting the poor and orphaned as a religious and humanitarian obligation. Consequently, movies have been produced that espouse an ideology of empathy for the disadvantaged.

The term “sympathetic ideology” is employed here to describe a movie’s capacity to demonstrate identification with the plight of the impoverished. The intention of the ideology is to evoke empathy in the audience by illustrating the suffering and pain endured by the poor. Accordingly, the lower classes in many Iranian films from the last decades reside in old houses situated on the outskirts of the city. They wear outdated, ill-fitting, and unclean garments, and struggle to maintain their livelihoods. The inability to pay for necessary medical care, housing, and other basic necessities has placed them in a challenging position. The sympathetic ideology necessitates that the audience perceive the lives of these individuals in order to be motivated to provide them with assistance. Some examples include The Wall (Dīvār, 2008); Twenty (Bīst, 2009); Nothing (Hīch, 2010); The Broke (Nadārhā, 2011); Wednesday, May 9 (Chahārshanbah 19 Urdībihisht, 2015); Life and a Day (Abad u yak rūz, 2016); 21 Days Later (Bīst u yak rūz ba‛d, 2017); No Date, No Signature (Bidūn-i tārīkh, bidūn-i imzā’, 2018); 3 Puffs (Sih kām habs, 2023).

The Broke (2011) revolves around the actions of individuals belonging to the lower socioeconomic strata who decide to steal from the upper classes and redistribute the stolen goods to those in need, in a manner reminiscent of the legendary outlaw Robin Hood. The initial success of these actions is, however, short-lived, as the perpetrators are either apprehended by the police or killed.

Figure 7: From left to right, Mihrī, ‛Alī, and Mahmūd in The Broke (Nadārhā), directed by Muhammad Rizā ‛Arab, 2011.

The protagonist ‛Alī, also known as “‛Alī Bīkas” (lonely ‛Alī), was born in Ahvāz, joined the military, relocated to Tehran, and became an apprentice in a repair shop. When the film begins, he operates a motor vehicle, transporting passengers and generating income. Initially, he refrains from stealing from the rich, but eventually joins in. The narrator of the movie is Mihrī. She has lost her father and lives with her elderly mother in a rental property and is employed in a yarn factory. She is content to assist those in need. Mihrī remarks that she has a lot of work to do with these money-laden hyenas, referring to the rich. She is willing to take risks and embark on adventures. The third character is Mahmūd. Although he has a history of imprisonment, he carries a machete and is prone to violence and emotional outbursts, but his deafness, his inability to communicate verbally, and his childlike innocence are all qualities that elicit sympathy from the audience. All three characters rent apartments in old, run-down buildings and wear garments that are no longer in fashion. The living environment of these individuals exhibits their need for housing and medical care, and their lack of hope for any improvement in this situation.

The movie’s title, The Broke (Nadārhā), signifies a group lacking in property. This term functions as a metaphor, drawing parallels with the concept of the impoverished. It encourages the viewer to contemplate their own lives. The narrative begins with ‛Alī losing his job and Mihrī being on the verge of having their household items dumped in the street by the owner of the house. The two issues in question are ideological, as they draw attention to the livelihood issues faced by the lower classes. The resolution of these problems is contingent on the implementation of illicit actions. Furthermore, the movie contains numerous conversations that posit that the root of poverty in Iran is societal injustice. The resolution of the movie’s narrative involves the protagonists engaging in illicit activities, including theft. This include stealing from a construction company that sells housing at high prices, dentists that do not accept insurance, clothing stores, foreign car dealers, carpet sellers, and individuals who are both wealthy and morally corrupt. The stolen property is then distributed to the poor in order to ensure that justice is served. Ultimately, law enforcement officials apprehend the individuals portrayed in the film. The success of the police is guaranteed in many Iranian films. It appears that the filmmakers were compelled to adopt this particular ending due to the constraints imposed by censorship laws. Conversely, the film’s ideological perspective would reveal the filmmakers to be in sympathy with the lower classes as noble individuals who have no alternative but to take practical and, in some cases, illegal measures to escape their circumstances.

Interaction-confrontation ideology

In Iranian urban areas, there is a notable degree of social class diversification, with the exception of certain areas, such as those that are economically prosperous or situated on the periphery of cities. This phenomenon engenders interaction between disparate social classes, which the film industry often portrays. The relationship between different social classes is influenced by both subjective values and the objective reality of life. Similarly, social relationships between these groups are not always harmonious, and at times, they can be quite contentious. Iranian films have frequently depicted these interactions in accordance with a specific ideological framework. This ideology is concerned with the interaction or confrontation of people belonging to two different classes. It encompasses financial assistance from the upper class to the lower class, intellectual assistance from the lower class to the upper class, intermarriage between people from two classes, and the modification of class values. In some cinematic works, the interaction-opposition ideology espouses a position of support for one of the social classes, while simultaneously condemning or remaining silent about the other. In these movies, ideology can be contradictory. In the dialogue, actions, and events, themes such as the corruption of the upper classes, the delinquency of the lower classes, the pride of the upper classes, the regrets of the lower classes, and the moods of the middle class are raised in order to criticize “justice,” “wealth distribution,” and “class morality” in society. See, for example: Seven songs (Haft Tarānah, 2001); The Yellow Rose (Rawz-i Zard, 2002); Fever (Tab, 2002); Iranian Girl (Dukhtar Īrūnī, 2002); Fireworks Wednesday (Chahārshanbah-Sūrī, 2005); Lover (‛Āshiq, 2006); Unfaithful (Bī-vafā, 2006); The Guest (Mihmān, 2008); Western Doll (‛Arūsak-i Farangī, 2005); Distance (Fāsalah, 2010); Two Sisters (Du khvāhar, 2010); Another One’s House (Khānah-yi dīgarī, 2015); Appendix (Āpāndīs, 2017), Axing (Dārkūb, 2018); and, World War III (Jang-i Jahānī-i Sivvum, 2022).

