I was introduced to Iranian cinema not by a professor or a film club, but by my grandfather, a man whose silence said more than most people’s speeches. He loved me with a kind of quiet that lingers even now. And he loved Abbas Kiarostami.
We would sit together, watching his films - Where Is the Friend’s House?, Taste of Cherry, Close-Up. I didn’t understand them completely back then, but I felt something ancient in them. A sadness that did not beg to be fixed. A poetry that wasn’t trying to impress. Kiarostami taught me that sometimes the most rebellious thing you can do is to pay attention to a child’s walk, to the shape of a road, to a question that never receives an answer.
Iranian cinema is not loud. But it is fierce.
Unlike many Western films where plots scream and emotions are explained, Iranian films invite you to sit with discomfort. They teach you to read faces the way one reads a sacred text with care, with patience, with reverence. These films remind me that ambiguity is not weakness in a world obsessed with clarity. It is freedom.
And if Kiarostami was the doorway, then Mohammad Rasoulof was the storm that followed. His cinema does not whisper it resists. Films like There Is No Evil and Manuscripts Don’t Burn are unflinching, often painful, and necessary. Rasoulof does not just tell stories. He calls out systems. He risks everything to tell the truth. Watching his work is like holding a mirror to the soul of oppression and refusing to look away.
Rasoulof’s courage haunts me. His refusal to submit, his exile, and his defiance are not just cinematic themes. They are real. And they make his stories burn brighter because they come at a cost.
Asghar Farhadi, too, has shaped how I understand complexity. A Separation and The Salesman are not just films. They are psychological X-rays. They show us what happens when morality, pride, grief, and duty collide. Farhadi does not offer villains or heroes, only people trying to survive the weight of their choices. In a way, his films feel like home. Messy. These films are not just art. They are maps. For people like me who grew up in emotional ruins. For those who know how manipulation can dress up as concern. For those raised in silence but aching for language.
I come from a family where the truth was dangerous. Where emotions were managed, not met.
Watching Iranian cinema gave me permission to feel without being rushed to “fix” anything. It showed me that sorrow can be sacred. That longing can be a form of protest. That choosing to live with your eyes open even when it hurts is a kind of revolution.
There is a line in The Wind Will Carry Us where the character says:
“When you start worrying about dying, you forget how to live.”
Iranian cinema never forgets how to live even when surrounded by censorship, control, or despair. It keeps breathing. It keeps noticing. It keeps asking questions without needing to answer them.
To me, these films are not just about Iran. They are about all of us those learning to survive with their dignity intact. Those reclaiming their voice. Those who were taught to stay small but are now learning to stretch.
And in this quiet town, far from home, far from noise, I find comfort in their defiance. In their stillness. In their grace.
Because sometimes, cinema does not just show you who you are.
It shows you who you’re allowed to become.
