The Blogs: Mercy to the People of Iran

These images are the voices of Iran—silenced at home, ignored abroad. They are not terrorists. They are women, artists, child laborers, homeless, mothers—simply, human beings.

Women fighting for freedom in Iran. Photo by David De Hannay

From Tehran to New York: Silencing a Witness

I began photographing in Iran in 1999—not for art or applause, but because I saw pain no one wanted to see. Hunger, grief, quiet courage. My lens turned to the streets, to those forgotten.

Photographers like Mendel Grossman, who risked his life to preserve memory in the Litzmannstadt Ghetto, and August Sander, who captured the soul of his country in portraiture, shaped my way. Their influence and that of Henri Cartier-Bresson told me that photography could be an act of resistance. I began photographing not for beauty, but because no one seemed to care about the pain in everyday life.

In 2004, the British Council invited me to exhibit my work. But the Iranian government shut it down. Still, I kept going. For thirteen years, I documented daily life in Iran. These weren’t just photographs—they were testimonies.

I photographed a memorial to Forugh Farrokhzad—hands reaching toward her image. She sparked #MeToo before the movement had a name. Iranian women have long fought to reclaim their souls.

Memorial of Iranian poet. Photo by David De Hannay

The Archive They Couldn’t Kill

Three years ago, in New York, I gave a hard drive of my Iranian work to a woman who claimed she wanted to help. She returned it damaged, then vanished. A Columbia University journalist, she later filed reports to the FBI labeling me a terrorist—for speaking Farsi and a CIA spy; this is the same accusation the Iran regime had on me. Her lawyer appeared in court, despite claims she never received my summons.

It felt orchestrated. A familiar pattern—silencing dissent through slander rather than bullets. I discovered links: pro-Palestinian groups, Chinese cyber interference, even someone tied to the Bangladesh consulate.

Two years ago at Boston University, an Arab professor mocked me—calling me pro-Israel and laughing—until he saw my photos. What made them political? His reaction echoed the Nazis’ response to August Sander: fear of what truth looks like.

I’d written a script in 2019 called JLG, where a filmmaker is framed for crimes he didn’t commit. Now, my own life felt like that fiction come true. What was this—if not an attempt to erase the truth?

No Permission, No Protection—Only the Truth

In Iran, I had no right to photograph. I was arrested three times and beaten twice—once nearly blinded and they broke my head outside the Romanian embassy. Five men with sticks. I asked, “Is this the glory of Islam? Five against one camera?”

2002 – Self portrait injured by Iran Revolutionary Guard

My first photograph was of a homeless child near a mosque, ignored by passing worshippers. That moment showed me that the truth needed a witness. When filmmakers said, “What can we do?” I said, “Then do nothing. But don’t lie.”

Children labor in Iran. Photo by David De Hannay

Iran homeless, Photo by David De Hannay

After one attack, I went to Gallery Golestan, bloodied. The curator said, “My brother was like you.” Her brother was Kaveh Golestan, killed for documenting what the regime wanted buried. His grave reads: “A man who died for what others tried to hide.”

I once met him on Shush Street—a part of Tehran more dangerous than Harlem. Gangs, traffickers, regime enforcers—none wanted to be photographed. But I couldn’t look away. Sometimes the homeless shouted at me. Other times, they whispered: “Show us to the world.”

Silence Travels Too

I tried. I still do. I photographed women jailed for refusing the hijab, laboring children, addicts abandoned by the state. But in the West, feminist groups stayed quiet. Academics doubted me. The NY Senator office dismissed my request to support my project. Some said my work was “not recent enough.” As if suffering had an expiration date.

In both Tehran and New York, I’ve been accused, dismissed, and silenced. But I keep scanning my thirty-five remaining rolls of 35mm film. Some appeared on CNN and at World Press Photo. Others may never be seen.

Still, I go on.

Homeless in Iran. Photo by David De Hannay

Iran is a big cage. Photo by David De Hannay

In Iran, I was told, “We won’t kill you—because death would free you.” In the U.S., the cruelty is quieter. A woman once told me I could never be equal to her son. A man labeled me a Zionist for showing suffering. The methods shift. The hate remains.

But I know who I am. A photographer. A witness. A survivor.

From Shush Street to Broadway, my mission hasn’t changed. Many I photographed may now be gone. But I won’t let their stories vanish too.

Even if I must publish alone. Even if the danger returns. Even if no one listens.

The Truth in Every Frame

My mother had blond hair and green eyes. But I never believed in race. My camera never cared. My subjects weren’t “blondes,” “Arabs,” or “others.” They were human. That’s all I ever tried to show.

Many of those images were lost—seized in Iran, destroyed in New York. But I still have thirty-five rolls. I scan them slowly, carefully. Their stories still matter.

I’ve come to believe Iranians and Israelis share a common enemy: regimes built on fear. I still believe in a free Iran. But I’ve accepted this hard truth—many in the West don’t care. Not truly. Not about us.

After 9/11, the world said “Never again.” But they look away now. Protesters chant “No war,” not realizing war has already passed through us. No one marches for Iranian women beaten in the street, for jailed journalists, or children begging beside oil towers.

Maybe they can’t. Maybe they’re trapped too.

I once approached a famous American singer draped in slogans of revolution. When I introduced myself as an Iranian-born artist, he mocked me. I realized: it’s easy to wear revolution as costume. Truth makes people uncomfortable—especially when it doesn’t come from who they expect.

A woman once told me, “You’re not the same as my son. He was born here.” When I replied, “Citizenship is citizenship,” she said, “Shut up.” Her family had come from poverty, but now she stood on this soil and looked at me as less. She quoted liberté, égalité, fraternité, but clearly, she didn’t mean it for me.

I’ve seen this too often—especially from those who claim to fight for justice. Compassion filtered by skin tone. Suffering turned into branding.

But my photographs were never about politics. They were about hunger. Resilience. The dignity in surviving. If the world truly cares about Iranians, it must stop seeing us as headlines—and start seeing us as neighbors.

I’ve documented forty-five years of pain. The abusers ruled while women were whipped, children went hungry, and regime money funded foreign fighters. I wish my photos could be a mirror large enough to make the world see. Maybe they’re just a window.

But that window stays open.

And I will publish. Even if it costs me everything. Some of those I photographed—I don’t know if they’re still alive.

But I owe them this. I owe them the truth. I owe them mercy.