Q & A Interview with Rahmaneh Rabani

On November 4, 2024 Peyvand screened the Impasse, a documentary co-produced by Iranian film directors Rahmaneh Rabani and Bahman Kiarostami at the Cinemark in Bellevue. Peyvand commissioned Parmida Ziaei, Iranian-American multidisciplinary artist and co-founder of Seda Theater in Seattle, to interview Rahmaneh to gain a deeper insight into the story behind the production of the documentary and to answer questions raised by the viewers on the day of the show. The interview was held in Persian and translated into English by Parmida Ziaei.

The screening of Impasse and this interview were made possible by a grant from the City of Bellevue.

Parmida: Thank you so much for your time, Rahmaneh. I wanted to start with my first question: What made you think of creating a documentary about family with this theme? When you picked up the camera and started filming, did you ever imagine that the film would ultimately turn out this way?

Rahmaneh: You see, the story goes back to a desire I’ve had for years—to make a film about myself and my father. It was because of the unique relationship we share, which I always found fascinating. Some of my friends, when I talked about it, would comment, “This is so interesting; why don’t you make a film about it?” We have this dramatic, as they say, intriguing relationship that we’ve grappled with for years. This idea was always in my mind. I had started some small-scale filming, like a shot at the beginning of the movie where my brother Hossein and I place the camera in front of Akbar. It was very straightforward and, as they say, properly framed. That particular day was the start. It was just to help Akbar ease up a bit in front of the camera, and it was before the events of 1401 [2022]. It helped break the ice a little. Akbar has this way of treating interviews as if he’s narrating for television. That interview turned out to be quite funny—we just asked him to tell a story.

There’s also a gallery scene that dates back to the COVID period, where Akbar and his friends visited an art gallery. It was so intriguing for me to see their first encounter with a gallery and modern art—what could that be like? I had recorded these moments and consulted Bahman, saying I wanted to make a film about my dad. His suggestion was that such a film requires years of shooting before deciding on the editing and overall shape. Then, when the events of 1401 happened, he proposed, “Let’s make a film about you,” because I kept recounting the events happening at home and in the streets to my friends. I was both a narrator and a witness. As someone who was out on the streets, it intrigued him that two contrasting dynamics were happening: one at home, one on the streets. That curiosity, as he described, stemmed from the constant question of “Why?”—why was I doing this?

So, he suggested we make a film. I told him to shoot it himself, but he said, “No, you do it, and I’ll edit it.” Eventually, we both became involved in parallel. When we began, I genuinely didn’t know if it would even become a film or what shape it would take. The events on the streets were unfolding alongside, so I had no idea how this would evolve or what would happen next. But at some point, documenting those days became fascinating. At first, when filming my parents in the initial scenes, I thought, “I’m recording this for myself—just as a keepsake or because I want to capture these days.” That very first day of shooting, I had no idea where it was heading. But by the second or third day, Bahman was confident and encouraged me to continue. That motivated me to film more persistently.

Parmida: That’s so interesting. We can see that even in the editing process. We experience moments with you as they happen, while also seeing the parts you’ve reflected on and decided to film later. It feels like we’re moving with you in real time. As you said, there are moments where so much is happening—both outside and at home—that it would be hard to plan it, even if you tried. It’s always fascinating to hear how a specific idea for a documentary takes shape, especially because it’s so personal for you. Coming back to the family, I think a lot of people—myself included—are curious: has your family seen the documentary? Your father, the rest of the family, your mother, your brother? And what feedback have they shared about it?

Rahmaneh: My siblings and relatives have seen it. They all liked it, especially my brothers. As usual, my sister started a political debate with me after watching the film. But overall, I haven’t really talked much with them about how the film portrays them. I haven’t shown it to my parents yet. The truth is, my father doesn’t see me without a hijab and wouldn’t want to. When I visit my father’s house, I wear the hijab out of respect because I don’t want to upset him. I know that if I showed him the film, he would get up and leave after seeing the first frame where I’m unveiled. There’d be no further discussion because that first boundary would already be crossed. So, showing him the film feels pointless.

Even if we say showing him the film might have some impact, the reality is that I’ve already lived the experiences depicted in the film with him and continue to do so. I’m not seeking to influence him. That said, he knows I’ve been filming, he knows I’m a filmmaker, and he knows that I’ve likely turned it into a film. He even says in the film, “Send this wherever you want. I’m not afraid.” So far, though, the opportunity hasn’t arisen. I’d love for our relationship to grow to a point where we could sit together and watch the film. I’ve dreamt many times that he’s watched it and enjoyed it, and those dreams have been so satisfying for me. Sometimes, I dream it so vividly that I think it actually happened.

As for my mother, she hasn’t seen it either, though she knows the relatives have. My mother is naturally curious, so it’s interesting that she hasn’t pressed me about it. I’m also like, “Why are you not looking for trouble? Let it go.” She knows it exists but doesn’t discuss it, and some things are better left that way. The film is doing its own work—it’s being shown, having an impact—and that’s enough for me.

