Poppy Farsijani

The Unexpected Gift of Making Still A Lion

Poppy Farsijani — Fri, 29 May 2026 18:26:40 GMT

When people think about travel, they often think about famous landmarks, beautiful hotels, or checking destinations off a bucket list. But after spending years working on Still A Lion, I’ve come to believe that the real value of travel is something much deeper. Travel rounds a person. It softens the sharp edges of certainty and replaces them with curiosity. It reminds us that our way of living is only one of so many ways to experience the world. Every culture, every language, every meal, every conversation adds another layer of understanding to who we are.

One of the greatest gifts of making Still A Lion has been the opportunity to follow elite refugee athletes across countries, borders, and cultures. Our journey took us from the UK to China, Italy, France, Switzerland, Bulgaria, Germany, and beyond. Some of my favorite memories weren’t in the major cities or at the competitions themselves. They were found in small cafés between filming days, local bakeries before sunrise training sessions, quiet train rides through unfamiliar towns, and conversations with people whose lives were completely different from my own. Those moments reminded me that every place has its own heartbeat, its own stories, and its own lessons.

In many ways, the refugee athletes at the center of Still A Lion embody the ultimate travel experience, though not by choice. Their journeys have taken them across continents in search of safety, opportunity, and belonging. Through them, I’ve been reminded that movement can transform us. It can challenge us, humble us, and ultimately expand our capacity for empathy. Long after the cameras stop rolling, what stays with me most isn’t just what we filmed. It’s the people we met, the cultures we experienced, and the reminder that the more of the world we see, the more human we become.

Poppy

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The People Behind the Medal

Poppy Farsijani — Wed, 27 May 2026 17:44:15 GMT

There’s something deeply powerful about witnessing what happens behind the scenes of elite sport long before the cameras arrive, the medals are awarded, or the national anthems begin to play. While documenting Cindy Ngamba’s journey, one thing became undeniably clear: greatness is never built alone.

Inside GB Boxing, Great Britain’s elite Olympic boxing program, the coaches are doing far more than preparing athletes to win. They are building an environment rooted in discipline, accountability, resilience, trust, and belief. You feel it immediately the moment you walk into the gym. There’s intensity in the air, of course, but there’s also humanity. And that combination changes people.

What stood out most was the consistency of their presence. Day after day, session after session, they show up long before the spotlight ever does. Not for attention. Not for headlines. Simply because they believe in the athletes standing in front of them. In Cindy’s case, that support system became part of the foundation that allowed her to rise under extraordinary pressure. Refugee athletes carry far more than the physical demands of sport. There’s displacement, uncertainty, survival, identity, trauma, and expectation layered into every round, every training session, every quiet moment. In that environment, the role of a coach becomes far deeper than strategy or conditioning, it becomes stability, trust, and at times, family.

That’s what makes the culture at GB Boxing so special. Behind every athlete stepping into the ring is an entire team helping carry the emotional and physical weight of the journey with them. And while medals may become the public symbol of success, the real story often lives in the unseen moments: the early mornings, the difficult conversations, the setbacks nobody talks about, the belief restored when confidence disappears, and the people who continue showing up when nobody is watching. Documenting those moments has been one of the most meaningful and human parts of making Still A Lion.

Special recognition to the incredible team at GB Boxing whose leadership, dedication, and support shaped so much of what we witnessed throughout filming:

• Rob McCracken: Performance Director, GB Boxing
• Rebecca Edginton: General Manager, GB Boxing
• Richie Woodhall: Consultant Coach, GB Boxing
• Gary Hale: Coach, GB Boxing
• Dave Alloway: Coach, GB Boxing
• Graham Alderson: Coach, GB Boxing
• Darren Maher: Coach, GB Boxing
• Dave Langhorn: Cindy Ngamba’s Mentor and Former Boxer

Poppy

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Inside the Focus Groups Shaping Still A Lion 🎬

Poppy Farsijani — Wed, 20 May 2026 18:58:45 GMT

There’s something incredibly vulnerable about focus groups when you’re making a documentary this personal. It honestly feels like putting your baby in front of a room full of people and saying, “Okay… judge it.” LOL. As filmmakers, you spend years living inside these stories, protecting them, shaping them, obsessing over every frame, every piece of music, every emotional beat. Then suddenly, you’re sitting in the back of a room watching complete silence, body language, reactions, tears, laughter, confusion, and every tiny emotional shift from an audience seeing it for the very first time.