In Appendix (2017), the story unfolds within the confines of a medical facility. Laylā arrives at the hospital to receive the results of her test and encounters their former neighbor, Zarī, and her husband, Rizā. Zarī experiences severe abdominal pain and requires immediate surgical intervention. The surgical procedure is completed, but complications arise, resulting in a Zarī slipping into a state of unconsciousness.

Figure 8: A still from Appendix (Āpāndīs), directed by Husayn Namāzī, 2017, highlighting the contrast between individuals from lower socioeconomic backgrounds, who are more inclined to physical violence, and those from middle-class backgrounds, who typically engage in conversation.

The narrative structure, under the influence of the film’s ideological framework, positions two individuals from divergent social backgrounds in opposition to each other, and the insurance book serves as a catalyst for the interaction between these two classes. Rizā, who has been unemployed for months and is unable to pay for his wife’s appendectomy, requests a health insurance card belonging to Laylā, a woman of middle class status, to provide them with the necessary funds. This interaction allows the audience to gain insight into the challenges faced by individuals from both socioeconomic backgrounds.

The film’s ideological perspective suggests that the male members of the lower socioeconomic class are characterized by a combination of traits, including zeal, helplessness, nervousness, and lawbreaking. For instance, Rizā must circumvent the law to obtain the funds needed for his wife’s surgery. A noteworthy sequence is one in which Rizā attempts to alter the photo of his wife’s insurance book, which has passed its expiration date, and Laylā’s book in the bathroom. He strikes the toilet wall in order to forge the document. This action metaphorically illustrates the misery of the lower class, for whom the taste of life is akin to dirt and excrement of other classes. Lower-class women are similarly vulnerable to the constraints of patriarchy, exhibiting characteristics such as helplessness, timidity, and victimhood. Zarī is so intimidated by her husband that she is unable to inform him that her employer is harassing her. This lack of communication between the couple ultimately results in a problematic situation. Rizā’s suspicion that his wife has betrayed him and subsequent attack on his sick wife are the result of his changing the answers of the two women’s test. Zarī goes into a coma, rendering her unable to defend herself.

The ideological framework of the film portrays middle-class individuals as polite, dutiful, and philanthropic. Laylā’s makes a conscious effort to maintain a polished and composed demeanor in her interactions with others. Despite concealing her pregnancy (and its termination) from her husband, a respectful relationship is evident between her and Muhsin. Muhsin is a courteous individual who endeavors to present himself as a model employee in the eyes of the hospital administrator, but he incurs disciplinary action due to the benevolence of his spouse towards the health insurance card.

The film’s resolution favors the middle classes. In the concluding sequence, the protagonist, a member of the middle class, alters the background image on her phone in order to accept her spouse as her new romantic interest. Concurrently, a male character from a lower socioeconomic background is taken to the detention center, which suggests that his marriage has been dissolved.

Conclusion

Although the concept of class was effectively buried by the fundamentalists following the Islamic Revolution due to its Marxist implications and the priority of religious identity, economic and cultural changes have caused class issues to resurface. The concept of class had been forgotten for an extended period. In other words, it had been buried. In contemporary texts, there appears to be a resurgence. This phenomenon can be likened to the reemergence of zombies from their interment. In place of religious identity, class identity emerged as a subject of interest once more, and began to make an impact in the film industry. The consequence of this was the production of numerous movies in the twenty-first century with a focus on class ideology. These ideologies target the upper class, sympathize with the lower classes, and evaluate the values of each class in the context of their interaction  Consequently, the relationship between ideology and class is a profound and efficacious one within the modern Iranian cinema industry.

Figure 1: Poster from the films Kāghaz-i bī’khat (Unruled Paper, 2002) and Dar dunyā-yi tu sā‛at chand ast (What Time Is It in Your World?, 2014), directed by Nāsir Taqvā’ī.

Introduction

This paper examines the concept of censorship, its historical evolution, and its current practice in Iran, highlighting its role as a mechanism for controlling expression and maintaining power. Tracing the ongoing conflict between authority and creative freedom from the persecution of Socrates in ancient Greece to modern-day Iran, the study emphasizes how censorship shapes media and daily life. Iranian filmmakers like Nāsir Taqvā’ī and Safī Yazdāniyān navigate stringent censorship by employing visual metaphors and subtle storytelling, illustrating how art can subvert restrictions.

I have selected the films Unruled Paper and What Time Is It in Your World? as they represent two distinct subjects. The first engages with political and social issues, while the second explores romantic and poetic themes. Despite navigating different domains, both films grapple with the pervasive impact of censorship.

Building on Kierkegaard’s philosophy of indirect communication, the paper argues that art’s capacity to convey truths indirectly is particularly potent in censored environments. Kierkegaard believed that art guides individuals toward self-discovery rather than directly imparting knowledge, a concept that resonates in societies where direct expression is suppressed. The study categorizes three key ways visual art serves as a tool for circumventing censorship:

Silent Language: Visual art communicates significant ideas and emotions that cannot be explicitly stated, evoking deeper reflections and feelings that words may fail to capture.

Active Role in Narrative: The integration of visual art into storytelling transforms it into a dynamic element that merges character and artwork, making it central to the narrative and enhancing audience engagement.

Dialogue Between Artworks: The interaction among paintings creates an ongoing narrative that influences viewers’ perceptions, inviting them to connect with the film on a more abstract level and perceive meanings beyond the surface.

This study highlights the paradox of censorship: while intended to suppress, it often enhances creativity, pushing artists toward innovative and abstract forms of expression. Through the lens of Kierkegaard’s ideas, the paper demonstrates that art under censorship does not merely survive but thrives, transforming limitations into opportunities for deeper reflection and engagement. Ultimately, it affirms the enduring power of art as a vehicle for exploring complex truths, resisting oppression, and fostering personal and societal discovery.