Parmida: It seems they know, on some level, that while you’re filming them, as your father said, you’re free to show it wherever it ends up. So they must have some sense of what the film includes and know you well enough to trust you.

Rahmaneh: Exactly. My father’s perspective is: “If you don’t believe in God, why do you say it?” Similarly, in the film, no one says anything they don’t believe. They might not like the final product, but that doesn’t mean I should show it to them just to upset them or spark conflict. They know and stand by what they said in the film. The issue they might have with me is not about their content but with the fact that I’ve made a film where I appear unveiled—that’s my personal decision. Our life dynamic is such that I do what I want, and they know it. We don’t talk much about it. At most, they’ll say, “You do whatever you want,” and that’s the end of it. So the film’s creation and the fact that they haven’t seen it fall into this same dynamic.

Parmida: An impasse indeed! As you describe it, the relationship between you and your family reflects something many of us see in our culture. There’s this generational tension where you have a religious, devout family, but the children grow up differently—or sometimes even the reverse. In my own family, for example, one of my cousins became deeply religious, in contrast to the rest of the family. That tension itself is fascinating. I think many people connect with your film because they’ve experienced similar dynamics in their own families or see themselves in your story.

Rahmaneh: Yes, I’ve received a lot of feedback like that. Even people with entirely different contexts have connected with the film. It’s not necessarily about the hijab but the generational differences and the lack of a shared understanding, a mutual acceptance. A friend told me, “Our family isn’t like yours, we’re not Muslim, but we’ve experienced those exact same moments with our parents or siblings.” The same goes for international viewers—they resonate with the generational gap, the power imbalance, and the inability to voice one’s opinions.

Parmida: And that gap makes dialogue impossible because the older generation doesn’t understand the younger generation’s struggles. But as you said, this generational tension is universal and not new. You mentioned you’ve always wanted to document this tension with your father, but it’s interesting how the movement brought out another dimension of it. Do you think the movement has influenced these generational tensions in Iran, especially since they’ve always existed but seem to have intensified recently?

Rahmaneh: Honestly, I believe we’re in a transitional period—from tradition to modernity. This isn’t something that happens overnight; it’s been unfolding in Iranian society for years. For example, I’ve been clashing with my father over our differences since I was sixteen. Before that, there were disagreements, but from sixteen onward, our conflicts became more intense. At the same time, our love for each other deepened. When I say “clashing,” I don’t mean it in a negative sense—we’ve been engaged in a kind of intimate, ongoing battle. My father, who couldn’t accept many things years ago, now accepts a lot. For instance, while I still wear a headscarf when I visit him, I no longer need to wear a chador as I did at one point. That shows a lot of progress in terms of acceptance.

Since 1401 [2022], things have shifted even more. For instance, I can now openly tell my father, “I don’t believe in religion because, to me, it’s a kind of imagination—a story.” While this still deeply unsettles him, our loving relationship persists, and it pushes us to try to understand each other. I can see him making an effort to understand me, even though my beliefs clash with everything he’s lived by.

From 1401[2022] onward, there has been a turning point in this transition from tradition to modernity in many families. I’ve heard from friends about daughters unveiling in front of their religious parents, women giving up the chador, or families confronting these changes head-on. This movement has been a catalyst. For me, it’s fascinating to consider how ultra-conservative viewers might perceive this film. They have daughters or wives experiencing these changes, and the film might help them understand the other side.

Parmida: Absolutely. As you said, the movement has been a catalyst, revealing things within families. What I found fascinating as a viewer was that it felt like we were watching a miniature version of Iranian society within your family. All these opinions—from the grandchildren, your father, your brother, your husband, and yourself—mirrored the range of perspectives you’d see in society. Viewers could likely find a reflection of themselves in the film and think, “Yes, I’ve thought about that.” What stood out was how neutral the film felt—you didn’t impose a dominant perspective. That neutrality makes it easier for people to approach your work with an open mind and engage with the dialogue.

Rahmaneh: Honestly, comments like yours bring a certain responsibility. I wouldn’t say the film represents all of Iranian society. Some people critique it, asking why there’s no representation of revolutionary voices. There’s a significant group in Iran who believe the only solution is to overthrow the government through a new revolution.

One consistent piece of feedback we receive—and I often bring it up in Q&A sessions, even if no one else does—is that this film is one of the few documentaries made about that period. Because of that scarcity, people place all their expectations on it. Revolutionaries, for example, might say, “You’ve reduced the movement to the issue of the hijab,” or “You’ve prioritized your family over the movement, essentially declaring its failure.” But that’s not the case. This film doesn’t represent everyone’s views in Iran, nor does it aim to comprehensively analyze the movement.

A friend once said, “It doesn’t delve into the deeper layers of the movement.” And I responded, “Well, I didn’t set out to make a deep film!” There’s an expectation placed on filmmakers and documentarians, but this film simply reflects what I experienced and what I thought was worth sharing.

Parmida: That’s a heavy burden for filmmakers, but your work has served as a catalyst for discussions.