Over the last few weeks, we’ve been holding intimate focus groups for Still A Lion with athletes, creatives, industry executives, producers, and storytellers from completely different worlds. And honestly? The conversations after the screenings have been just as powerful as the film itself. Some people connect deeply to the refugee journey. Others connect to the discipline, sacrifice, pressure, identity, or the emotional weight of competing without a country behind you. What’s been beautiful is realizing the film is speaking to people in very different ways emotionally, often in ways we didn’t even fully anticipate ourselves.

What audiences are reacting to most is the humanity inside these athletes’ stories. The quieter moments. The uncertainty. The resilience. The loneliness. The pursuit of purpose. Those reactions help us understand where the emotional truth is landing strongest and where we can still push deeper. Sometimes a note is about pacing. Sometimes it’s clarity. Sometimes it’s simply realizing a small moment we almost overlooked is actually one of the most powerful scenes in the film.

Post-production is where documentaries truly discover themselves. It’s where structure sharpens, emotion deepens, and the story slowly becomes what it was always meant to be. Every focus group helps us refine the film a little more, not by changing its heart, but by helping us see it more clearly through fresh eyes. That process can be exhausting, humbling, emotional, and honestly a little terrifying… but it’s also one of the reasons filmmaking is so special.

We’re beyond grateful to every single person who has sat with Still A Lion while it’s still evolving. Your honesty, insight, emotional reactions, and conversations are helping shape this film into something even stronger than we imagined. And as we continue deeper into post-production, one thing becomes clearer every day: these athletes’ stories truly matter. 🤍✨

Poppy

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What Happens After Training Ends?

Poppy Farsijani — Thu, 14 May 2026 19:24:41 GMT

Training gives structure to uncertainty. Inside the gym, everything is measurable: repetitions, discipline, timing, control. For athletes like Hadi Tiranvalipour, the training floor becomes more than preparation for competition, it becomes one of the few places where life still makes sense. There are rules. There is routine. There is purpose. But eventually the session ends, the lights dim, and the silence outside the arena returns. That is where a different kind of pressure begins.

Most people only see refugee athletes during the Olympics, framed by cameras, national broadcasts, and opening ceremonies. What they don’t see are the hours afterward: the uncertainty of visas, the distance from family, the instability of constantly rebuilding a life while trying to maintain elite performance. The emotional weight is rarely visible in competition. It exists in the spaces between training sessions, in temporary apartments, unanswered phone calls, language barriers, and the exhausting reality of carrying both survival and ambition at the same time.

And yet, athletes like Hadi continue. Not because the path is easy, but because discipline becomes its own form of identity. Long after medals, rankings, and headlines fade, the routine remains: waking up early, showing up tired, training through uncertainty, refusing to lose direction even when life keeps changing around them. Some athletes compete for victory. Others compete to hold onto a sense of self. That is what makes these stories different. And perhaps, what makes them unforgettable.

Poppy

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The House That Built Him

Poppy Farsijani — Thu, 07 May 2026 19:28:15 GMT

He started young. Long before Olympic cycles, before national teams and global stages, Markus Kohlöffel was training inside the walls of his childhood home in Friedrichshafen. Decades later, that same space has evolved into something far greater than a memory, it’s now part of a system he built: a high-performance environment that has produced national champions, Olympic athletes, and one of the most respected taekwondo training ecosystems in Europe. He’s coached at the highest level, Germany’s national team, international federations, and across multiple Olympic Games, marking Paris as his seventh.

But what makes his story different isn’t just the medals or the titles, it’s what he chose to build with it. Through the Taekwondo Competence Center he founded, Markus created more than a training facility. He built an environment rooted in discipline, education, and social responsibility, one that integrates sport with inclusion, anti-violence training, and opportunity for athletes from all backgrounds. Today, that same philosophy extends to refugee athletes, like Kasra Mehdipournejad, Fatemeh Jami, Alireza Abassi and Zarghunna Noori who train under his guidance, rebuilding not just performance, but identity, stability, and belief after displacement.

And then there’s the part you can’t manufacture: the personal.

Inside this system, inside this structure, he is also coaching his daughter, in the same space that once shaped him. That’s where it all comes together. Not just high performance, but continuity. Not just coaching, but legacy.

Because helping athletes isn’t only about pushing them to win. It’s about creating a space where they can become. A space that outlives you. A system that continues to hold others long after your own chapter evolves.

