Until My People Are Free

Diba Mohtasham speaks with pop star Faegheh Atashin, a.k.a. Googoosh, about her new memoir.

By Diba Mohtasham December 27, 2025

• Memoir & Essay

• Biography & Autobiography

FEW ARTISTS HOLD a position quite like the singer Googoosh. For more than half a century, she has remained a defining figure in Iranian life—first through the vibrant arts scene of the prerevolution years as both a child actress and later an acclaimed, globally recognized singer, and then through one month of imprisonment in 1980 and two decades of state-enforced silence at the height of her career. When she finally returned to the stage from exile, she reemerged not just as a musician but also as a symbol for a global diaspora longing for home.

Her new memoir, Googoosh: A Sinful Voice, written in collaboration with Tara Dehlavi, revisits this arc with extraordinary candor. The book traces her journey from child performer to present pop legend, weaving together several anecdotes in between. Perhaps most strikingly, it offers a portrait of Faegheh Atashin—the woman behind the celebrity—assembling fragments of a self long overshadowed by fame.

In a conversation over email, Googoosh—now 75 and living in Los Angeles—discusses the process of translating her memories onto the page, the moment she understood that staying apolitical was no longer possible, and what lies ahead after finally reclaiming her life story. The result is an intimate chronicle of a nation’s transformation, told through the experiences of one of its most beloved voices.

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DIBA MOHTASHAM: Your memoir traces a career in the spotlight that began in childhood, where the stage became a refuge from an often tumultuous home life and an abusive stepmother. How did revisiting those early years change the way you understand your younger self?

GOOGOOSH: Revisiting those early years made me feel deeply sorry for little Googoosh, for being forced to work, for not having time to play, for being denied a normal childhood. Even when I did attend school (schools I changed constantly due to work and my travels), I couldn’t make friends due to being a child star. I was a “motreb” (an entertainer) and a social pariah. Little Googoosh went through a lot. She was subjected to so much at such a young age.

Maybe this explains why nothing makes me happier today than the sight of children being carefree, playing, laughing, and running around—as though my younger self gets to live those healthy, innocent moments through them. Looking back, I wish my parents had been more educated; maybe then they would have made better decisions in raising their children.

There is an inherent tension throughout the book between the public persona and the private individual—of Googoosh the icon and Faegheh the person. Did writing your story help reconcile those two voices?

Yes, absolutely. They are now one voice. Even while I was writing the book, the two voices were still distinct. I remember moments when Faegheh would dream of returning to Iran, but Googoosh refused—she didn’t want to be silenced again. But today, Faegheh and Googoosh speak as one. Just a few days ago, with these two voices finally reconciled, I made a decision that I am ready to share with everyone: I will no longer perform onstage again until my people are free, and my homeland is saved from this nightmare.

With such high fame comes a loss of privacy. You candidly share details about difficult marriages, depression, and other hardships. Which parts felt most vulnerable to discuss, and how did you decide what to reveal and what to leave out?

I knew from the moment I decided to write my memoir that I was going to share the good, the bad, and the ugly. I told myself that if I were to write a memoir, I had to tell all of it. Just as I was honest onstage when I sang, I remained honest on the page as I wrote. I think this is partly because I have never purposely lied to myself. When you’re truthful with yourself, it becomes easier to be truthful with others.

My memoir is about my life story. There is nothing I can do to change my past choices, and if someone doesn’t like me because of them, I’m okay with that. This has been my unique journey, a seven-decade journey that has shaped me and helped me grow in ways I never could have imagined.

What surprised you most about translating your life into words on the page? Did any memories resurface that you had forgotten or understood differently? 

I can’t believe how much I have gone through. Writing about the painful memories, especially, taught me so much about my own strength. I used to think I was only surviving, but looking back now, I realize I was doing much more than that. I was enduring, moving forward with my music, and becoming the person I am today. Many memories resurfaced—too many to include in this book.

