Tehran's art scene is moving underground with exhibitions and performances that defy pervasive censorship, turning home venues into sanctuaries for creative self-expression.
I attended one such event last week, a play I learned about through a friend. It was staged in a unit at a mixed-use building, half commercial, half residential. Not an earth-shattering show to be frank, but a unique experience worth sharing, especially the petty-crime feel of it.
This is how it happened.
The friend who told me about the play gave me the director’s number. I messaged him on Telegram. He asked for a reference and I named my friend. He sent me a bank account number to pay for my ticket: 200,000 tomans ($2.50 on the day of publication). Minutes after the transfer, I received a confirmation message and a slick brochure in PDF format, complete with cast, crew and the venue address.
I asked if I could tell others about it. “Only if they’re trustworthy,” he replied.
Underground performances in Iran rely solely on word of mouth. Public advertising is no option because an unauthorized show is not supposed to take place in the first place. Any work of art that seeks the public light—a film, a song, a book, or a play—has to be reviewed and approved by the censors at the aptly-named Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance.
But in the past few years, most notably since the widespread protests of 2022, more and more people refuse to submit their work to the ministry. They rather take it underground and take the financial hit than honor official red lines mandating the hijab and barring physical contact between men and women.
Resistance
"Many of us in theater work two jobs to sustain this resistance,” the director told me before the show on the condition that I protect his identity.
“The government likely knows about our performances, but as long as they’re small-scale and mired in hardship, they turn a blind eye.”
But they couldn’t turn a blind eye on Parastoo Ahmadi and her groundbreaking online concert with no hijab in a public space. The performance briefly landed her in jail.
“Her performance epitomized this movement,” the director said. “It shattered almost every taboo that’s been created by our fanatic rulers in the past four decades.”
Concerts in Iran require permits. Women are forbidden from singing in public. And of course they have to cover all but their faces and hands. Parastoo performed in an old caravanserai with no hijab, filmed it and released it on YouTube. She did indeed cross all red lines—and will most likely pay for it.
Very few are that bold, of course. But they are “doing their bit in the struggle,” as the director put it.
On the day of the performance, I habitually arrived 15 minutes early. It was a building like any other in central Tehran. I buzzed the third buzzer as instructed and was let in. There was no elevator. Walking up the stairs, I heard from a unit what sounded like the playful giggle of a toddler.
On the third floor, I found a woman seated at a desk by the door. I gave her my name and ticket information. The setting resembled an arts school, perhaps one offering classes in creative writing. I was asked to wait on the roof terrace to avoid crowds forming in the hallway.
On the rooftop, six or seven others were already waiting. A small area had been enclosed with plastic sheeting, and a heater stood near a table and chairs. We huddled around the heater for warmth until we were called back inside and, to our surprise, were guided to the fourth floor instead of the third.
Doing their bit
An average-size apartment had been turned into a space for performances. A wall was removed and most others were painted black. It was a modest stage, six by eight meters perhaps. Two rows of benches faced the stage, enough for 15-20 people.
The first act had two actors, a man and a woman. The woman wore a t-shirt and no hijab. I was thrilled and nervous. Everybody was, I think. Like children in a Halloween event. For the first time in my life, I watched a man hug a woman on stage. That most ordinary of contacts left us gasping. I almost teared up pitying us for all that the Islamic Republic has taken away from us.
I’d rather not say much about the performance not to risk revealing the identities of those involved.
After the performance, I spoke with the director. “Why such a small audience?” I asked. “We can't host large audiences or perform back-to-back shows,” he explained. “After a few performances, we need breaks of several days or weeks to keep everything secure and unnoticed.”
Another reason for the small audience, he said, was the lack of advertising. “Not many hear about events like ours. Most are friends and friends of friends. Many rather not risk it, fearing police raids and arrest.”
I asked if that was a real possibility and if he was scared. “I am mostly concerned for my team," he said briefly, perhaps knowing that the subject would make him anxious.
Despite the risks and the financial losses of not having a mass audience, more and more artists ignore the Guidance Ministry and its censors. Films produced with no permit appear at festivals abroad; unlicensed music and theater performances are flourishing; and books published without license can be seen on the shelves of the odd bookstore “doing its bit” - as the director had put it.
Last but not least in doing their bit is the audiences: fed-up Iranians turning away from works of art that bear the government’s seal of approval.
It’s hard to tell if these scattered, unadvertized acts of resistance will join and grow into a social movement beyond Tehran’s art scene.
But even if they don’t, they will create—they already have—a new collective space for free expression, a new front in the war of attrition against those who would silence them.