“Art and the sea give my life meaning”

Interview by Ruben Donsbach
 

You live in Bandar Abbas, a city on the shores of the Strait of Hormuz in Iran. What kind of place is it? 

The island of Hormuz, in the strait of the same name, was once the most important political and economic centre of southern Iran. But after the Portuguese were forced to leave the region in 1622, it gradually lost its importance. The regional centre then shifted to the mainland, to Bandar Abbas. The history of the city stretches back around a thousand years. Over time, it was shaped by a wide variety of cultures. People from Africa came to the region as labourers. Later, Indian communities played a significant role in the city’s trade and markets and even built their own temple. The roughly 150 years of British presence added another layer of history.

How would you describe the everyday life of the people there today?

Bandar Abbas has around 700,000 inhabitants. Despite its location on the Persian Gulf, the city benefits little from its proximity to the wealthy Gulf states. A large part of the population works in the public sector and incomes are low. The economy is largely under state control. A few people still make their living from fishing or work in other professions connected to the sea. But while Bandar Abbas may be materially poor, it is culturally extraordinarily rich.

What connects you to this region and its people? 

For me, places are not defined by old buildings, but by the people who once lived there. My personal connection to the region, too, has less to do with the geographical place than with the collective spirit of its inhabitants.

Beyond that, the sea has always been an essential part of my relationship with my homeland, and not merely because of its beauty. I see it as a human and cultural ecosystem. Political borders are a modern phenomenon. In the past, trade and cultural exchange moved independently of them, and it was precisely through these movements that new cultures emerged.

I have always seen and understood these cultural networks within a geopolitical framework. But one question has always stayed with me: What shared experiences and stories do communities living on different shores of the sea have in common?

Have you found an answer to that?

Iran is an ancient land. In the south, too, history has left its traces in the coastal regions. When seafarers with their wooden sailing ships learned to expand trade and reach ever more distant shores, the connection was no longer purely economic. People married, migrated, and chose to live in distant countries.

This history has to be seen alongside the presence of Western powers in the region, from Portugal and Britain to France and the Netherlands. This historical diversity has developed over centuries along one central axis: the Persian Gulf.

For many people in the West, the Strait of Hormuz is above all a geostrategic flashpoint. The people who live there often remain invisible. How can that be changed?

Photography is a powerful medium for giving these people a face. But what matters is not the image itself, but the way the media contextualise that image. Iran is not only its capital, Tehran. But European media in particular show their audiences only a small fragment of our vast country. I have repeatedly tried to explain that the Strait of Hormuz is not merely a strategic waterway. Behind its political geography lies a complex and ancient human history.

In a text accompanying your photographs, you write that in times of war and crisis, people tend to turn to the past in order to better understand their present. That is a beautiful thought.

For many years, I have been building an archive of private photographs that people have taken here by the sea. I will continue to do so for as long as these photographs exist and people are willing to entrust them to me. Over the decades, people have returned again and again to the same place to have their pictures taken. There are family portraits, pictures of lovers, weddings, births, or moments of solitude. I ask myself: What force keeps drawing people back to the shore of the same body of water? Is it simply the beauty of the sea? I believe the answer goes deeper. When the sea becomes part of a person’s identity, they want it to remain part of their own historical memory as well. The people here believe that a large part of their cultural, ritual, economic, and spiritual identity has been shaped by the sea. When the sea is threatened, then in their eyes a part of their own identity is also in danger.

Are you concerned that the ongoing conflicts and ideological pressure in Iran could become so intense that cultural heritage is destroyed, memories are erased, and history is forgotten?

War has changed many things throughout history. But the power of culture is greater than the power of war. Shared rituals bring us together again in order to preserve our identity. We rise like the phoenix from the heart of the fire. It is the people, with their history, who come together to preserve their cultural heritage.

Can you tell us something about the people we see in your photographs? 

I know all the people in these photographs. Some of them are close friends. Some live on remote islands, in places with extremely limited infrastructure, while others live in the cities. People speak of a sorrow that is particular to the south. Of course, sorrow is not an inherited trait, something passed down from generation to generation like a precious object. Sorrow is the result of loss, inequality, and a historical suffering that has been passed down through generations. Are we merely the heirs of this suffering? No. We live this suffering ourselves. Have we been able to change anything? Perhaps not in the way we would have wished. Yet we find refuge in music, in rituals, and in the things that continue to bind us to one another.

What gives you hope?

If I am honest, I have little hope today. My country has been wounded not only by war, but also by an ineffective system of government. To me, it is like a candle slowly melting away. Today I feel deeply despairing. And yet art, the sea, and certain people continue to give meaning to my life and give me the strength to carry on. That is all.