The methodology of this paper combines theoretical analysis, film case studies, and cross-cultural comparisons to explore how visual art, particularly film, circumvents censorship in Iran. It begins by defining censorship and framing the discussion through Kierkegaard’s philosophy of indirect communication, highlighting how art conveys truths subtly. The paper examines two films, Unruled Paper and What Time Is It in Your World? to analyze how visual metaphors and symbolism bypass censorship. Additionally, it compares Iran’s censorship practices with those of other totalitarian regimes, like China and Russia, to highlight the broader global context of artistic suppression and creativity.

Figure 2: Mary Cassatt at the Louvre, by Edgar Degas

Understanding Censorship: A Definition and Its Practice in Iran

According to the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU),¹The American Civil Liberties Union is an American nonprofit human rights organization founded in 1920. The organization strives “to defend and preserve the individual rights and liberties guaranteed to every person in this country by the Constitution and laws of the United States.” censorship is defined as: “The suppression of words, images, or ideas that are “offensive,” happens whenever some people succeed in imposing their personal political or moral values on others. Censorship can be carried out by the government as well as private pressure groups. Censorship by the government is unconstitutional.”²“What Is Censorship?” ACLU, August 30, 2006, accessed January 8, 2025, https://www.aclu.org/documents/what-censorship.

The root of censorship goes back to 399 B.C.E. Socrates, the philosopher of the time, was accused of impiety and corrupting the youth (Phaedo).³Plato, Apology, trans. G.M.A. Grube (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2000), 24b-25c.  Although Socrates was killed so his ideas could be exterminated, we know of no other philosophers of his time more than him as it was the beginning of the dissemination of his ideas thanks to his student Plato. Censorship has been an issue since the dawn of human thought. Socrates was one of its first known victims, and Galileo Galilei was its most famous.⁴Dava Sobel, Galileo’s daughter: A Historical Memoir of Science, Faith, and Love (New York: Walker & Company, 1999). Throughout history, governments have controlled human expression, prioritizing and restricting potential creative outputs. The mind is a powerful realm with endless possibilities, yet every government has rules to maintain its power, requiring compliance from its citizens. Creativity, however, is the mind’s ability to transcend these boundaries and explore new possibilities. This innovation potential threatens established power, which is why it is often suppressed. Amputating an idea has always had a reverse relation with its dissemination. It sprouts, grows, and blossoms in many ways. The more dictator a country is, the tighter its frame is and, therefore, the stricter censorship it implies.

In the Islamic Republic of Iran, censorship has been a way to suppress people in every possible way, control them, and ultimately govern them. In Iran, many quotidian activities that people do every day in their lives have been long censored in all the media to shrink the legal abilities that are allowed to be seen in public to its lowest possible level. In this situation, most of the concepts would be abstract rather than concrete. Take the example of hugging (all three forms of the action, the written, the showing, and the verbal ways), which is banned on screen. This abstract can be delivered through different abstract arts that have autopsied the very idea of these concepts.

It is interesting that although visual art could always be a solution to represent what has always been missed on the screen, it had the least role in it. Analyzing the reason for that needs more research and, consequently, another article.

What if we use the already-made content and feelings to develop an image that should be censored in the media? Are these representing the same idea every time and in every context they are being used? Or, in specific realms of design and dialogues, do they act as mediators to extract the targeted concept? Do they help to bring out more, or do they repeatedly go on?

Visual Art as a Catalyst for Creative Freedom

These films, made in 2002, were produced when Iran was facing simultaneously both cultural growth and inner suppression of the intellectuals. Iran’s film industry continued to receive significant international acclaim. Filmmakers like ʿAbbās Kiyārustamī, Majīd Majīdī, Jaʿfar Panāhī, and Muhsin Makhmalbāf were celebrated for their works.⁵Geoff Andrew, “The New Iranian Cinema: A Conversation with Abbas Kiarostami,” Senses of Cinema 20 (June 2002), https://www.sensesofcinema.com/2002/feature-articles/new_iranian/. Filmmakers often had to navigate strict censorship rules imposed by the Iranian government. Topics related to politics, religion, and gender were particularly sensitive. Despite these restrictions, many directors found creative ways to address social issues and critique the status quo subtly.

Art has always been a medium for discovery. From Plato to the present, this role has been recognized, whether by those who sought to harness its power for good or those who wished to suppress it. The core of the matter has always been art’s profound influence. Visual art, particularly contemporary art, is an indirect form of communication. It expresses emotions, unexplored scenes, and the untrodden paths of philosophy and science in ways that remain unstandardized and, therefore, undiscovered. Visual art doesn’t just communicate what words cannot; it engages through other modes like seeing, associating, and feeling, creating a silent dialogue that reaches deeper parts of the mind and memory. This interaction creates a parallel understanding as if entering another dimension beyond the familiar three-width, length, and depth formed through the interplay of these dimensions. This aligns with Kierkegaard’s belief that art does not teach us truths directly but rather guides us toward our own discoveries, which are beneficial rather than demerits.⁶Antony Aumann, “Kierkegaard on the Value of Art: An Indirect Method of Communication,” In The Kierkegaardian Mind, ed. Adam Buben, Eleanor Helms, and Patrick Stokes (London: Routledge, 2019), 166-76. Socrates’s metaphor of midwifery, or maieutic, illustrates the role of a teacher as one who helps learners ‘give birth’ to their own knowledge, much like a midwife assists in delivering a child. Rather than directly imparting information, the maieutic teacher guides learners to discover lessons independently. This approach allows us to focus on overlooked considerations and reshape our understanding of the world in ways we might not have conceived independently.⁷Plato, Theaetetus, trans. M.J. Levett, revised by Myles Burnyeat, In Plato: Complete Works, ed. John M. Cooper (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1997), 157–234.

