Almost every day, there was fighting and violence at our house. From the moment I opened my eyes, I grew up surrounded by yelling, fear, and chaos. There’s one scene I’ll never forget—

I was six years old, on the way to northern Iran, driving through the Kandovan tunnel, when their fight got out of control and my mom jumped out of the car—right there, in the middle of the tunnel.

When we got home, after all the psychological attacks my dad had thrown at her, my mom smashed every dish in the display cabinet.

These aren’t just random memories—my entire childhood was filled with these moments. Every day, every night. Then, just a few days later, as if nothing had happened, they’d sleep together.

My dad would kick my mom out of the house a hundred times a day, but they always hid this war zone from everyone.

You can’t say this only affected one of the kids—unless the other one was a total idiot.

There was nowhere I could talk about it. Not at school, not anywhere.

No one wanted to listen.

This was what it was called: the filth of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

I told my dad many times,

“man, have you ever thought about your kids?”

And he shamelessly replied,

“It’s all your imagination.”

Imaginations that the whole family, neighbors, and everyone else saw with their own eyes.

He scared my mom away from getting therapy. Wouldn’t let her get help. Wouldn’t let her be saved.

And now one thing is clear to me:

In the future of Iran, this hell must never, ever happen again—not even once, not even to one more child.

every day, there was fighting and violence at our house. From the moment I opened my eyes, I grew up surrounded by yelling, fear, and chaos. There’s one scene I’ll never forget—

I was six years old, on the way to northern Iran, driving through the Kandovan tunnel, when their fight got out of control and my mom jumped out of the car—right there, in the middle of the tunnel.

When we got home, after all the psychological attacks my dad had thrown at her, my mom smashed every dish in the display cabinet.

These aren’t just random memories—my entire childhood was filled with these moments. Every day, every night. Then, just a few days later, as if nothing had happened, they’d sleep together.

My dad would kick my mom out of the house a hundred times a day, but they always hid this war zone from everyone.

You can’t say this only affected one of the kids—unless the other one was a total idiot.

There was nowhere I could talk about it. Not at school, not anywhere.

No one wanted to listen.

This was what it was called: the filth of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

I told my dad many times,

“Man, have you ever thought about your kids?”

And he shamelessly replied,

“It’s all your imagination.”

Imaginations that the whole family, neighbors, and everyone else saw with their own eyes.

He scared my mom away from getting therapy. Wouldn’t let her get help. Wouldn’t let her be saved.

And now one thing is clear to me:

In the future of Iran, this hell must never, ever happen again—not even once, not even to one more child.

Persian Translation:

تقریباً هر روز خونه‌ی ما دعوا و کتک‌کاری بود. از وقتی چشم باز کردم، با داد و فریاد و ترس بزرگ شدم. یه صحنه هیچ‌وقت از ذهنم پاک نمی‌شه—شش سالم بود، تو راه شمال، زیر تونل کندوان، دعواشون بالا گرفت و مامانم، درست وسط تونل، از ماشین پرید پایین.

وقتی رسیدیم خونه، به‌خاطر اون حمله‌های روانی‌ای که بابام بهش کرده بود، مامان زد و همه‌ی ظرفای ویترین رو خرد کرد.

اینا یه سری خاطره‌ی تک و توک نیستن؛ بچگیِ من با این چیزا پر شده بود. هر روز، هر شب. بعدم خیلی ریلکس، چند روز بعد، انگار نه انگار، با هم می‌خوابیدن.

بابام روزی صد بار مامانم رو از خونه بیرون می‌کرد، اما این میدون جنگ رو از همه پنهون می‌کردن.

این چیزا رو نمی‌تونی بگی فقط روی یه بچه تأثیر گذاشته، مگه اینکه اون یکی گلابی بوده باشه.

نه تو مدرسه، نه هیچ‌ جای دیگه، جایی نبود که بتونم حرف بزنم. هیچ‌کس نبود که بخواد گوش بده.

اینجا اسمش بود: کثافت جمهوری اسلامی ایران.

چند بار به پدرم گفتم:

“مرد حسابی، یه لحظه به بچه‌هات فکر کردی؟”

با وقاحت جواب می‌داد: “همه‌ش تخیلاتته.”

