In Conversation With Setareh Maleki, Mash Rostami and Niousha Akhshi: “Being Rebellious Is A Full-Time Job”

Setareh Maleki: It was a mix of joy and sadness all at once. Every Iranian actress dreams of going to Cannes, but our thoughts were, “Where are our colleagues? Why aren’t they here?” They couldn’t travel. I remember we were smiling, but almost crying at the same time. And we were angry because the Islamic Republic wouldn’t even let us enjoy this special moment fully.

Mahsa Rostami: It was a strange experience for me, sitting in the cinema and watching our movie with others. I became really emotional. When the movie ended, there was a camera right in front of my face, projecting it on the big screen. I was silently praying for it to go away. I wanted to smile and appear happy and strong. So I kept telling myself, “Please don’t cry, please don’t cry…”

Setareh Maleki: I didn’t even try to hold back. I cried in front of the camera.

Niousha Akhshi: When I was on my way to Europe, my mother called to say the government had approached my father. They told him: “If your daughter leaves now, she won’t be able to return to Iran.” So, as I sat in the cinema, there were so many thoughts running through my mind. I was thinking about everything that had happened in Iran, and I couldn’t fully feel happy. My heart was still with my family, my friends, and all the people back home.

Setareh Maleki: People in the room clapped for 15 minutes. There were standing ovations and I thought, “Thank you, it means a lot. I appreciate it.” But then, I wondered: Do you really know? Do you really understand what we sacrificed to get here? Just two months earlier, I was climbing mountains to escape my country. I was so exhausted, I thought I might die. And now, here I was, surrounded by glamor, being applauded. Is this real? Did I really survive?

Setareh Maleki: When we arrived in France, we had nothing. Just a small backpack. No shoes, no dress, nothing. Other actresses spend months planning their outfits. We didn’t even have money because we couldn’t transfer any from Iran. At least we had each other.

Setareh Maleki: We are incredibly thankful to Mr Rasulof. He’s like a father to us, and we’ll never forget what he did. He said, “I know you sacrificed a lot to be here. Now, you have to succeed. I’m here to help you. We’re family, and we’ll get through this together.”

Setareh Maleki: Yes, we definitely had discussions. In the film, we play sisters, and during the filming, we became like sisters in real life. And, as siblings do, we sometimes argue. Mahsa is like my older sister – always wanting to manage everything. Sometimes we fight and say we won’t talk to each other anymore. But, you know, by the end of the night, we always hug and remind each other that we’re in this together.

Mahsa Rostami: Even in the movie, she’s the braver one, while I’m the serious one – the overthinker who wants to control everything.

Niousha Akhshi: And I’m the one in the middle, trying to keep everyone calm.

Setareh Maleki: She’s the peacemaker. She always offers us delicious food and tells us that everything will be fine.

Setareh Maleki: It’s incredibly difficult. A few days ago, I was sitting in my flat, looking around, and I felt this deep sadness. I loved my home in Tehran. To me, it was the most beautiful place in the world. And I thought: “Where is my home now? Where are my things? Where’s my family? Where are my friends? Why am I here?”

But then, I realized that if I could travel back in time, I would do it all over again – again and again. Because I was fighting for something I truly believe in. I don’t want to be forced to wear a hijab ever again. I don’t want a “normal” life if it means forgetting what happened to the people in Iran. So many people died for their beliefs. Starting a new life from zero is hard, but compared to those who lost their children, who were killed by the government or imprisoned – it’s nothing. I got another chance. They didn’t.

Niousha Akhshi: I feel like the Islamic Republic is still inside me sometimes. I notice myself censoring myself. Like when I had to choose a dress at Cannes, I wanted something to cover up. I was so confused and talked about it Mahsa and Setareh. I wondered, “Do I secretly want to go back?” And they said: “Stop questioning yourself. You’re here now, and it’s your responsibility to be fully yourself. Pick the dress you like and don’t worry about what other people think.”

Setareh Maleki: We had a real discussion about this. I told her: “The Islamic Republic wants you to think that way. You’re here because you refused to accept that. Tell them to go to hell. It’s your body, you’re beautiful, don’t hide yourself from the world.”

Niousha Akhshi: Exactly. For the first time in my life, I’m starting to make peace with my body. As women in Iran, we were raised to think our bodies are a problem. But here, it’s different. Berlin is an amazing city to let all of that go.

Mahsa Rostami: Every day, I wake up and make plans for myself: “Okay, I should learn English, I should learn German.” But then, I open my laptop and just sit there, staring at the screen for hours, doing nothing because my mind drifts back to Iran. My body may be free, but my mind is not. I’m so sensitive. When I watch the news, I’m always searching for updates about Iran. The fact that things continue there as they always have… it makes me so angry.

Setareh Maleki: I find myself even angrier now that I’m here. In Iran, we had the chance to fight back, even in small, everyday acts of rebellion. Here, it’s different. We’ve done so much – we left our country, our loved ones – but now that we’re here, it feels like we’re doing nothing.

Setareh Maleki: Yes, but in Iran, there are people who think you’re only a fighter if you stay there and risk imprisonment. If you leave, they think you’re a coward. But that’s not true. If I were in prison, I wouldn’t be able to do anything. Here, I can do so much more.

