Sharifeh Jafari - 17 May 2026
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| Sharifeh Jafari, Director, Pinar Publishing |
Today in Berlin, with the coordination of Gardoon Publishing, founded by the late Abbas Maroufi, several publishers had gathered to organize a book fair parallel to the Tehran International Book Fair. Although I knew that visiting this exhibition and Hedayat Café would revive memories of the vibrant days when I attended the Tehran Book Fair as a publisher—and would reopen old wounds—I decided, after years of living in Berlin, to visit the bookstore and the exhibition held alongside it.
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| Pinar Publishing |
Although this fair was very different from the Tehran Book Fair, and these modest booths were nothing like our elegant, bustling stands, the atmosphere of a true book exhibition was still there. As I looked through the books, I noticed some titles that we had also published or carried—The Little Black Fish, books by Fariba Vafi, Sadegh Hedayat, and others. Yet all of our own books were missing. For a moment, my heart sank. I stood there quietly, simply observing. I could deeply relate to the publishers and booksellers standing behind the tables where their books were displayed. My eyes moved between the visitors and the books.
Inside me, I heard a voice crying out:
“People, I was a publisher too—a publisher of hundreds of books. I received awards from the Ministry of Culture as an active publisher. My publishing house was my life, and books were my love. I did the work of several people on my own and never grew tired. Whenever the Tehran International Book Fair approached, my excitement multiplied. Reprinting bestselling books, packing them into boxes, preparing them for transport to the exhibition booth—even the stress felt sweet to me. I prayed that my booth would be placed in a good location in the exhibition hall, but luck and even God could not intervene; discrimination always prevailed, just as it did throughout the country. The front-row booths were reserved for religious, state-sponsored, and seminary publishers, while we, as a bilingual publishing house, were quietly pushed aside.”
When I sat inside my booth as the director of the publishing house and writers or well-known figures stopped by to introduce themselves, I welcomed them warmly and invited them in for tea and sweets. I loved my work. I felt that I had the best profession in the world—a profession I had built with relentless effort and one I had dreamed of since childhood.
Whenever a book finally received publication approval after months or even years of waiting, it felt as though the world had been handed to me. And when a book was banned, I fought back. I fought because I wanted to bring my love—publishing—to its rightful destination. I feared neither criticism nor exhaustion, and I never complained about long hours or aching feet. I had no paper quotas and received no government support through state book-purchasing programs intended to assist publishers.
Nor could I act like some of the opportunistic and conservative publishers who secured their position by publishing books written by clerics and religious institutions.
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| Turkish Book Exhibition in Iran |
My work was with literature, poetry, and history—not religion and politics. Those were the things that gave life to the very fabric of my being. But would the regime allow such a publisher, especially a woman, to simply remain a publisher? One day, they drew a red line through my life and my passion. My publishing license was revoked, and I found myself trapped in courtrooms. Facing fabricated accusations, I was pushed toward prison, leaving me with no choice but to flee. I lost everything. I was forced to bury my love in my homeland. Since then, I have not had the courage to attend a book fair, knowing that the wound would reopen.
And that is exactly what happened.
Suddenly, I felt my heartbeat slowing, like a clock whose battery is running out. It was as though a hand had reached into my chest, seized my heart, and squeezed it tightly. I left the exhibition to breathe in the open air. My friend and I entered the café. A table by the window at Hedayat Café was empty, and we sat there. My friend ordered coffee and cake. I, however, could not say a word. Without warning, tears began streaming down my face.
Fortunately, a young German woman was sitting outside and paid no attention to me. Seeing my condition, my friend excused herself to look at the books and left me alone for a while.
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| Sharifeh Jafari |
When I had calmed down, I spoke briefly with Mr. Maroufi’s daughter and introduced myself. She was incredibly kind and became excited when she heard my story. She invited me to meet with her sometime so we could discuss a book I have recently written and hope to publish.
Recently, I completed a book titled Ayna—my autobiography. In it, I document the injustices and hardships inflicted upon me by the regime, as well as my struggles as a woman deeply devoted to her mother tongue. It is a factual account written in a literary style. I am now searching for a publisher or an organization willing to support its publication, and I hope I can finally bring it to readers.
At that moment, I remembered the words of a dear friend who always says, “Everything happens in its own time.”
She was right.
I needed years of experience in political activism, human rights work, and community organizing before I could finally decide to begin again—to breathe new life into Pinar Publishing in Berlin, publish my own poetry, and bring my book into the world. After all these years, I have finally realized that my path is literature, creativity, and art.
Sharifeh Jafari
Director, Pinar Publishing
Berlin
17 May 2026
Link to the original text in Farsi