This piece explores the Iranian film industry in 2002, a period marked by both cultural growth and the suppression of intellectuals. Despite facing stringent censorship, filmmakers like ʿAbbās Kiyārustamī and Jaʿfar Panāhī received international acclaim by subtly addressing sensitive social issues. This context underscores the broader role of art as a medium for discovery and communication. Contemporary visual art serves as an indirect form of communication that transcends verbal expression, engaging with emotions and philosophical ideas in ways that words often cannot. This perspective aligns with Kierkegaard’s belief that art does not provide direct truths but guides us toward personal discoveries. Furthermore, Socrates’s concept of maieutic-where teaching is seen as helping learners ‘give birth’ to their own knowledge-emphasizes the importance of fostering independent thought and deeper understanding. Through this lens, art and teaching both emerge as powerful tools for exploring and understanding the complexities of human experience.

Unruled Paper

Amidst the strict censorship of the time, Nāsir Taqvā’ī produced a film in 2002, that encouraging women to understand themselves and pursue their dreams in the modern world. In the harrowing context of the chain murders of authors in Iran during the 1990s, making a film about a woman striving to become an author was akin to “biting the bullet,” which he did with notable courage.

In Unruled Paper, Ruyā, mother of two children, tries to follow her dream of becoming a writer, while her life and relationship with her shady architect husband Jahān, gets into some serious drama, which leads to the question of whether everything is really what it seems to be.”⁸“Kaghaz-e Bikhat,” IMDb, accessed August 7, 2024. https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0317794/. 

Taqvā’ī masterfully incorporates visual art throughout the film, much of which unfolds in a confined apartment setting, to convey nuanced messages about the complexities of modern womanhood. The paintings and sculptures serve a dual purpose. First, they communicate what cannot be explicitly stated or the ideas that, though significant, would lose their impact if merely spoken. These artworks act as a silent language, evoking emotions and thoughts that words might not fully capture.

Nāsir Taqvā’ī skillfully integrates these visual elements to deepen the audience’s engagement, drawing viewers into a more intimate connection with the characters and the narrative. Instead of remaining passive, the audience is encouraged to reflect on the subtle messages the art conveys, long after the film ends. Colors, lines, and forms from the paintings linger in the viewers’ minds, provoking a journey into deeper, often uncharted, layers of thought.

The second aspect of how visual art functions in the film is its dialogue with itself. The paintings not only speak to the audience but also interact with one another, creating an ongoing narrative that quietly influences the viewer’s perception. This interaction between artworks evokes a metaphorical “fourth dimension”⁹Albert Einstein, Relativity: The Special and General Theory (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1920), 20. of engagement, inviting viewers to perceive beyond the conventional cinematic experience and connect with the film more abstractly.

The screenshots from Unruled Paper, paired with descriptions of each scene and artwork, effectively highlight the dual roles that visual art plays in Taqvā’ī’s film. These elements help clarify how the artwork both communicates unspeakable ideas and engages in a silent dialogue with itself, elevating the viewer’s experience beyond mere observation. Through this approach, Taqvā’ī’s use of visual elements becomes an integral part of the storytelling, allowing the art to subtly influence the narrative and engage the audience on a more profound level.

Figure 3: Screenshot from the film Unruled Paper, directed by Nāsir Taqvā’ī (Tehran, 2002).

The painting on the wall features a unique composition in which a single plant grows from two distinct containers: a traditional clay flowerpot and a repurposed tin of cooking oil, a familiar household item in many Iranian kitchens during that period. This juxtaposition of the pots invites reflection on the transformation and resilience embedded in everyday objects.

The clay pot represents the conventional, unchanging vessel, while the tin, having served its original purpose, has been given new life as a plant holder. This transformation symbolizes the adaptation and recycling of materials, a narrative of renewal and reinvention. The fact that the same plant thrives in both pots emphasizes the continuity of life, regardless of the vessel, underscoring themes of resourcefulness and the blending of tradition with modernity.

The painting speaks to a broader cultural practice of reusing objects, highlighting the beauty and potential in the ordinary. It captures the quiet, often overlooked poetry of domestic life, where even a simple tin can find a second purpose, nurturing growth and sustaining life. The artwork resonates with the idea of resilience, where the past and present coalesce to create something enduring and meaningful.

Figure 4: Screenshot from the film Unruled Paper, directed by Nāsir Taqvā’ī (Tehran, 2002).

The image shows a character ironing while facing a painting of a distorted figure who is also engaged in ironing. The abstract nature of the form-seemingly human yet distorted-reflects a struggle with inner turmoil or a feeling of deep, unspoken sorrow. The muted, almost washed-out palette intensifies the feeling of desolation as if the figure is trapped within its own despair. The painting captures the figure in a melancholic state, its posture slumped and weary. This parallel between the real and the painted figure highlights the emotional weight of the mundane task. The distortion in the painting emphasizes the fatigue and burden often associated with repetitive, everyday chores. The scene blurs the line between the character and the painting, creating a quiet reflection of the exhaustion and monotony embedded in routine activities. This piece, through its stark minimalism and distorted anatomy, seems to channel a silent scream, a visual echo of the alienation and helplessness often felt in the face of overwhelming emotional or existential crises. The viewer is drawn into this void, left to confront the unease and introspection the painting demands.

Figure 5: Screenshot from the film Unruled Paper, directed by Nāsir Taqvā’ī (Tehran, 2002).

This is the scene I admire in Nāsir Taqvā’ī’s work: Jahān is bowing to find something, and the frame is composed to show him before a traditional statue, likely of a skilled woman with many hands, balancing everything she carries above her head—symbolizing the burden of managing multiple aspects of life. To his right, a modern painting features a red flower, newly placed in a common household object—not a vase, but a repurposed Coke bottle, transforming it from an everyday item into something that not only serves a purpose but also adds beauty and function. The room, bathed in natural light, harmoniously blends the traditional presence of the statue with contemporary artwork, creating a striking contrast that enhances the scene’s visual and symbolic depth.

Figure 6: Screenshot from the film Unruled Paper, directed by Nāsir Taqvā’ī (Tehran, 2002).