تخیلی که کل فامیل و همسایه با چشم دیدنش.

مامان رو از درمان می‌ترسوند. نمی‌ذاشت نجات پیدا کنه.

و حالا فقط یه چیز واضحه:

تو آینده‌ی ایران، این جهنم نباید حتی یه بار دیگه، برای حتی یه بچه‌ی دیگه تکرار بشه.

Parental psychological abuse is one of the most devastating betrayals a person can experience. When the abuser is your own father—the one who should protect you, not poison you—the damage runs deep, often for life. My father was seen by outsiders as “successful” and “important.” Behind closed doors, he was a manipulative, paranoid, and emotionally violent man who ruled our home through fear and control. He gaslit, humiliated, threatened, and broke everyone around him—including my mother. He weaponized silence, secrecy, and shame like tools of war. His untreated psychosis wasn’t just ignored—it became a model. My siblings absorbed his cruelty. Generations were infected by his dysfunction. And no one stepped in. Let me be clear: this wasn’t “strict parenting” or “a difficult man.” This was psychological warfare waged by a father who never deserved the title. I didn’t start to undo the damage until I found therapy in Los Angeles. That’s when the lies began to fall apart. Now I speak—because silence protected him for far too long. You are not alone. And no one, no matter their status or title, has the right to destroy a family from the inside.

Persian Translation:

سوءاستفاده‌ی روانی والدین، یکی از ویرانگرترین خیانت‌هایی‌ست که یک انسان می‌تونه تجربه کنه.

وقتی آزارگر پدرته—کسی که باید پناهت باشه، نه منبع سمی‌ترین ترس‌هات—آسیب‌ها عمیقن، و گاهی تا آخر عمر باقی می‌مونن.

پدر من از نگاه دیگران «موفق» و «بااهمیت» به نظر می‌رسید. اما پشت درهای بسته، مردی بود پارانویایی، کنترل‌گر و از نظر احساسی خشن؛ کسی که با ترس و سلطه، خانه‌مان را اداره می‌کرد. او با تحقیر، تهدید، دروغ‌پردازی و بی‌ثبات‌کردن واقعیت، همه را خرد کرد—از جمله مادرم را.

سکوت، پنهان‌کاری و شرم ابزارهای جنگی‌اش بودند.

روان‌پریشی درمان‌نشده‌اش نه‌تنها نادیده گرفته شد، بلکه به الگو تبدیل شد. دیگر اعضای خانواده‌ام هم تحت تأثیر خشونت او قرار گرفتند و به تدریج به بازتولید همان الگوهای رفتاری سمی روی آوردند. نسل‌ها درگیر بیماری او شدند—و هیچ‌کس جلوش نایستاد.

بی‌پرده بگم: این فقط «پدری سخت‌گیر» یا «مردی با شخصیت دشوار» نبود. این یک جنگ روانی تمام‌عیار بود، از طرف کسی که هیچ‌وقت لیاقت عنوان “پدر” رو نداشت.

تا وقتی که تو لس‌آنجلس درمان حرفه‌ای رو شروع نکردم، نتونستم گره این زخم‌ها رو باز کنم. تازه از اون‌جا بود که دروغ‌ها شروع به فروپاشی کردن.

حالا من حرف می‌زنم—چون سکوت، سال‌ها فقط به اون قدرت داده بود.

تو تنها نیستی. و هیچ‌کس، حتی با عنوان و مقام، حق نداره یک خانواده رو از درون نابود کنه.

To those sitting comfortably outside Iran, in homes still owned by the bank, now thumping their chests and crying “homeland homeland” If the Islamic Republic were truly a homeland, you wouldn’t be in exile. A homeland isn’t where daughters are forced into sex work just to survive or escape. It isn’t where women and men, workers, writers, and poets line up for execution. A homeland is not a place where prison, torture, and rape are written into law. A homeland doesn’t exile its people. A homeland doesn’t assassinate its citizens. A homeland doesn’t use its own people as shields in war, it protects them. The Islamic Republic has never been a homeland. It is a land under occupation, waving a flag soaked in lies. We haven’t had a homeland in years, not I in exile, not you in the hell inside. This is not our war. It is a war the Islamic Republic and its terrorist IRGC have forced upon us. And today even the Arab world stands with the West, united against this rotting monster, a slap in the face of those who spent years trying to paint the Islamic world as inherently anti-Jewish. Now, weaker than ever, the terrorist beast known as the Islamic Republic is collapsing before our eyes, not because of prayers, not because of slogans, not because of lies, but because of the brutal truth of war, the fury of the people, and the resistance rising from the ruins. And the only one to blame for this darkness is the blood-soaked Islamic Republic.

