Refused

Refused (Rofouzeh) was born from a simple but painful question that has followed me for years:
How early does the world ask a child to grow up?

Ali is not a symbol; he is a reality I have seen, lived alongside, and carried within me. In many streets, classrooms, and homes, there are children whose dreams are modest, almost fragile—a toy, a moment of dignity, the right to be seen. Yet even these small dreams demand a heavy price. In Rofouzeh, the toy car is not an object of desire; it is a measure of self-worth in a world that constantly reminds a child of what he lacks.

I wanted to portray poverty not as a spectacle, but as a quiet, relentless force—one that infiltrates education, family, and identity. The humiliation Ali experiences at school and the helpless love of his parents at home are two sides of the same wound. Adults are not villains in this film; they are often broken mirrors, reflecting a system that has already failed them.

Visually and emotionally, I sought restraint. Silence, pauses, and gazes carry more weight than dialogue. Ali’s eyes—full of patience, hope, and suppressed anger—became the true language of the film. I believe cinema should trust the audience, allowing them to feel rather than be instructed what to feel.

Rofouzeh is not merely about suffering; it is about choice. The moment Ali decides to act is the moment the film asks its hardest question:
What happens when innocence is cornered with no way out?

Despite its bitterness, I did not want the film to end in despair. Even in its darkest turn, Rofouzeh insists that love—quiet, wounded, and persistent—still exists. That flicker of hope is not an escape; it is a responsibility. A reminder that if we are moved, we are also accountable.

For me, cinema is an act of witnessing. With Rofouzeh, I wanted to bear witness to children who are forced to negotiate with cruelty far too soon—and to ensure that, at least on screen, their struggle is neither ignored nor forgotten.