The statue represents a multi-armed deity, a prevalent motif in Hindu iconography. The multiple arms symbolize the deity’s omnipotence, with each arm often holding different objects that represent various aspects of life or cosmic principles. In Hinduism, multi-armed deities signify their ability to perform numerous tasks simultaneously, reflecting their vast powers. For example, the goddess Durga is frequently depicted with multiple arms, each holding a weapon given by different gods to combat the buffalo demon Mahishasura. Similarly, the god Vishnu, when shown with multiple arms, typically holds a conch, discus, mace, and lotus flower, each symbolizing different aspects of his divine attributes. This tradition of depicting deities with multiple arms dates to ancient Hindu art, particularly during the Gupta period (circa 4th to 6th century CE), when this artistic style became prominent, allowing worshippers to visually grasp the immense power and responsibilities of the deity.¹⁰NAME OF THE AUTHOR“Multi-Armed Deity in Hindu Iconography,” In The Art of Hinduism: Symbolism and Significance, ed. Jaya Sharma (New Delhi: Art Publications, 2023), 45-67.

Figure 7: Screenshot from the film Unruled Paper, directed by Nāsir Taqvā’ī (Tehran, 2002).

In this image, the woman sits at a kitchen table, deeply absorbed in her thoughts. The scene is intimate and quiet, yet it carries a weight of unspoken emotions. Her hands are clasped as if in prayer or contemplation, suggesting she is grappling with something profound, perhaps the complexities of her life, the burdens of her problems, or the elusive nature of her dreams. On the wall behind her hangs a striking portrait painted in dark, intense colors. The portrait’s expression is enigmatic, a mix of a smirk and sadness. The artist has obscured half of the face with heavy brushstrokes, making it partially hidden, much like the layers of the woman’s inner world that remain unspoken or suppressed. This obscured face mirrors the woman’s own experience, where societal expectations have buried parts of her true self, her aspirations, and her dreams beneath the surface. The interplay between the woman and the painting creates a dialogue within the image. The sharp, almost harsh colors of the portrait contrast with the softer, more muted tones of the kitchen, emphasizing the tension between the woman’s inner world and the external reality she faces. The painting reflects her inner turmoil, the conflicting emotions that swirl within her: half-dream, half-reality, half-visible, half-hidden. The setting, with its everyday objects and warm light juxtaposed against the dark tones of the painting, underscores the dichotomy between the ordinary and the profound in her life. This moment captures a deeply human experience: the struggle between the self that conforms to tradition and the self that dreams of breaking free.

Figure 8: Screenshot from the film Unruled Paper, directed by Nāsir Taqvā’ī (Tehran, 2002).

The painting appears to depict a man from whom a ladder is growing, symbolizing the idea that, in traditional societies, a man is often perceived as the “stairway” for a woman to achieve her ambitions, but within certain constraints. In the context of the film, this painting plays as a visual metaphor for the relationship between Jahān and Ruyā. Jahān represents a man who, due to his traditional upbringing in a patriarchal society, wants to be supportive but is limited by his ingrained beliefs. He encourages Ruyā to pursue her interest in writing by attending classes, but he still views domestic chores as her primary responsibility. This duality reflects Jahān’s internal conflict between his desire to support Ruyā’s aspirations and his inability to fully embrace the idea of a woman having a career independent of household duties. The displacement of the painting within the film is particularly symbolic. By moving the painting, especially placing it near the kitchen, the film visually emphasizes the role Jahān believes he plays in Ruyā’s life, he sees himself as the enabler of her success, though only within the limits he sets, shaped by his traditional views. The positioning of the painting in front of the kitchen might symbolize how he ties Ruyā’s success to her domestic role, suggesting that her achievements are only possible if she fulfills her duties as a homemaker. Overall, the painting and its replacement within the film show Jahān’s constrained support for Ruyā, reflecting the broader societal expectations and limitations placed on women.

Figure 9: Screenshot from the film Unruled Paper, directed by Nāsir Taqvā’ī (Tehran, 2002).

In the image Jahān is depicted in a workspace, deeply engrossed in reading or working on something. The setting is simple yet telling, with a lamp providing focused light, and a statue of a thinking reminiscent of Rodin’s famous “The Thinker”, prominently displayed on the desk. The presence of the “thinking man” statue is significant in how it reflects Jahān’s character. The statue symbolizes contemplation, intellectual depth, and the traditional association of masculinity with rationality and thoughtfulness. In the context of the film, Jahān is portrayed as someone who is thoughtful and wants to be supportive of Ruyā, reflecting his desire to engage with and understand the world around him, much like the way the “thinking man” contemplates deeply. However, this association with deep thinking also ties into the limitations of his support. Just as the “thinking man” is frozen in a posture of contemplation, Jahān’s support is similarly constrained by his traditional mindset. His contemplation does not necessarily lead to action that breaks free from traditional expectations. He is thoughtful, but his thoughts are still grounded in a patriarchal framework where his role as the “thinking” or “supporting” man does not translate into a full acceptance of Ruyā’s independence or the possibility of her pursuing a career beyond the confines of traditional domestic roles. This statue, much like the ladder in the previous image, serves as a visual metaphor for Jahān’s internal state. While he embodies the traits of a traditional man who contemplates and supports, these traits are rooted in a conventional understanding of gender roles. His thinking is deep but not transformative, indicating how his support for Ruyā is ultimately limited by his inability to break away from the traditional expectations placed on both men and women in his society. The “thinking man” statue reflects Jahān’s intellectual side and his desire to support Ruyā, yet it also symbolizes the limitations of his support, which is bound by the traditional roles he has internalized. This creates a nuanced portrayal of a man who wants to be progressive but is hindered by the traditions that define him.

What Time Is It in Your World?

