By Yun-hua Chen.
All the value of images—particularly those from social networks—is deeply tied to the circumstances in which the films are created. A film like this would have been entirely different had it emerged under different conditions.”
—Mohammad Rasoulof
A gripping and intensely charged drama, The Seed of the Sacred Fig follows an Iranian judge in the turmoil of women’s protests in Tehran. As a government employee, a husband, and the father of two daughters, he is forced to confront a harrowing decision about where his loyalties lie and for whom his heart beats. When his gun goes missing, paranoia and mistrust begin to consume his household, mirroring the escalating tension outside. Interwoven with raw social media footage documenting real-life events, The Seed of the Sacred Fig serves as both a microcosm and a chilling metaphor for a society trapped in relentless oppression, offering no clear way out.
Since its premiere at Cannes, where it won the Jury Prize and the FIPRESCI Award, the film has traveled to numerous prestigious festivals, including Locarno and Luxembourg. The Luxembourg City Film Festival—renowned for its distinguished jury members and esteemed guests—welcomes Mohammad Rasoulof as this year’s jury president. Accompanied by an exceptionally skilled interpreter, Rasoulof exudes an air of calm, composure, and deep reflection. During the festival in Luxembourg, Rasoulof discusses his film’s nomination as Germany’s official submission for the Best International Feature Film category at the Oscars, his life in Germany, and the shifting perspectives between generations.
Thank you so much for taking the time. The Seed of the Sacred Fig has traveled a long journey—from Cannes to Locarno to Luxembourg. How do you feel about its journey so far?
It was completely unexpected. Just a year ago, we were still in the middle of shooting, and nothing was finished. Looking back now, it’s astonishing to think that the film not only exists but has traveled such a remarkable journey. It was made possible only through the dedication of an extraordinary group of people, all working under extremely difficult circumstances.
While making the film, we had serious doubts about whether it would ever see the light of day, whether we would actually achieve this goal. So simply realizing that it’s done—and that its journey is still ongoing—feels like an achievement in itself. Now, it’s time to think about other films.
You yourself have gone through major changes over the past year, with your perspective changed from insider to outside the country. Has that shift affected how you view both society and your own films?
It’s a question I ask myself constantly—how I can maintain my connection to the films that I have made and the environment that has always been my source of inspiration. My films, my work, have always been rooted in my immediate environment, in the people I live among, in the things I observe around me. I’ve never had any other source of inspiration or any subject of interest.
Now, I wonder how I will sustain this connection and how I can keep the relationship with that environment. If I can’t, how do I connect to a different environment? These are ongoing questions for me, challenges that come with mixed emotions. On one hand, it’s exciting and creatively stimulating as a perspective to look for new ways to engage. But on the other, I sometimes feel like a fish that has jumped from a tiny pool into the vast ocean. That transition inevitably comes with difficulties.
Even before you left Iran, you were already collecting stories about protests on the streets from inside the prison. How do you feel about working remotely or seeing things from a distance in your filmmaking?
Rather than seeing it as a limitation, I look at it as an opportunity to find new approaches, new solutions, and new creative means of expression. Life itself—not just art—is about facing new challenges, overcoming obstacles, and discovering new ways to resolve and navigate them. The key is to connect the reality of new obstacles with the possibility of new ways to confront them.
Your films often focus on ordinary individuals caught within vast bureaucratic and oppressive systems, while they make their own choices. How do you see this concept of decision-making as an individual?
When you grow up under an oppressive system—one that constantly tries to interfere in every aspect of your life, both public and private—the main, if not the only, question that arises is one of individual responsibility. How can you resist the gravitational pull of such a system that imposes on every individual? How do you avoid becoming part of it and collaborating with it, even unconsciously? How does one come out of the system and how do you break free?
When you have been shaped by this system, leaving the country doesn’t automatically free you from that struggle. The struggle imprints itself on your mindset, shaping the way you perceive the world around you, no matter where you are. So now, my new challenge is to find freedom not just in a physical sense but also in my own thinking—to break free from the psychological constraints of this mindset imposed by such a system. But I know that takes time.
When you grow up under an oppressive system—one that constantly tries to interfere in every aspect of your life, both public and private—the main, if not the only, question that arises is one of individual responsibility. How can you resist the gravitational pull of such a system that imposes on every individual?”
When The Seed of the Sacred Fig was nominated by Germany for the Oscars, it sparked a lot of discussion in the German media. I live in Berlin, and I was curious about your thoughts on this debate, particularly on what defines national cinema when a film crosses borders.
It was fascinating for me as well. The question of how a story set entirely in Iran—dealing so deeply with the realities of an Iranian family—could be classified as a German film made me reflect on my own situation. As an Iranian artist working on Iranian subjects, I now travel and cross borders with a German travel document. I saw an interesting parallel between the film and my own fate at that moment. It made me realize that what makes it important and the true essence of a film’s identity is not defined by the language spoken in it or the geographical setting of its story. What really matters is the human experience—the emotions, the struggles, the suffering, the way the cinematic language can convey this universal feelings and understandings of human condition. So, culture and art may also cross borders, as we do.
The Seed of the Sacred Fig incorporates social media footage. As a filmmaker, you control the perspective through the camera, but with social media footage, many perspectives come into play. How do you view the role of social media in filmmaking today?
Cinema is, at its core, storytelling through images. The way these images are constructed and conceived is particularly significant under an oppressive system—one that dictates rigid boundaries for expression. Part of this movement in storytelling is also driven by the need and desire to push boundaries, to question the limits imposed upon you, and to assert your artistic freedom. So all the value of images—particularly those from social networks—is deeply tied to the circumstances in which the films are created. A film like this would have been entirely different had it emerged under different conditions.
Your films explore generational clashes, with younger generations bringing different views that challenge those existing views. What are your observations on this younger generation?
I think generational gaps are part of the human condition. They have existed for as long as humanity itself, creating inevitable conflicts or distances between generations. But what is changing now, both in Iran and globally, is the way access to new technologies and social media has accelerated this process and intensified the distances. Today, young people can listen to music without ever knowing that, not long ago, we listened to cassette tapes. They may not realize that films were once shot on actual film stock and watched on VHS. These tools, once fundamental, are now almost alien to them. Everything is moving faster, and as a result, the generational gap widens in a much shorter time. What used to take 20 or 25 years for a generation gap now happens in just five.
What becomes strikingly evident is the stark contrast between narratives—the divergence between the official version of reality imposed on the older generation and the alternative truths being uncovered by the younger generation who have access to social media.
What is specific to Iran, however, is that it is a highly repressive and closed society. The narratives presented to the population are tightly controlled, dictated solely through state media, which monopolizes the perception of reality and dictates the official version of life in society; there is only one single narrative imposed on the audience. For the older generation, who have only ever been exposed to this official narrative, it is their accepted reality. But the younger generation, with access to social media and connections to the wider world, suddenly begins to challenge it.
Yun-hua Chen is an independent film scholar and critic and associate editor of Film International Online. Currently, she serves on the board of the German Film Critics Association.