Mahsa Rostami: Honestly, I miss those small moments of breaking the rules. Like when I’d leave the house and put my scarf in my bag – it was a tiny act of defiance.

Setareh Maleki: Being rebellious was like a full-time job: working illegally, partying illegally, drinking alcohol illegally, taking off the hijab illegally. Sometimes, it was even fun, in a way. It’s not healthy to always be hiding, but you kind of get addicted to it.

Niousha Akhshi: Almost all Iranians take anxiety pills because of the constant stress to hide something.

Mahsa Rostami: Exactly. At the start of the revolution, I began walking the streets without a hijab. One day, I crossed paths with a woman who paused and looked at me. Then, slowly, she took off her hijab, and we smiled at each other. It was such a pure, beautiful moment. And it wasn’t rare – most people smiled at me.

Setareh Maleki: Yes, it was like a silent love language we shared on the streets. People would give compliments. Some men who supported us would approach me and say, “Your hair is so beautiful.” For some of them, it was the first time they’d ever seen a woman’s hair outside of their family. Now, walking the streets of Berlin, it almost feels strange not to have people come up and say things like that.

Mahsa Rostami: When I had to leave the country, I wasn’t prepared. The pressure had been building for some time, but in the end, everything happened so fast. I found out that my colleagues’ passports had been taken, and some people were banned from leaving, so I had to go immediately. I left with just a backpack and no phone. I couldn’t even say goodbye to my friends or family. Only my boyfriend was with me, helping me gather my things. Finally, through a secret call, the arrangements for my departure were made. I didn’t know that Niousha was accompanying me on this trip; I had no idea she was there, and when I saw her, I felt a great sense of relief.

Niousha Akhshi: We were told to meet at that square to be picked up, but we didn’t know much more for security reasons.

Mahsa Rostami: In the end, I couldn’t even hug my boyfriend one last time. He just waved at me from a distance. The whole time, I kept asking myself: What have I done to deserve this? I’m just an actress who played in a movie. But, at the same time, I knew that everything happening was the result of my own choices. I remember Niousha and I sitting in the back of the car, each staring out of our windows, crying silently, but holding hands. Then we reached the border. A man looked at my passport, stamped it, and we crossed. At that moment, I had a very strange feeling that is indescribable; I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad, because I was leaving my country after all.

Mahsa Rostami: Even before I did the movie, I was planning to emigrate with my boyfriend or close friends. I was working at an advertising company, and almost everyone there wanted to leave because life was just too difficult. So it was already on my mind, but it would have been different. There would have been time to say goodbye. Instead, I had to leave my country like a criminal.

Setareh Maleki: I’ve been politically active since I was a teenager. That’s why I always had problems with the government. They often called my mother, telling her to come in because they had questions about me.

The night before Mahsa and Niousha left, I got a phone call from a colleague who said: “They know about you. You have to get to the airport, now. Otherwise, it’ll be too late. This is your only chance.” I called my mom, and she came to my place. I didn’t even speak to her because I was so paranoid. I took a piece of paper and wrote: “Mom, I have to leave tonight.” She simply wrote back: “I’ll support you in everything you do.” So I said goodbye to my mother in a notebook.

I went to the airport, but they took my passport, checked it, and then told me: “You need to go to court. You’re banned from leaving the country.” When I got back home, I slept for a few hours. In the early morning, I walked around my apartment one last time. Remember how I said I loved that place? I knew I would never see it again.

Setareh Maleki: I left the next day. That evening, I wanted to see my friends. They were planning to come to my place, but I just disappeared. I had only some cash, two shirts, and two pairs of pants – that was it. A car took me to a secret location, and from there, I was moved from one city to another. Each time, all I knew was that someone would be waiting for me somewhere. I stayed in the homes of people I didn’t know. No one knew where I was, not even my mom.

After a week, I finally reached the mountains. There was a man waiting for me who knew the way. We walked for ten hours through the wilderness, non-stop. He told me I needed to rest, but I said, “No, I don’t want to rest. I just want this to end.” I couldn’t even believe I was there.

Then, he pointed at a mountain, “We have to go up there, and then down.” I looked at it and told him, “No, I can’t do that. I’m just an actress. And a tiny one.” He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Your eyes may be scared, but your feet are walking. Come on.”

Somehow, I survived. My body survived. But part of my soul died. Why did I have to do this? Just because I wanted to be a human being? To live freely? To tell a story? I eventually made it to another country, where I contacted the French consulate. They were incredible. They told me, “You’re an artist, and you need to be in Cannes to show your film. No question.” They gave me a travel document, and with that, I was able to go to the airport and fly to France.

Setareh Maleki: Right now, we’re working together on a theater project. It tells our real stories – the experiences we’ve had and how they turned us into a family.

Setareh Maleki: Yes, it’s truly a sisterhood. Even if everything is lost, we still have each other. We have one family in Iran and another here. And it’s important to share this because people often forget about the lives behind the faces they see on the news, protesting. Every one of those people has a personal story. And that’s what touches hearts the most: hearing the story of someone who, while like you, has lived an entirely different life.