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It took renowned Iranian filmmaker, Mohammad Rasoulof, 28 days to cross the perilous mountains along the Iranian border after being sentenced to eight years in prison by Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Court. Fleeing was not an easy decision. In the months leading up to his sentencing, Rasoulof and his crew had been working tirelessly to complete filming and post-production of his latest film, The Seed of the Sacred Fig. The political thriller, which won the Special Jury Prize at Cannes, was nominated for a Golden Globe and the Academy Award for Best International Feature Film, was at risk of never being completed if intercepted by regime agents. If discovered, not only would the film have been suppressed, but everyone involved would be arrested and imprisoned.
Rasoulof is no stranger to the wrath of Iranian authorities. During his career he’s been arrested, jailed, interrogated and banned from filmmaking. At the height of the Woman Life Freedom uprising, Rasoulof was serving a seven-month sentence in Tehran’s notorious Evin Prison. While there, he began hearing fragments of news about the anti-regime protests sweeping the country, learning that women were at the forefront of the uprising.
Mirroring the politically charged climate in which the film is set, The Seed of the Sacred Fig explores themes of courage and paranoia. It examines rebellion—what it means to stand against an oppressive, religious, patriarchal regime—and the corrosive effects of power: how a person’s soul can become so corrupted within a dictatorial system that one might sacrifice even their wife and daughters to cling to control and influence.
I spoke to the director, Mohammad Rasoulof, and actress, Mahsa Rostami, to discuss the importance and risks of underground cinema in Iran, the impact of the Woman Life Freedom uprising on the society, and the role of art and storytelling as a form of rebellion against tyranny.
Sahar Delijani:
This wasn’t the first time you shot a film in secret. Can you tell me more about underground cinema in Iran? What does it mean, and how does it work?
Mohammad Rasoulof:
Most of my work has been done in secret and without a state permit. Underground cinema can be interpreted as the attempt to make films outside the constraints of state censorship. However, this doesn’t mean you’ve entirely escaped its influence. It’s a mistake to think that underground cinema allows complete freedom. You’re still constrained by censorship, and the goal is to push the red lines as far as possible.
The making of The Seed of the Sacred Fig was especially challenging because it was a very long screenplay and a very difficult production. At the time, I had just been released from prison and was under heavy surveillance. It was crucial that I was never physically present on or near the set. During exterior scenes, I stayed several miles away, watching everything unfold on a small monitor.
To be honest, I never thought I would finish this film. I assumed we’d eventually be caught, the project would be destroyed, and we’d all end up in jail. Strangely, this belief gave me an unexpected sense of creative freedom. I told myself, "No one will ever see this film anyway, so just do whatever you want.
Sahar Delijani:
Most of your recent films feature characters who are government officials. In The Seed of the Sacred Fig, Iman, the patriarch of the family, has just been promoted to investigator for the Islamic Revolutionary Court and aspires to become a judge. What is it that draws you to tell the stories of regime officials?
Mohammad Rasoulof:
For the past fifteen years, I’ve been in a constant battle with repression and censorship. This has gone far beyond dealing with the censorship office—I’ve faced the state security department, state police, courts, interrogators, and judges. Over time, these experiences shaped the characters in my films, which are mostly rooted in my personal encounters with state agents. When I watch my films, I can pinpoint which scenes were inspired by real experiences and which characters reflect real people I’ve dealt with.
During these fifteen years, I kept asking myself: what makes the difference between me and the person who is blindfolding me, seating me in front of a wall and interrogating me?
He’s a human being too, not a monster. Yet, something in his mind—a certain idea or ideology—enables him to treat another human being this way. Where does his submissiveness come from? I kept wondering. What makes a person ask fewer questions, show less curiosity about the world around them, and so easily become a tool of the regime? These questions fueled my curiosity and led me to tell stories about these characters. I wanted my films to reflect these questions and explore these complexities.
One experience that deeply inspired me to write about government agents was an encounter with a high-ranking regime official while I was in prison. One of our cellmates, a political prisoner, was on hunger strike, and some state security officials came to visit our cell. This particular official, who recognized me, pulled me aside and confided that every time he entered Evin Prison, he thought about hanging himself at the gates. He said he couldn’t continue living like this—that his children kept asking him what was happening in the regime’s jails and why he was collaborating with an authoritarian regime.
This moment stayed with me. It was the first time I thought of telling a story about a family fractured by ideological differences, where the parents are complicit in the regime while their more progressive children challenge them. Such a story, I realized, could vividly portray the tensions and conflicts within our society.
Sahar Delijani:
Does this suggest that a dictatorship can have a conscience? Are there individuals within a dictatorial regime who still possess a sense of right and wrong that storytelling might reach?
Mohammad Rasoulof:
It’s not that simple. There may be a conscience, but it’s often ignored. I know for a fact that the person who told me he wanted to hang himself in front of Evin Prison continues to work for the regime.
People adapt to their desires and needs. Very few are willing to change the course of their lives for moral reasons.
That said, many within the system are disenchanted and want to leave. They express this disenchantment in subtle ways. For instance, in prison, some try to look after political prisoners and show kindness to us.
I can give you another example. During the height of the Woman, Life, Freedom uprising, a fire broke out in Evin Prison. The state police stormed the cells where most of us political prisoners were held. One of the guards, however, stood by the door of our cell and refused to let the riot police in. He kept shouting that we hadn’t done anything and that they’d have to walk over his dead body to enter. In the end, of course, the riot police overpowered him, forced their way in, and beat us. This guard was an exception, but there were others in prison who, despite being tasked with punishing us, still tried to look after us in small ways.