You’ve said that you never used to be political—that you didn’t have time to be. But after the revolution, simply being yourself became a political act. When did you realize that staying apolitical was no longer an option?

I realized that staying apolitical was no longer an option after the 18th of Tir, during the 1999 student protests. Reading about university students being thrown to their death from dormitory windows was a wake-up call. I found myself reading every single newspaper to understand what was going on. Of course, I had followed the news closely ever since the revolution began, but now I wanted to know about the political actors, the journalists, and the forces shaping our future.

Most Iranians, whether inside the country or abroad, live with politics whether they want to or not. They don’t have a choice. Even those who consider themselves apolitical in Iran still suffer the consequences of politics every single day. Politics in Iran is not abstract. It touches the flesh and blood.

Even if you didn’t see it that way at the time, there seem to be many moments of defiance throughout the book. I’m thinking of the powerful scene where you courageously sang in prison at your cellmates’ request, risking further punishment. How do you view a moment like that now?

Back then, I didn’t see those moments as defiance because the regime had taken my voice from me—I had signed it away. I was singing in that makeshift prison because we needed the distraction from the fear and the unknown. And when I went out in public, I hid Googoosh so I wouldn’t be recognized. But looking back now, I realize that my very survival was an act of defiance.

Even as a child, when my stepmother tried to muzzle and break me, I still stood tall. I grew up in fear, and I had no choice. My acts of defiance were, in truth, acts of survival. Now, I appreciate the courage I showed in those moments. And I can also see that many things I never sought out still happened—just like this book. It’s the evolution of my journey, the force that shaped my life.

You mention how the regime once wanted to publish a version of your story that served their own narrative—“some made-up confession,” as you put it, “or some endorsement [you weren’t] willing to give.” What does it mean to finally tell it yourself, on your own terms?

I couldn’t have published that false version; what they wanted was propaganda, not truth. Now, I am satisfied with who I was and who I am today. It feels amazing to have the freedom to share my experiences without holding back. In doing so, I discovered that my voice didn’t just return—it also grew louder.

What made this the right moment to release Googoosh: A Sinful Voice? Why now?

For years, friends, acclaimed writers, and even regime agents urged me to write my memoir. And I always refused, insisting that I wasn’t a writer. But after I finally left Iran in 2000 and regained my voice back after 21 long years, I realized I needed to tell my story—my people’s story.

Around 2001, I reached out to Homa Sarshar, the renowned Iranian author and journalist in Los Angeles, hoping that she could help me write it. But my hectic schedule, filled with concerts and travel—a desperate need to catch up on those 21 stolen years—and her own demanding commitments made the collaboration impossible. Then in 2016, Tara Dehlavi, the daughter of my friend from youth, Parto Dehlavi, asked if I would consider writing my memoir. I felt comfortable sharing my story with her.

Almost 10 years later, the book is finally ready. My hope is that my story sheds light on what my country once was and what it has become, but also that it helps draw international attention back to my people’s plight and suffering (from sociopolitical repression to economic and environmental catastrophes) under this unyielding theocratic regime.

Many of the book’s descriptions capture a version of a country that an entire generation has never experienced. What do you most want young Iranians to understand about that Iran?

I want young Iranians to see how there was a time when Iranian women had a voice, when we stood as equals to men before the law, when we could sing in front of a mixed audience of men and women. And I want them to understand that although our society and government were not without flaws back then, our country was moving toward progress, not away from it like it has over the last 46 years.

Your music has resonated across generations and around the globe, even during the two decades you weren’t allowed to perform. Whom do you hope this memoir reaches, and what do you hope they take away?

Shams Tabrīzī, the teacher of Rumi, is said to have spoken these words: “If something is meant to be said, even if the whole world clings to my beard to keep me from saying it … even if after a thousand years, these words will reach the one I want.”

In that same spirit, I want my true story—the story of my people—to endure and reach the generations yet to come, those in search of the truth.