برای اون‌هایی که بیرون از ایران نشستن، تو خونه‌هایی که هنوز قسطش مال بانکه، حالا هیهات‌هیهات می‌زنن و “وطن، وطن” فریاد می‌کشن: اگه جمهوری اسلامی وطن بود، شما فراری نبودین. وطن جایی نیست که دخترهاش برای زنده موندن و مهاجرت، تن‌فروشی کنن. جایی نیست که زن و مرد و کارگر و نویسنده و شاعر، تو صف اعدام باشن. وطن اون‌جایی نیست که زندان و شکنجه و تجاوز، قانون باشه. وطن تبعید نمی‌کنه، وطن ترور نمی‌کنه. وطن توی جنگ، مردمشو سپر نمی‌کنه، ازشون دفاع می‌کنه. جمهوری اسلامی هیچ‌وقت وطن نبوده؛ فقط یه خاک اشغال‌شده‌ست با پرچم دروغ. ما سال‌هاست که وطن نداریم؛ نه من در غربت، نه شما در جهنمِ داخل. این جنگ، جنگ ما نیست؛ جنگیه که جمهوری اسلامی و سپاه تروریستش به ما تحمیل کردن. امروز دنیای عرب هم کنار دنیای غرب، ایستاده جلوی این هیولای پوسیده، و این سیلی بزرگیه به صورت اون‌هایی که سال‌ها می‌خواستن “دنیای اسلام” رو ضد یهود نشون بدن. امروز، هیولای تروریستی به نام جمهوری اسلامی، از همیشه ضعیف‌تر، داره جلوی چشم‌هامون ذره‌ذره له می‌شه. نه با دعا، نه با شعار، نه با دروغ؛ بلکه با حقیقت تاریک جنگ، با خشم، و با مقاومت مردم. و مقصر این سیاهی، فقط و فقط جمهوری خونخوار اسلامیه.

I have nothing to say as an artist, I’m not interested in what I know. The job of an artist is not to do with what we know. To me the artist is like a fool, an idiot, going on a journey to discover something and I think the quality of that discovery is the mysterious mythology of an artist and that’s what I’m doing. 

I go to my studio and work on something, and something happens, and then I say Ahh! This is what it means – this is what it is about – and then you make something, and then some months later you are in your studio again and you make something else… and it’s about the same thing. There is in a way a constant continuum  that gives up the same question again and again, so those are the questions to me; the void object or the none object, and  then – many questions about color, question about space and time and etc. . Because I do believe there has to be a new object, there has to be a new space and after post-structuralist philosophers, what is the object in psychoanalysis after all? What is the state of the object? Hence, these are the things that keep coming up all the time. 

One of the things that I’m interested in is the idea that the object is unlimited – the physical object always has a non-physical counterpart – and the two are in some strange dialogue. But when it’s right, the physical object is not limited by its physical self. You know if we think about ourselves or our body as an object we occupy ourselves, but I know I’m not just my skin and I think the same is true of all those things that we reflect upon as art. It’s a very special condition, the possibility of the objects being something other, I’m interested in that. 

Our sense of vision is very good, very quick in telling the difference between something that is real and something that is not real. Real meaning here is not actual, but a meaning well conceived, well thought about, well made, well, and perhaps even let’s say spiritually real. We know the difference, so I think that’s difficult to make. The difficulty of the art object that has to be psychically real, even though it has a problematic relationship with reality itself, if you can still decipher what I mean by now. 