I can give you another example of the ironic complexity of the situation—it might even make you laugh. While I was in prison, I had to go to the hospital for an operation and stayed there for a week to recuperate. During that time, my hands and feet were chained to the bed, and three guards were assigned to watch over me at all times. After 24 hours, their shift would change, and another group of three guards would take over.
During the first shift, one of the guards mentioned that he’d heard I’d made a film about prison guards, and that he had a copy of this film, There is No Evil, on a thumb drive. He asked if I’d watch it with him. That night, we played the film on the TV in my hospital room. As we watched, the guards praised my film, saying how vividly it portrayed their lives. The next day, they passed the thumb drive to the next shift.
By the end of the week, I had watched my own film seven times with seven different groups of prison guards, all while chained to the bed. Each group praised the film and thanked me, saying it was an accurate portrayal of their struggles. But they also insisted they were different—that they didn’t want to hurt anyone and were simply forced to follow orders. Meanwhile, there I was watching my own film, which by the way I had also shot secretly, with my captors.
Sahar Delijani:
A moment from the film that truly resonated with me—perhaps due to a sense of personal vindication—was when Iman realized he might become a target of the very protesters he had spent his career suppressing and intimidating. His fear and paranoia in that moment felt palpable.
Mohammad Rasoulof:
They were genuinely terrified—all the agents of the regime. When the protests were at their peak, one of the interrogators asked me what I thought might happen. I told him, "How would I know? You're the one free to see what's happening in the streets." He then asked if, should things take a turn for the worse, I might testify that he had been kind to us, that he hadn’t truly mistreated us. It was a stark reminder of just how deeply their fear of the protests and the uncertain future ran.
Sahar Delijani:
Mahsa, can you speak about your own experience as an actress in the film? Was there a time when you thought it was too risky to continue?
Mahsa Rostami:
I was always aware of the risks from the moment I read the screenplay, but once I began, I became even more certain of my decision to be part of this film. It was an urgent project, and we had to finish it as quickly as possible. Of course, I worried about my family and how making this film might affect them, even put them in danger. But what ultimately drove me was that this film expressed my rage, my frustration—the unshakable belief that after the Woman, Life, Freedom uprising, there was no going back to the way things were.
I had been part of the protests myself. I had been beaten, shot, and spent two weeks recovering from my wounds in bed. I had witnessed people around me rise up. I couldn’t unsee that. I couldn’t betray their courage by returning to the old way of life or the old way of making art. I couldn’t imagine wearing the mandatory hijab again or returning to roles that conformed to the regime’s moral and political code, even if this meant putting an end to my career.
The Woman, Life, Freedom uprising changed me profoundly. It heightened my awareness of the world around me and what truly matters.
The Seed of the Sacred Fig gave me the opportunity to reflect those changes, to show the world what was happening in my country, and, most importantly, to stay true to myself.
Sahar Delijani:
What is the role of an artist in today’s world? Does an artist have a responsibility toward their society? And how does that role evolve in a society struggling under the constraints of a dictatorship?
Mahsa Rostami:
We are responsible—of course, we are. When politics becomes so deeply personal, when every decision is a political one, an artist cannot afford to be indifferent. This is already the reality in Iran. Many artists are refusing to work with the regime or operate within the constraints it imposes. It’s incredibly difficult. They are working underground—in cinema, in theater—enduring countless hardships to maintain their independence.
An artist cannot turn a blind eye to the struggles of their people. Art cannot be detached from the society it exists within.
Artists must remain attuned to the challenges—economic, political, and social—and strive to amplify the voices of their people. This is not easy, nor is it without danger. While making this film, we felt like criminals. We lived in constant uncertainty, never knowing what might happen next. Yet, despite the risks, we pressed on, knowing it was the right thing to do.
Sahar Delijani:
Mohammad, your films have always been deeply connected to Iran’s present and future. Now that you’ve been forced to leave the country, how do you envision the future? What challenges do you anticipate facing as a filmmaker in exile?
Mohammad Rasoulof:
I tried very hard to stay in Iran. No one believed I would return after making Manuscripts Don’t Burn, but I did. Even now, I think about returning every day. For me, it’s about maintaining the meaning of life, my spiritual existence in its highest form.
That said, migration today is not the same as it was 20 or 30 years ago, like what your parents might have experienced. The world is far more interconnected now. Today, we have so many ways to stay connected with the people and culture we leave behind. I call this a "cultural Iran," where art, language, and thought continue to nourish us, even from afar. When I returned to Iran in 2016, I didn’t see the opportunities for connection that I see now. This time, I’ve left because I feel those opportunities exist.
Even though my body is outside Iran, my mind remains there.
I’m eager to explore how to tell stories that, while rooted in local realities, resonate with universal human themes. It’s no longer about location—it’s about the values that guide my work and the art that reflects them.
Sahar Delijani:
What about you, Mahsa? How do you see your future?
Mahsa Rostami:
I’m still exploring, to be honest. We were forced to leave Iran in such a rush that I’m still processing what it means to live in a free country. My body is here, but it still carries the wounds and trauma inflicted by the Islamic Republic. I still see the Morality Police in my mind’s eye.
I’m trying to understand what freedom truly means.
I keep reminding myself, OK, Mahsa, you’re here now (in Germany). You can write freely, speak freely. But it’s a process. Step by step, I’m working to find my path—both as a person and as an artist.
The Seed of the Sacred Fig is streaming now on Apple TV.