When the global protests
began in January 2026, I felt a deep need to express love, humanity, and
support for Iranians both inside and outside the country. Within only a few
weeks, I released two full albums: 0098SOS with 15 tracks and Voice4Aazadi
with 6 tracks.
These projects were not
casual releases. They were built with relentless dedication — countless hours
without sleep, significant financial investment, emotional vulnerability, and
the determination to document history through lyrics and sound.
Let me be honest about
something many people don’t want to hear: in today’s music industry,
independent artists make almost no profit. And when I say no profit, I truly
mean it. What we invest — time, money, energy, heart — is priceless. So why do
it? The only real answer is love.
In the early weeks, before
internet access returned fully to Iran, I received heartfelt messages from
people across the diaspora thanking me for giving them a voice. But alongside
appreciation came criticism that ignored artistic freedom: comments about
flags, maps, or symbolic choices in my visuals — as if art must follow someone
else’s political checklist. Artistic expression is not a committee project. It
is a personal right.
Once internet access
resumed, the conversation shifted. My inbox filled with constant requests:
“Where can I find the song?” “Send me the reel.” “Can you give me the track?”
Even though my store link — LilyAmis.Bandcamp.com — is clearly visible
throughout the reels. At first it was overwhelming; eventually it became
exhausting. Some direct messages crossed the line into disrespect, forcing me
to step back from communication entirely to protect my mental and emotional
well-being.
One of my reels alone
brought more than 7,000 new followers and millions of impressions. On paper,
that sounds like success. In reality, it meant nothing. Followers are not
automatically supporters. Followers are not buyers, not collaborators, not a
community built on respect. For an entire month, my album was available for free
download. Streams increased rapidly — yet when I introduced a price to comply
with Bandcamp policy and protect my work, only a small number of genuine music
lovers chose to support it. Others complained that streaming was no longer
available, forgetting that Bandcamp is not Spotify.
Then came the most
difficult discovery. By pure chance, I found hundreds of my original reels re-posted
on personal Instagram pages without my permission. Let me be clear: stealing is
not solidarity. Re-uploading an artist’s work without consent is not
appreciation — it is a violation of trust and copyright.
Suddenly, after weeks of
creative work, I found myself acting as a detective, reporting reel after reel
to Meta for copyright infringement. When I politely asked some accounts to
remove my work, the responses ranged from insults to instant blocking. Imagine
seeing your art placed next to low-quality content, unrelated feeds, or even
imagery associated with oppressive figures — stripped of context, stripped of
respect. That experience was deeply unsettling and upsetting. Respect is something
else. Hambastegi is something else.
To protect my work, I had
to make painful decisions: switching my Instagram account from public to
private, archiving my own reels, and submitting multiple copyright claims just
to prove that I am the original creator. What began as an act of solidarity has
left me emotionally drained — to the point where I no longer follow the news as
closely, because the cost to my mental health became too high.
So what does the future
look like?
I will never stop writing
or producing music - asking me to stop creating would be like asking me to stop
breathing. But I will redefine my boundaries. My work will reach those who
truly value and respect it, not a massive audience that treats creativity as
disposable content.
My marketing strategy will
change. I will no longer invest energy into platforms that fail to protect
creators or respect artistic ownership. If new music arrives, it will come on
my terms — within a smaller, more intentional circle built on mutual
appreciation.
This is not the end of my
voice. It is simply the end of giving it away without protection. My work is
not made for disrespectful people who think creativity is something they can
take without permission. Re-uploading my art, ignoring my boundaries, and
responding with insults instead of respect is not solidarity - it is theft. And
I refuse to pretend otherwise.
What hurts the most is not
only the copyright violation, but the loss of basic manners and appreciation.
Years of political pressure and social damage have clearly shaped how people
interact. Instead of empathy, I encountered entitlement. Instead of respect for
artistic labor, I saw the assumption that my work exists for free consumption —
no credit, no consent, no accountability.
I created these albums out
of love and solidarity. I invested sleepless nights, personal finances, and
emotional energy to give a voice through music. Yet some responses crossed a
line that no artist should have to tolerate. Being supportive does not mean
accepting disrespect. Caring does not mean allowing yourself to be exploited.
Yes, I have strong
political opinions. I believe leadership, history, and the direction of a
nation matter. I believe dignity, education, and responsibility in leadership
should never be taken for granted. But my anger today comes from a personal
place: watching my art be stripped of context, reposted without permission, and
used in ways that contradict everything I stand for.
Right now, I feel deeply
disillusioned. What started as an act of solidarity has left me questioning
where respect for artists - and for each other - has gone. I am allowed to feel
angry. I am allowed to set boundaries. And I am allowed to say that love for a
culture does not mean silence when that love is abused.
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