The film, directed by Safī Yazdāniyān, opens with Gulī (Hātamī) arriving at Tehran airport for her first visit to her hometown, Rasht, in two decades. Having lived in France, she seems to have built a stable life, as suggested by a phone conversation with her presumed partner, Antoine, about her sudden change of plans. A lively, semi-acoustic guitar soundtrack sets the tone for what feels like the start of a road trip. In many ways, What’s the Time in Your World? is just that a journey through memories. At the Rasht bus terminal, Gulī is greeted by the local frame-maker, Farhād (A. Musaffā), who helps her into a taxi. Although he clearly knows her (they share a peculiar window tap greeting), Gulī is bewildered, certain that she has never met Farhād before. He leaves her to go about her day, but soon he starts appearing wherever she goes -the market, her favorite diner, random streets. This triggers Gulī’s deeper investigation into her memory and identity.¹¹“Dar donya ye to saat chand ast?,” IMDb, accessed September 9, 2024, https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4108894/. The film reflects on how Gulī, upon returning to Rasht after twenty years, is forced to confront her past through the memories that resurface. These memories are woven together by a painting she both receives and reenacts. Farhād gives her a replica of a painting of Mary Cassatt, originally painted by Edgar Degas in 1880. Safī Yazdāniyān once mentioned: “I was captivated by the idea of a woman’s face being hidden when viewing Edgar Degas’s paintings. We chose a version from his series “Mary Cassatt at the Louvre” with no background, allowing us to reconstruct the central figure of the woman in any space or environment.”¹²“Dar donya ye to saat chand ast?,” Farhangland, accessed September 22, 2024, https://shorturl.at/OUJ55. Mary Cassatt, an American painter, often modeled for the French artist Edgar Degas.

Throughout their careers, they mutually inspired and challenged each other, occasionally collaborating. Neither Degas nor Cassatt ever married, sparking speculation about their relationship.¹³Abigail Yoder, “The Artistic Friendship of Mary Cassatt and Edgar Degas,” Saint Louis Art Museum, April 20, 2017, accessed September 9, 2024, https://www.slam.org/blog/the-artistic-friendship-of-mary-cassatt-and-edgar-degas/. Degas perhaps offered the best description of their bond, stating, “There is someone who feels as I do.“¹⁴Achille Segard, Mary Cassatt: Un Peintre des enfants et des mères (Paris, 1913); quoted in Amanda T. Zehnder, “Forty Years of Artistic Exchange,” in Degas/Cassatt, ed. Kimberly A. Jones (Washington: National Gallery of Art, 2014), PAGE NUMBERS This feeling between these two, represented by the painting can also tell us more about a relationship which is led by Farhād, which is an inconvenient one. The recurring presence of this painting in the film extends beyond the canvas. Gulī cross-dresses in her late father’s suit, transforming the artwork into a liminal space where she attempts to reconnect with memories she cannot fully grasp -memories she cannot hug, touch, or kiss. In Iran, where censorship limits physical expression, the painting provides a way to bypass these constraints, expressing emotions that cannot be openly displayed.

In a film where time feels subjective, the use of visual art helps bridge the gap between the abstract concept of time and the audience’s understanding. The artwork serves as a visual metaphor, deepening the audience’s connection to the film’s temporal and emotional layers. The presentation of the paintings in this film functions as a deliberate strategy, enabling the director to transcend conventional depictions of time and memory, and instead engage in a more nuanced exploration of memory and the process of recollection. In Yazdāniyān’s film, physical spaces and objects serve as metaphors for different experiences of time, where time is not merely a chronological sequence but an emotional or mental journey. In this movie paintings, frames, and the curatorial of the paintings’ representation in their frames are mediums that approach time as a layered, non-linear construct. The way visual art is presented in this context contrasts with Nāsir Taqvā’ī’s subtle approach. In Taqvā’ī’s films, the artwork functions more like a foil character, influencing the flow of scenes indirectly and emphasizing themes without being the center of attention. It complements the narrative, playing a supportive yet essential role in shaping the film’s deeper meanings.

Here, however, the painting itself becomes central. Rather than subtly guiding the action from the margins, it takes on a more active, transformative role. The main character, Gulī, animates the artwork by physically embodying the posture of the portrait, bringing it to life and making the visual art an integral part of the narrative. This shift moves the painting from a background element to the forefront, merging the lines between character and art in a way that directly drives the story forward.

Figure 10: Screenshots from the film Mary Cassatt, directed by Safī Yazdāniyān (Tehran 2014).

The portrait depicts a solitary, abstract figure, whose anonymity conveys a universal, timeless quality. In the film, this ambiguity ties into the exploration of time and its impact on personal identity and memory. The figure may symbolize Gulī’s reflection on her own identity, distorted by time, emotions, and memories, much like how the audience is prompted to reconsider their relationship with time. Gulī’s act of holding the artwork suggests a connection to the past—revisiting a memory, relationship, or part of herself preserved within the portrait. Her gentle grasp reflects a longing or careful engagement with what the artwork represents. This gesture mirrors the film’s broader exploration of how individuals cling to past fragments as time progresses. Both Gulī and the viewer are invited to reflect on how they “hold” their own past—whether through objects, memories, or emotions. The framed portrait emphasizes art’s role as a tangible object that holds memory and meaning. While time in Yazdāniyān’s film is fluid and subjective, objects like artworks anchor it, providing physical representations of otherwise abstract experiences. The artwork becomes a container for memory, preserving moments that can be revisited through touch and reflection. This tactile interaction suggests that memory, like art, can be held, revisited, and reinterpreted over time.

In this fragmented, subjective portrayal of time, the hand touching the portrait symbolizes an attempt to reconnect with the past. Yet the frame’s boundaries and the figure’s distortion suggest the complexity of such efforts. Time blurs the edges of memory, making it difficult to hold onto any single version of the past. The distorted figure may signify the erosion of memory and identity over time. In What’s the Time in Your World?, characters experience time in disjointed, subjective ways. The ambiguity of the figure reflects the loss or fragmentation of personal identity as memories fade and identities shift. This figure could represent someone from Gulī’s past, a reflection of herself, or a symbol of a changing or lost identity. This carefully held portrait underscores the emotional and philosophical exploration of time in the film. The artwork bridges Gulī’s personal reflection and the film’s meditation on how individuals experience and interact with time. Through memory, identity, and the physical interaction with art, Yazdāniyān invites viewers to consider how they hold onto their past, how time distorts identity, and how art serves as a vessel for emotional and temporal experiences.