Rahmaneh: Exactly. Comments like yours, calling it a reflection of Iranian society, come with significant weight. Some people even praise it as a piece of sociology, but that’s not entirely accurate. It doesn’t encompass everyone or every ideology. One crucial point is that no one in the film is a revolutionary. I’m not a revolutionary; I believe in gradual reform, step by step. To me, this cautious approach is more viable than drastic measures like overthrowing the system without knowing what comes next. Others might disagree, and we can discuss it without needing to convince one another.

The ability to talk about differing views and accept them is vital. This is why I believe the "Woman, Life, Freedom" movement is a daily practice. It’s about addressing women’s roles in a patriarchal society, the power dynamics within families, and broader freedoms we lack. Every conversation, every Q&A session after the film, reinforces these ideas. It’s about learning to communicate, to coexist with differing opinions, and to understand that no one perspective can dominate.

Parmida: That’s entirely true. It’s no surprise that the film has elicited such diverse reactions—it touches on deeply sensitive topics at a critical time. People bring their emotions, opinions, and triggers to their responses. I’m glad it’s being shown in various venues, both private and public, in Tehran and across Iran. These conversations seem to be happening in diaspora communities too, albeit in a different form. Outside Iran, people seem to want unanimous agreement on a solution, thinking that such unity will lead to progress. But the first step is dialogue, which your film encourages beautifully. If we can’t have these conversations within our families, how can we hope to have them on the streets or in society at large? How can we move toward peace or reform without that foundation?

I’d like to ask about your future plans. You mentioned this was your first experience with documentary filmmaking, though you’ve worked in cinema before. Do you see yourself continuing in this field after this experience?

Rahmaneh: Documentary filmmaking has been a delightful and rewarding experience. I’ve worked in narrative cinema, but unfortunately, in Iran, it’s so plagued by censorship that it feels far removed from reality. Working in it comes with a kind of torment—whether you’re behind the scenes, directing, or even acting, there’s a constant mental strain because so much of life has to be altered or excluded to meet restrictions.

In contrast, documentary filmmaking felt liberating. When you look through the lens in a documentary, you see how fascinating real life is. For instance, one of my tasks in narrative filmmaking was to create backgrounds, but you realize in documentaries how authentic and rich real backgrounds can be. Small, seemingly insignificant moments—like when the kid says “Auntie your baby has poo poo!”, while another person eats or talks—are incredibly genuine. These are the kinds of details that, if incorporated into narrative cinema, would make it feel more real.

Parmida: Life flows through it!

Rahmaneh: Exactly. What I loved about documentaries was that you don’t have to construct anything—you’re observing real life, free from censorship. In narrative cinema, you’re constantly trying to draw authentic performances out of actors, but in documentaries—or at least in the family setting I filmed—people are naturally genuine.

Parmida: And trusting. It seems that your family trusted you enough to be themselves in front of the camera. Often, documentarians struggle to build that trust, and the resulting footage lacks authenticity.

Rahmaneh: Exactly. Being a member of the family naturally created trust. Plus, my family is generally very comfortable with themselves. I’m proud of that. Whatever they are—flawed or otherwise—they’re authentic. They’re not pretending to be something they’re not, and that was very gratifying for me. I credit this to my parents’ upbringing, and I admire that about them. This experience has been so fulfilling that I’ve lost interest in working in narrative cinema. I want to continue exploring documentaries.

Parmida: Thank you so much. I hope you continue in this field because I, for one, would love to see your future work. The trust you’ve built and the authenticity you’ve captured are invaluable. Even the background “noise,” as you called it, adds a sense of comfort for the viewer, making them feel like they’re part of the household, listening to the conversations.

Finally, I’d love to hear about your collaboration with Bahman.

Rahmaneh: Bahman’s role was incredibly influential. In narrative cinema, as I learned, directing involves planning in advance—what to shoot tomorrow and how to do it. I worked through these ideas with Bahman. Though I was filming on my own most of the time, the bigger questions—what to shoot, whom to focus on, and which themes to emphasize—were things we discussed together. Bahman also helped with writing the narration, deciding where it should go, and shaping the film’s story.

As this was my first documentary, I gained a lot of experience along the way, particularly in storytelling and editing. I sat with Bahman throughout the editing process, and without him, the film wouldn’t have turned out the way it did. Neither of us could have made it alone—it was truly a collaborative effort.

Parmida: I’m so glad this collaboration happened because it’s clear how much a fresh perspective can enhance such a personal project.

Rahmaneh: Absolutely. Bahman also ensured the film remained unbiased. I admire his approach to documentary filmmaking. He always says that documentaries begin with a question, not an answer—you’re observing without imposing your views. For example, when I wanted to portray Akbar in a certain way, Bahman would remind me not to take sides. This created a balance in the film, allowing viewers to empathize without feeling forced into any perspective. That neutrality is a testament to Bahman’s influence.

Parmida: I’m thrilled to see how this collaboration shaped such a powerful film. I look forward to seeing more of your work, whether solo or in partnership with others. Thank you so much for your time.