I’m very interested in color, as well as other mythological things. There are two ways that I try to deal with color; one of them is that I try to make the condition in color so it’s not a painted surface anymore – it’s a condition that is concrete in such a way that it occupies the whole space of your vision. It’s almost as if you are going to the shower the water comes down on you, you are wet. I want to make something that has the same quality as concrete so it’s a total condition. The other aspect about color is that it changes – especially as a very intense monochrome – it’s as if it makes more space;  I’m interested in that as a question. That the color is abstract, while we are associating color with natural things, in its essence the color always remains abstract and it is that abstract quality that makes space. 

Art is not to be interesting –  art has to provoke philosophical questions – even if we don’t know that the questions are philosophical. In that process of reflection between the work and the viewer in this coming and going, something happens that is maybe as poetic, maybe complicated indeed. To take this further,  I must bring forth that I am also inspired by architecture at my roots; architecture exists to create the physical environment in which people live, but architecture is more than just the built environment, it’s also a part of our culture. It stands as a representation of how we see ourselves, as well as how we see the world.

اینجا که می نویسم ینی خیلی درموند ه م. سالها میشه اینجا ننوشتم. همسایه طبقه پایینم امروز رفت استکهلم که پارتنرش رو ببینه. با هم خیلی نزدیکیم تقریبا درباره همه چیز حرف می زنیم از درد پریود من تا فوکو و هایدگر و این که دفعه قبل موقع رد شدن از کاستم به خاطر داشتن وید گرفتنش اما هر بار باز با خودش وید می بره البته به سگش جُوجُو خیلی نزدیکترم، جُوجُو رو گذاشت خونه یکی دیگه از بچه ها خب من کار می کنم نمی تونستم نگهش دارم اما فردا می رم باهاش بازی میکنم۰

من اصولا آدم قانون مندی هستم، ینی به قانون احترام می ذارم. یه سری ترس های معمولی دارم مثل این که نکنه یه وقت کارم یا آپارتمانی رو که توش زندگی می کنم از دست بدم. امروز فهمیدم یه ترس به ترس هام اضافه شده اونم اینه که اگه در کلاس باز شد و یهویی یکی از بچه ها با اسلحه اون طرف در وایساده بود باید چی کار کنم؟ جوابی ندارم۰

Sun has gone black in United States of America and moon has gone black in Tehran.

[both sides are captured by darkness]

No one can look back on her school days and say with truth that they were altogether melancholic. I have perfect memories of my writing class among a horde of icky ones. I closed my eyes today, and I’m not going to open them for hours, probably till the next morning. I hear the music casting is in the air, it’s coming from the air conditionair behind my head. Recently, I conducted a sort of hopeless love affair with stars* and the only remaining  kiosk along the boardwalk in Venice Beach. There was the joy of watching late just watching, somewhat staring on summer’s nights and getting in an hour’s undisturbed drawings. Unexpectedly all my imaginations got destroyed by a blue and red rocket, since then I take sleeping pills every night. As a child, the things I most wanted to do were always unattainable. I had learned early in my life: I have the skill to let go.

[my room is captured by magic]

I see even with closed eyes.

6 weeks ago

“Let’s face it. We’re undone by each other.” Let’s practice to not play a role of a victim. For too much pain that I had inside I knew that I was missing something. Gynecologist such a hard word for my Iranian accent to pronounce, She said the embryo is dead.  There’s no hope,only one way, to take it out: D N C.

Let’s practice to not play fragile as a woman! Let’s celebrtae the emptiness of 3000 years in gold & marble! Let’s celebrate misogyny! Let’s celebrate Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles 3 million time.

For what you eat and wear from this world,
You have vindication, if you try to gain it.
The rest all cost nothing even for free, Be aware,                                                                         Not to sell your precious life for that                                                                                                  ” Khayyám”

Today is a very sad day for United States of America and for immigrants like myself, who immigrated for hope. We became refugees to this country in order to settle, study and then to take-up employment. Trump’s travel ban generally prohibited or severely restricted immigration from countries suffering tyranny. If people with authoritarian leaders are banned from entering this country, then what makes America great again?! In fact, people from those countries, who were banned today, are the most scared and vulnerable, never been involved in any act of terrorism in the United States.

The whole air is heavily charged with fears of our unprincipled leaders: desire of being secured that kills democracy. I love Los Angeles for people, who treat each others with respect, despite their race, color of their skin or ideological commitment.