Figure 11: Screenshots from the film Mary Cassatt, directed by Safī Yazdāniyān (Tehran, 2014).

The use of frames throughout the film also can act as a metaphor for how people frame their own experiences of time. Just as the artwork is encased in a frame, memories and identities are shaped and contained within the frames we impose on them. The image in the painting may be distant or faded, much like how memories blur over time. The frame here becomes significant, acting as a boundary for the image it contains. The frame shop of Farhād in Rasht seems to preserve the memories of many as if freezing time to when Gulī was still in town. This boundary symbolizes the limitations people face when trying to understand or recall the past. No matter how much one may long to return to a specific moment, the frame of memory restricts how clearly or fully that time can be remembered. The artwork serves as a reminder that while the past can be revisited, one can never completely step outside the frames that shape their perception of time. This image also could be analyzed as an expression of time’s fluidity in a visual, curatorial sense. The film, which explores subjective perceptions of time, could be reflected in the visual density of this wall, where various artworks from different periods coexist in one space. This arrangement could symbolize how time in the film isn’t linear but layered, with past, present, and future interwoven, much like the artworks seen here.

The urban landscape painting at the bottom left is a frozen moment in time, evoking nostalgia or memories, while the abstract pieces might symbolize the timelessness of emotions or concepts that escape concrete representation. These contrasting styles reflect the film’s thematic exploration of how people experience and interpret time in different ways, some through memory, and some through abstraction. Each artwork can be seen as a temporal marker, a fixed point in a fluid continuum. The overlapping of paintings in this image could then signify how different moments or experiences blur together, much like how the characters in the film may experience overlapping memories or emotions that transcend a linear understanding of time. The frames themselves become crucial to this interpretation. Frames, like the structure of time, offer boundaries and constraints; they frame how we perceive an artwork just as time frames our perception of events. In the context of the film, frames can be seen as symbolic of the limitations placed on the characters’ perception of time—each character has their own “frame” of reference, but stepping beyond these boundaries could lead to new, expanded understandings of time, much like stepping outside of one artwork to observe the entire wall reveals the multiplicity of time periods and artistic styles present. This image may serve as a metaphor for how Yazdāniyān visualizes time in his film: fragmented, layered, and multi-directional. Just as this wall brings together artworks from different genres and eras, the film’s narrative structure may layer different times, places, and emotional states, offering the viewer a more complex, nonlinear understanding of the passage of time. The eclectic art collection might be seen as a visual parallel to the film’s fragmented storytelling or its exploration of how time is perceived differently by each individual, influenced by their memories, emotions, and subjective experiences. Just as the film challenges the viewer to consider time through different lenses—memory, experience, emotion—this wall of artworks invites a reflection on how different moments in time (and different artistic expressions) can coexist, creating a complex, multi-dimensional experience for the observer.

Overall, Gulī’s interaction with the artwork, particularly her holding of the portrait, underscores the film’s thematic focus on the intersection of memory and identity. The portrait’s abstract, solitary figure symbolizes the universal and timeless nature of personal reflection, inviting both Gulī and the viewer to reconsider their relationship with the past. The frame shop, and the act of framing itself, further represent how memories are constrained and shaped by the boundaries we impose on them. What Time Is It in Your World? challenges conventional depictions of time by layering visual and narrative elements that reflect the fragmented, subjective nature of human experience. The film uses art as a vessel to navigate the complexities of memory and identity, allowing the audience to engage with the temporal dimensions of the story in a deeply personal way. Through its innovative use of visual metaphors, the film not only portrays the erosion of memory over time but also invites viewers to reflect on how art can serve as a tangible connection to the past, reshaping our understanding of who we are across different moments in time.

How can contemporary art be more helpful in circumventing radical censorship?

Contemporary art, engaged with the present moment, acts as a liminal space that bridges the gap created by censorship, transforming abstract concepts into innovative modes of presentation. This space allows for the fluid negotiation of cultural and personal histories. Rather than merely producing new objects, contemporary art offers fresh perspectives, serving as a crucial medium for understanding and connection in a world where traditional communication often fails to capture the complexities of modern life.

Visual art, particularly contemporary, transcends language, expressing emotions and untold narratives in innovative ways. It communicates significant ideas and emotions that cannot be explicitly stated, evoking deeper reflections and feelings that words may fail to capture, effectively functioning as a silent language. Furthermore, the integration of visual art into storytelling transforms it into a dynamic element that merges character and artwork, making it central to the narrative and enhancing audience engagement, thereby highlighting its active role in narrative. Moreover, the interaction among paintings creates an ongoing narrative that influences viewers’ perceptions, inviting them to connect with the film on a more abstract level and perceive meanings beyond the surface, illustrating the dialogue between artworks. This engagement fosters a parallel dimension of understanding, allowing individuals to navigate the meanings concealed beyond censorship. Ultimately, contemporary art’s ability to create silent dialogues that penetrate memory and mind emphasizes its potential as a powerful tool for circumventing radical censorship, transforming limitations into opportunities for deeper reflection and engagement with complex truths.

Censorship as a Tool of Power in Totalitarian Regimes: China and Russia Controlling Cinema Through Suppression

Censorship in cinema is a common tactic employed by totalitarian regimes, exploiting its potential as a potent medium to shape public opinion and control societal narratives. As a powerful and almost magical tool, cinema can profoundly influence public perception and insight. Recognizing this, those in power strategically wield it to manipulate the minds of their citizens, thereby consolidating and maintaining their authority. Like Iran, in countries like China and Russia, this practice is marked by a combination of state-imposed restrictions, self-censorship by filmmakers, and informal regulatory pressures. Government authorities frequently ban films that critique the state, address politically sensitive issues, or challenge official narratives, ensuring that cinema aligns with the regime’s ideological goals.

