Photographer: Toranj Kayvon
Feature Talent : Azadeh Afsahi
Legal Notice: The opinions and views expressed in this interview are solely those of the interviewee and do not necessarily reflect the views of Ouch! Magazine. This interview is presented to explore a range of perspectives and is intended for informational and entertainment purposes only. Ouch! Magazine is not a political publication and does not endorse or promote any political viewpoints expressed by its contributors or guests.
As a trauma-informed psychotherapist, how do you explain the difference between simply surviving trauma and truly beginning the process of healing?
From my work with survivors, you often know when the trauma started, but you can't really say when healing begins. In fact, when it comes to survivors of torture, I'm not even sure healing is the right word. Especially when someone is still living under the same government, the same system, or the same conditions that caused the trauma in the first place.
How do you tell someone they are healed when the threat still exists?
The trauma they endured becomes part of them. It lives in the body, the mind, and sometimes even the soul. It changes the way they see the world, the way they trust, the way they relate to others, and even the way they relate to themselves. So when I work with survivors of torture, I don't often think of the journey as one of healing. Think of it more as a journey of discovery. Getting to know this new version of yourself. You may look the same on the outside, but internally you are not the same person you were before the trauma. Part of that journey is mourning the person you used to be—the version of yourself that existed before the imprisonment, before the torture, before the violence. There is grief in acknowledging that some parts of you may never return. But there is also discovery. There is learning who you are now, what strengths you have developed, what values have become important to you, and how you want to move forward despite what happened. For many survivors, the goal is not to go back to who they were before. The goal is to learn how to live with what happened, make sense of it, and build a meaningful life as the person they have become.
Your father’s imprisonment in Iran and his passing deeply shaped your journey. How has your personal story influenced the way you support survivors of political and inter- generational trauma today?
My father's imprisonment and everything that followed taught me many things. When he arrived in Sweden after prison, he wasn't the same person. He was carrying a pain that didn't have a place to land. There was no community that truly understood what he had been through, no framework for political trauma, and very few people who understood the impact imprisonment and torture can have on a person and their family. Years later, when I began working with survivors, I started seeing the same pattern over and over again. Different countries. Different stories. Different forms of oppression. But the same sense of isolation and displacement. People were carrying wounds that extended far beyond the individual. They affected families, communities, identity, and belonging.
I kept searching for a place where I could refer survivors—a place that understood not only trauma, but also the cultural, political, and historical context surrounding it. I couldn't find it. So I decided to create it.That is how Houses was born, with Iran House as its first chapter dedicated to supporting Iranians affected by political violence, displacement, and repression. I believe cultural pain matters. Trauma does not happen in a vacuum. The experience of an Iranian political prisoner is different from that of an Afghan woman living under the Taliban, and different from someone fleeing conflict in another part of the world. While there are universal aspects of suffering, there are also cultural realities that must be acknowledged and understood. Part of me often wonders what might have been different if my father had access to this kind of support. If he had been surrounded by people who understood his experience, his culture, and the invisible wounds he carried. Perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps not. But that question has stayed with me throughout my life. Today, when I sit with survivors, I am not just looking at symptoms or diagnoses. I am looking at human beings whose lives have been shaped by systems of violence and oppression. My own story has taught me the importance of listening without judgment, honoring dignity, and recognizing that healing rarely happens in isolation. More often, it happens through connection, belonging, and community. At its core, that is what Houses is trying to create—a place where people no longer have to carry their pain alone.
You often speak about the body carrying the memory of violence. What are some of the physical and emotional signs that someone may still be living in “survival mode” without realizing it?
People living in survival mode may experience chronic fatigue, muscle tension, headaches, digestive issues, sleep disturbances, or a persistent sense of restlessness. Emotionally, they may struggle with anxiety, irritability, emotional numbness, perfectionism, or difficulty trusting others. One of the most common signs is the inability to feel safe, even when objectively safe. The threat may be gone, but the body continues responding as if danger is until present. Many survivors tell me, "I don't know why I can't relax." Often, their nervous system learned long ago that relaxing was not safe.
Many people today feel overwhelmed by global conflict, political uncertainty, and nonstop media exposure. What are some practical ways people can regulate their nervous systems during emotionally charged times?
