Kobra Amin Saeedi, better known as Shahrzad, was one of the pioneering women of Iranian theatre. After Iran’s Islamic Revolution in 1979, however, her memory faded. Her life and legacy are obscured by the political and social landscape of Iran today, and it needs to be revived.
Her shakes and shimmies sold out shows. Her name flashed in lights at the marquees of Lalehzar Street, Tehran’s Broadway. She was one of the most popular cabaret dancers of the ’60s and ’70s.
Like Audrey Hepburn or Leslie Caron, her dance skills paved the way for her acting career, and she established herself as a successful film actress. She gained a name as a writer and poet at the height of her cinematic fame, publishing two novels. She painted. She sang. She even went on to become one of her country’s first female film directors. She was the epitome of artistic expression – a paragon of the modern, successful woman.
On International Women’s Day in 1979, she protested Ayatollah Khomeini’s decree requiring women to wear the hijab. She also filmed women’s street demonstrations for an upcoming documentary. Authorities then arrested and imprisoned her, eventually sending her to a series of mental institutions. Her assets were confiscated. She became homeless.
Shahrzad, the star, vanished into obscurity; history would repeat itself. Religious zealots regularly harassed actress Susan Taslimi in the early 80s for declining to wear the hijab on stage. She was told she couldn’t look into the eyes of her male co-star while performing, and she refused to comply. Her films were banned.
Film star Golshifteh Farahani was heavily lambasted after posing nude for Le Figaro magazine in 2012 and was barred from returning to her homeland. Facing a prison sentence and lashes after an intimate video of her was leaked in 2008, actress Zar Amir Ebrahimi was forced to leave Iran.
The struggle persists. Following the brutal death of Mahsa Amini, the young woman arrested by Tehran’s morality police for “improper veiling” in 2022, tens of thousands of women took to the streets to protest the hijab laws, burning their headscarves and cutting their hair in defiance. Their chant, “Woman, Life, Freedom,” became a rallying cry against long-standing gender inequality in Iran.
Veteran actress Katayoun Riahi was the first celebrity in Iran to join the cause. She posted an image of herself online with her head uncovered and wrote, “Iranian women are the voices of one another” and “Enough with the lies!” She was subsequently arrested.
Actresses Hengameh Qaziani and Taraneh Alidoosti also stood in solidarity by publicly appearing without headscarves. They were charged with “acting against national security” and detained for their “provocative” social media activity.
Perhaps actress Afsaneh Bayegan endured the most insulting approach. A former Miss Iran titleholder, she appeared at a film ceremony in 2023 without a hijab and posted photos of herself on social media. Not only was she sentenced to two years in prison, but she was also ordered to make weekly visits to a psychological centre to treat the mental disorder of having an “anti-family personality.”
All four have since been banned from the film industry. Others, such as Vishka Asayesh, defected from Iran after being blacklisted for supporting the protests and were sentenced in absentia. It begs the question: why do women’s bodies, in this case, their hair, so often become a battleground for ideological conflict?
Reading about these women’s ordeals brought back memories of my own acting experience. I was a lifelong film enthusiast, and in my early twenties, I had even auditioned for Iran’s renowned stage director, Hamid Samandarian. Although I had been accepted into his program and deeply wanted to explore the world of theatre, I doubted whether I could thrive as an artist under suppressed conditions (even though I had great admiration for Mr Samandarian).
I instead decided to enrol in the Scuola Italiana di Teheran. I was convinced that learning a new language was just as unique as acting and would broaden my horizons.
Upon completing the yearlong course, I left for the U.S. to attend college, where I double-majored in Communication and Italian. As graduation drew near, I learned about an opportunity to participate in an international theatre festival in Italy. I applied to the program and was selected to perform the leading role of Lucia.
My effort to understand Lucia and present her on stage became a personal quest for my own identity: I was seeking a way for what I believed to be true about myself to come to light. Noticing similarities between her circumstances and my own, I wanted to show that there was more to her character than was often visible, portraying a woman who was not confined by cultural norms.
The experience helped me find my voice and build confidence to pursue my calling as a journalist. Given all the issues affecting women in my region, especially, I know silence isn’t an option.
Yet, one feels at a loss for words when the lives of artists like Shahrzad are shrouded in silence. On August 18, it was reported she had died in a remote village in southern Iran. To me, the tragedy is not so much in her death but in a celebrity of her calibre perishing in poverty and isolation. The tragedy is that female stars of her era were never recognised for their contributions to the silver screen.
My mother, herself from that era, can relate. Her career as a writer for a women’s magazine in Iran was cut short as the revolutionary forces gained power. She sometimes talks about the burning of Rex Cinema in 1978 and how it was specifically meant to suppress the activities of female dancers and singers. Some feared what might happen if women continued to appear on screen in a certain way or dared to embrace or express their sexuality through their art.
I have seen Iranian women with beautiful singing voices who never had the platform or resources to showcase their talent. I have listened to those who say they wish they could have pursued dance. I have known those who could have launched careers with their storytelling and acting abilities, yet their potential was lost to domestic responsibilities and societal expectations. Given Iran’s rich artistic heritage, it is a tremendous loss to both the country and its people.
One of the highlights of my recent stay in Iran was taking lessons with Maeda, a young fitness and dance instructor in my hometown. Although I had been involved in Latin dance for years in the West, I always desired to improve my Persian dance moves. Meeting Maeda was like a dream come true, and I especially enjoyed learning the Baba Karam – a soulful, sensuous art form originating from the back streets of Tehran. Last week, I found out her social media pages were shut down by the authorities.
Hers is only one example among many. On the third anniversary of Mahsa Amini’s death in September, Iranian women paid tribute to Riahi, Bayegan, and other blacklisted artists on social media. They applauded them for breaking new ground in Iranian cinema and standing firm in their principles, even if it meant losing their careers. Someone honoured Shahrzad as an icon, praising her dance skills and calling out the hypocrisy of those who compare performing arts to prostitution: “In a patriarchal society, the more sensuous, desirable, and spectacular the woman, the more she is labelled as unchaste, impure, and loose. Especially if she happens to be a cabaret dancer!”
These women’s sacrifices are not lost on Iran’s art scene. Earlier this month, when Hengameh Ghaziani appeared at a theatre event in Tehran, the lead actor praised her onstage at the end of the play and led the audience in a standing ovation, declaring, “Our presence pales in comparison to yours.”
Shahrzad’s story and those of other female artists in Iran exemplify the ramifications of suppressive doctrines on women’s lives and creativity. Yet, through the Woman Life Freedom movement, Iran has given a strong, rebellious response to ideologies that are no longer valid.
We are at a turning point. A moment that highlights the revival and sharing of stories. A time that demands visibility and empowered representation in the media. Staying true to Riahi’s goal of women being each other’s voices, we must continue sharing our joys, our pain, and our dreams. The show must go on.