In China, censorship is strict and systematically enforced, with films that critique the government, such as those dealing with issues like Tiananmen Square, Tibet, and Taiwan, routinely banned. Filmmakers often engage in self-censorship to avoid potential repercussions, altering narratives to comply with official guidelines. At the same time, there is a significant industry of censorship within the film industry itself, where filmmakers avoid controversial subjects even without explicit government orders.¹⁵Biltereyst, Daniel, and Roel Vande Winkel, eds. Silencing Cinema: Film Censorship Around the World (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2013), PAGE NUMBERS

In Russia, the censorship landscape is shaped by both formal regulations and informal, self-imposed restrictions. Before the war in Ukraine, there was a clear but flexible boundary for filmmakers: it was unsafe to directly criticize the leadership, but one could still address issues relating to lower-level bureaucracy or broader social problems with caution. However, the onset of the war has led to a more unpredictable environment, where self-censorship has intensified, and even seemingly apolitical projects have faced significant delays or cancellations. Both China and Russia exemplify how totalitarian regimes use cinema as a tool for propaganda while stifling dissent through a combination of direct censorship, self-regulation, and fear of retribution, severely limiting the freedom of expression in the arts.¹⁶Ivan Filippov, “Censorship in Russian Cinema Isn’t What You Think,” The Moscow Times, October 2, 2023, accessed January 8, 2025, https://www.themoscowtimes.com/2023/10/02/censorship-in-russian-cinema-isnt-what-you-think-a82633. Russian directors, like Andrey Zvyagintsev (Leviathan), use metaphors to critique corruption and systemic problems, subtly pushing back against government narratives.

Directors in these countries often attempt to circumvent censorship through the use of metaphors, symbolism, and allegories, tools that have historically allowed censored subjects to be addressed indirectly. While some choose to voice their concerns openly using foreign platforms, others resist being silenced or forgotten under oppressive regimes. Despite the risks, they refuse to conform entirely. Through art and literature, these filmmakers find subtle ways to communicate with their audience, igniting a spark of awareness, however small or fleeting.

Conclusion

This paper has examined the multifaceted nature of censorship, tracing its historical lineage and highlighting its contemporary practice in Iran, particularly within visual and cinematic arts. Censorship, as articulated by the ACLU, represents more than just the suppression of words, images, or ideas; it embodies a broader imposition of power where political, moral, or personal values are enforced upon society by authorities. From the execution of Socrates in ancient Greece to the present- day restrictions faced by Iranian artists, censorship has long served as a means for those in power to shape and control public discourse, often at the expense of creativity, dissent, and independent thought. The persistence of censorship across history underscores a fundamental tension between authority and the human desire for freedom of expression. This dynamic is evident in Iran, where government-imposed censorship has permeated every aspect of life, particularly in media and art. Filmmakers like Nāsir Taqvā’ī and Safī Yazdāniyān have had to navigate these constraints by embedding subtle critiques and layered narratives within their works. Through the clever use of visual metaphors, symbols, and abstract representations, these artists circumvent overt censorship, providing audiences with alternative ways to engage with complex and often controversial subjects.

Visual art, particularly in its contemporary forms, operate as a powerful tool for exploring and communicating ideas that censorship seeks to suppress. This aligns with Kierkegaard’s philosophy, which emphasizes the indirect communication of truths and the importance of personal discovery. Kierkegaard argued that art does not convey truths directly but rather invites individuals into a process of introspection and self-discovery. This maieutic approach, akin to the Socratic method of guiding individuals to “give birth” to their own knowledge, allows art to function as a silent provocateur, engaging viewers in a dialogue that transcends the immediate constraints of language and censorship.

Kierkegaard’s concept of indirect communication is particularly relevant in the context of censorship, as it highlights how art can bypass direct confrontation and instead engage with audiences on a deeper, more personal level. In environments where open expression is curtailed, art’s capacity to evoke emotions, prompt reflection, and provoke thought becomes a critical avenue for exploring suppressed ideas. The layered, often ambiguous nature of visual art allows it to operate in a liminal space, one that resists definitive interpretation and thus escapes the rigid binaries of censored versus uncensored content.

In Iran, where censorship not only shapes what can be seen but also dictates how it is perceived, contemporary art functions as a vital medium for preserving the nuances of human experience. The visual dialogues embedded within films like Unruled Paper and What Time Is It in Your World? reveal the potential of art to transcend conventional boundaries and engage with themes of memory, identity, and resistance. These artworks do not merely represent forbidden concepts; they act as catalysts for broader reflections on freedom, personal agency, and the resilience of the human spirit.

Kierkegaard’s belief that art guides individuals toward self-discovery resonates deeply in the context of Iranian art under censorship. Just as Kierkegaard’s maieutic approach encourages learners to uncover their own truths, art under censorship compels viewers to look beyond the surface, engaging with the hidden layers of meaning that defy simplistic interpretation. This process of discovery mirrors the broader struggle against censorship itself: the more an idea is suppressed, the more it proliferates in unexpected and resilient forms.

The interplay between art and censorship illustrates a profound irony: while censorship aims to confine thought, it often spurs greater creativity and deeper engagement. In suppressing direct expression, censorship inadvertently pushes artists toward more innovative, abstract, and symbolic forms of communication, enriching the cultural landscape rather than diminishing it. This paradox highlights a critical truth: the mind’s capacity for creativity cannot be fully constrained, and art, in its myriad forms, continues to carve out spaces for free thought and expression.

Ultimately, censorship is a reminder of the enduring power struggle between authority and the creative impulse. Despite efforts to silence dissent, the human drive to explore, question, and express remain irrepressible. Through the lens of Kierkegaard’s philosophy, we see that art does not merely survive censorship; it thrives within it, transforming limitations into opportunities for deeper engagement and personal revelation. In this sense, art becomes more than a mode of communication, it is a testament to the unyielding nature of human creativity and the relentless pursuit of truth, even in the face of suppression.