The human nervous system was never designed to process tragedy twenty-four hours a day. One of the most important things people can do is create intentional boundaries around media consumption. Staying informed is important, but constant exposure can create a sense of helplessness and chronic activation. I also encourage people to return to the basics: movement, sleep, connection, breath, and routine. Trauma isolates us from our bodies and from each other. A walk outside, a meaningful conversation, prayer, mindfulness, or simply spending time with loved ones can help signal safety to the nervous system.
You've said that traditional Western therapy models can fail immigrants and survivors of political violence. What are the biggest gaps you see in mainstream mental health care?
One of the biggest gaps in traditional Western mental health models is that many of the diagnoses and treatment frameworks were developed within very different contexts than those faced by people living under political violence, repression, or ongoing conflict. Take PTSD, for example. The diagnosis was developed to describe symptoms that emerge after a traumatic event. But for many of the people we work with in places like Iran, Afghanistan, or Sudan, there is no “post” to their trauma. They are still living in it. Their threat is ongoing. In many cases, the violence is not a memory—it is a daily reality.
When we apply frameworks that were not designed for these circumstances, we risk misunderstanding what people are experiencing. Someone who is hyper vigilant, fearful, or unable to trust others may not be exhibiting pathology; they may be responding appropriately to a dangerous environment.
The same challenge appears in treatment. In Western models, we often tell survivors of abuse to leave the perpetrator and seek safety. But what happens when the perpetrator is a family member, and the world outside is even more dangerous?
We see this with some of the girls we support in Afghanistan. Asking them to leave may place them at greater risk from the Taliban, forced marriage, trafficking, or homelessness.These realities require us to move beyond rigid diagnostic labels and culturally narrow interventions. Instead, we must understand trauma within its political, cultural, and social context. Otherwise, we risk trying to fit people’s pain into frameworks that were never designed to hold their experiences
How important is culturally grounded therapy when working with diaspora communities and people who have experienced displacement, repression, or exile?
First and foremost, we have to acknowledge that the concept of therapy itself is largely a Western phenomenon. In many parts of the world, particularly in conflict zones or traditional communities, people do not typically seek out a stranger and pay them to listen to their problems. Healing often happens within families, communities, spiritual traditions, or cultural practices that have existed for generations. That is an important starting point because therapy is not culturally neutral. The traditional Western model is often built around a one-way relationship in which a person shares intimate details of their life with a professional, receives validation, and is guided through a process of healing. While that can be incredibly valuable, it is not the only path to recovery. When working with people who have experienced displacement, repression, exile, or political violence, we must first understand their culture before applying therapeutic interventions. We need to understand how that community makes meaning of suffering, resilience, and healing. In Iranian culture, for example, poetry, storytelling, music, and collective memory are not simply forms of art; they are deeply embedded pathways to healing. They often serve as gateways into conversations about grief, identity, hope, and resilience. If we ignore those cultural strengths, we miss an opportunity to connect in a meaningful way. The same is true elsewhere. In Afghanistan, healing may be rooted in different traditions and social structures. During my travels to Bhutan, I saw how spirituality, chanting, and Buddhist practices were woven into people's understanding of emotional well-being. Every culture has its own language for healing.
Why is it important for you to center humanity and recovery rather than political ideology?
For me, every human life has equal value. I try to see beyond labels, beyond politics, beyond nationality, and focus on the human being in front of me. I see the pain of a mother who has lost a child, and that pain is universal. Whether she is in Iran, Afghanistan, Sudan, Israel, Palestine, or anywhere else in the world, the grief of losing someone you love is profound and deeply human. That perspective has guided me throughout my career. When I had my private practice in Los Angeles, I never asked clients about their political affiliation before deciding whether they deserved care. My role was not to judge their beliefs. My role was to understand their pain, help them regain a sense of agency, and support their healing. I bring that same philosophy to the work we do today. I recognize that I, like everyone else, have my own experiences and biases. But I make a conscious effort not to let politics determine whose suffering matters. What connects us is not ideology—it is our shared humanity. It is our capacity to love, to grieve, to hope, and to heal.
