I am a woman, born of Iran, not only in the sense of geography, but in the sense of living within a history where being a woman has meant both identity and punishment. A place where a woman’s voice is expected to be brief, justified, or erased. This is not a story of fame; it is a story of survival.

I entered the world of cinema at a very young age, around eighteen. From the beginning, my way of seeing society and life did not align with what was accepted in official or intellectual circles. I did not belong to any predefined political category, nor did I seek to play an ideological role. That independence often came at a cost.

I began my career in what was commonly labeled “commercial cinema,” but in reality, it was popular cinema, the cinema of the people. It connected with a wide part of society and spoke the language of everyday life. Through personal effort and continuous work, I later found my way into artistic and independent cinema. Even then, I remained in an in-between position, never fully embraced, never fully erased.

If there was one place where I was accepted without conditions, it was among the people. They saw me as one of their own. That trust became my greatest asset and the reason my roles felt believable.

Along this path, the resemblance many perceived between me and Googoosh carried different meanings. For some, it evoked cultural memory and nostalgia. For conservative forces and the ruling establishment, it became a sensitive symbol tied to the cultural era before the Revolution.