Sahar

Sahar is a timely and important film for today’s New Zealand. It provides an intimate look at a lived reality rarely seen on screen, particularly the experiences of Muslim and Asian women navigating arranged marriage within the immigration system.

Following the March 15th attacks, and in the wider context of growing cultural awareness, New Zealand introduced visa policies that recognise culturally arranged marriages. These policies acknowledge and protect tradition, but they do not always account for the personal consequences. Sahar brings those consequences to life, not as an attack on culture, but as a space for empathy, honesty, and dialogue.

This is not a story about villains or heroes. It’s a story about people. It is about families trying to preserve identity in a new land, and about one woman’s awakening to her own voice within that struggle.

Through its grounded characters and emotionally honest storytelling, Sahar aims to humanise the headlines and provide space for voices that are often misunderstood or unheard.

I was born in Iran and moved to New Zealand with my family when I was eleven. Growing up in Christchurch as part of the Iranian diaspora, I became closely connected with Afghan families through language, culture, and community. While I am not Afghan myself, I feel deeply tied to Afghan stories because of these bonds. At the same time, I am aware of the discrimination Afghans have faced in Iran, despite our shared heritage. Being close but not identical to this community has shaped how I approach Sahar, with empathy, respect, and a commitment to listening.

As an Iranian woman raised in Tehran, I know I have had more personal freedom than many Afghan women and even Iranian women. My family allowed me to move cities, pursue education, and follow my passion for film; opportunities that are not always available to women in either culture. I felt a responsibility to use the voice and access I have to tell a story that amplifies others who may not be heard. For me, Afghans are like sisters and cousins. We share language, culture, and history. Seeing so many Afghan women arrive in New Zealand through arranged marriage, often into difficult circumstances, was both upsetting and inspiring in a creative way.

My own experience with arranged marriage and visas also influenced the story. When my cousin could not get a student visa to New Zealand, my aunt suggested I marry him legally to help him migrate. Although this did not happen, it revealed how marriage is often used as a pathway to residency when other options are limited. These situations are complicated, combining family duty, migration struggles, guilt, and personal desire, and they stayed with me as I wrote Sahar.

The story was inspired by an Afghan woman I knew whose life in New Zealand became tightly controlled by her husband and in-laws. She had no bank account, no SIM card, and very little freedom to make her own choices. Her sole purpose was to bring children into this world. Her experience was heartbreaking, but I did not want to tell it as a simple tragedy. I have also seen men and women pushed into marriages they did not want because of cultural pressures, immigration barriers, and family expectations. These are complex situations, not just villains and victims.

It was important to me that Sahar avoids stereotypes, especially of Muslim men as violent or cruel. While abuse exists in every culture, I did not want the story to single out Muslim men or present them as inherently oppressive. I wanted the characters to feel real, with their own contradictions and struggles. The story provides a perspective that does not necessarily antagonise arranged marriages, allowing audiences to understand the many reasons these marriages happen, from cultural expectation to family loyalty, and even political or logistical factors. Sahar suffers the most because the story is told from her perspective, but if it were told from Amina or Kamran’s point of view, we would empathise with them too. By the end, the characters choose to stay together, reflecting the complex ways families navigate these pressures and the factors that influence their decisions.

At its heart, Sahar is about isolation, cultural expectation, and the search for freedom. It is a story rooted in realities I have seen in my community and told with compassion for all the characters. Through Sahar, I hope to give audiences a perspective rarely seen on screen in New Zealand, one that honours the resilience of Afghan women and invites reflection on the universal experience of negotiating between tradition and self-determination. While I understand that this story may attract some backlash, it remains an important truth; many people have lived these experiences or know someone who has.