I Am a Lion in the Sea and a Whale in the Mountain

One day in Alabama, while shopping at Walmart, a man carrying a gun stopped me. He locked eyes with me and said, “Don’t follow me. Go shop somewhere else.” His words cut deeper than his hostility; they carried the weight of displacement, otherness, and rejection. In that moment, I was reminded that even in a country that prides itself on freedom, my presence could never be invisible. I wasn’t just a stranger in a foreign land—I was a visible Other, marked and unwelcome. It wasn’t just an encounter—it was an experience that reminded me that the journey of migration is not only about movement but about navigating spaces that may never fully accept you.

On the night of December 4, 2022, at 39, I left Iran—the only home I had ever known. Less than 24 hours later, I arrived in the United States, stripped of everything that once defined me. I was no longer the photojournalist who had spent years capturing the soul of my homeland. I had no family around me, no friends to lean on. I was a stranger—not just in this new world, but to myself.

For nearly two decades, my camera was my closest companion, helping me document the stories of a land full of contradictions—beauty and struggle, joy and resilience. Through my lens, I could express what even the rich Farsi language could not fully capture. Photography was my language. But over time, speaking that language as freely as I had become dangerous. The pressure to conform, the censorship, the unfolding violence, the disappearing friends—it all became suffocating. Eventually, I reached a point where I had no choice but to leave, even if it meant breaking ties with everything I loved. To stay would have meant losing myself—both personally and professionally.

However, the challenges of forced displacement go beyond geography. Language becomes a barrier, too. In Iran, I could speak freely, joke effortlessly, and connect with ease. Humor was my way of easing tension, forming bonds, and expressing who I was. But in English, I feel muted. The subtleties of my native tongue—the irony, the wit, the cultural shorthand—are inevitably lost in translation. How can I share my personality, my humor, and my essence when the words feel foreign in my mouth? The language that once connected me to others now isolates me, creating a gap between who I am and how I am perceived. Once again, photography becomes my refuge. Just as it was my language in Iran, it is now the one way I can truly express myself—connecting me to others when words fail.

My multimedia project, The Lion in the Sea and the Whale in the Mountain refers to the words of Persian poet Rumi. These creatures, displaced from their natural habitats, embody the dissonance and alienation of existing in an inherently foreign world. Like the lion, majestic but out of place in the sea, or the whale, powerful yet suffocated in the mountains, I navigate the tension between belonging and estrangement.

This duality is at the heart of the project: through photographs, videos, and interviews, I explore what it means to live between two worlds. I examine how identity shifts when we move between different environments and how the people around us perceive us differently depending on where we are. Embedded within this journey is the figure of the trickster—an archetype that embodies resistance, survival, and alternative ways of knowing. As strangers in both worlds, tricksters can cross borders with ease, moving fluidly between spaces where others are restricted. In my project, I take on the role of the trickster, navigating and deconstructing the spaces I inhabit, offering a reflection on what it means to live in constant flux—between cultures, between worlds, and between the self and the other.

Through this project, I’ve created an alternative portrait of myself—though there are no photos of me, only reflections of me in other people and landscapes. This alternative portrait challenges the conventional notion of identity, where a singular, fixed image represents who we are. Instead, I become the mirror in which others see themselves. If they are full of hate, they will find a reason to hate the Other; if they are full of love, they will meet it in the reflection. This allows for an evolving, multifaceted portrait that shifts depending on who is looking, and from which angle. I see the familiar in strangers and strangers in the familiar—a mother in a praying woman in a Baptist church, myself in a homeless man walking on the street. This portrait isn’t static or singular—it’s a reflection of the complexity and fluidity of identity, one that is shaped by the world around it and the diverse perspectives that encounter it.

At the center of it all is the question I constantly ask: "Who am I?" In Iran, I was defined by my work, my relationships, and my place in a society that shaped me as much as it constrained me. In America, I have the freedom to redefine myself, but the process is far more complex than I ever imagined. It’s not as simple as leaving one life behind and starting a new one. Pieces of the life I left behind follow me everywhere, just as pieces of this new life slowly shape me in ways I don’t yet fully understand.

This project, however, is not about finding answers. It’s about asking:
Who we are when we move between worlds?
Are we defined by the places we leave behind, or by the ones we move toward?
Can we ever truly reconcile who we were with who we are becoming?