Different paths. Same discipline.
Same belief in what’s possible.

This is how legacy lives on.

Poppy

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The Berlin Wall Fell. Barriers Didn’t.

Poppy Farsijani — Wed, 29 Apr 2026 23:23:46 GMT

The Berlin Wall didn’t just divide a city, it dictated belonging. It told people where they could live, move, and exist. When it fell in 1989, the world framed it as the end of division, a triumph of unity over control. And yet, decades later, the idea that walls are behind us feels… convenient. Because while the concrete came down, new barriers quietly took its place, less visible, but just as defining.

For refugee athletes, those barriers show up in the form of borders, lost citizenship, and the fragile question of identity. Competing without a flag isn’t symbolic, it’s structural. It means navigating systems not designed for you, carrying a story the world often reduces to a headline. And this is where sport becomes more than competition. Sport disrupts. It forces visibility where there was none. It creates moments where the narrative shifts, not from refugee to victim, but from refugee to contender. On a global stage like the Olympics, performance becomes a language the world understands, one that cuts through politics, paperwork, and prejudice.

We like to believe the fall of the Berlin Wall was the end of something. But maybe it was the beginning of a more complicated truth: that barriers don’t disappear, they evolve. What hasn’t changed is the human instinct to push through them. That’s what Still A Lion: The Story of Elite Refugee Athletes captures, not just resilience, but redefinition. Because when an athlete steps onto the world stage without a flag and still commands presence, they’re doing more than competing. They’re breaking something open. And sometimes, that’s how walls really fall. 🎬

Poppy

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Taekwondo, Built in Silence

Poppy Farsijani — Wed, 22 Apr 2026 20:56:38 GMT

Imagine training in silence, behind closed doors, fully aware of what it could cost you, and still choosing to show up. That’s Zarghunna Nouri, one of our Olympians. And no, not the version you see under bright lights with a flag and a medal, but the one built in shadows, in repetition, in quiet defiance. In places where even stepping onto a mat required calculation, courage, and a kind of inner negotiation most of us will never have to make. It’s the least glamorous training montage you could imagine… and, ironically, the one that matters most.

What people see is performance: the highlight, the podium, the moment. What they don’t see (and frankly what actually defines an athlete) is discipline. Taekwondo, in its purest form, isn’t just a sport; it’s structure, identity, a rhythm you return to when everything else feels uncertain. For many of the athletes we followed in Still A Lion, The Story of Elite Refugee Athletes, it became their first language of resilience. It taught them how to move through fear with composure, how to stay focused when the stakes were personal, not performative, and how to keep showing up when the world wasn’t exactly rolling out a welcome mat, more like quietly removing it and hoping you wouldn’t notice.

And here’s the twist: that foundation doesn’t disappear, it evolves. A different country, a different stage, sometimes a different sport entirely (and yes, occasionally a punch to the face for good measure), but the same discipline running underneath it all like a perfectly tailored lining, subtle, essential, doing all the real work. You see it in their timing, their patience, their ability to read a moment before it unfolds. And behind that evolution, there are also the rare, meaningful “yeses”, from organizations like World Taekwondo and the Italian Taekwondo Federation, moments where someone decided to open a door instead of closing one. Because sometimes that’s all it takes to change a life’s trajectory.

That’s the story of Still A Lion: not just survival, but identity rebuilt, quietly at first… and then, unmistakably, in full view.

Poppy

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What You Didn't See at the Paris 2024 Olympics

Poppy Farsijani — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 21:28:24 GMT

Paris during the 2024 Olympics has a way of revealing what sits beneath the surface of sport. Beyond the spectacle, the medals, and the noise, there’s something quieter but far more defining: discipline. Not just physical, but mental. The kind that doesn’t show up in highlights, but in the way an athlete carries themselves long before the moment arrives.

It was a pleasure meeting Edgar Lightbourne, a Bahamian athletics coach and former athlete who now mentors competitors at the national team level. What stood out wasn’t just his experience, but his clarity around mindset. At this level, talent is a given. What separates athletes is their ability to stay composed under pressure, to trust their preparation, and to remain steady when everything around them intensifies. As Edgar put it, “It’s about mental discipline… and still being able to enjoy the process while you’re in it.” That balance isn’t easy, but it’s what defines longevity.

Throughout this journey, we’ve met coaches who shape far more than performance. They build identity, resilience, and belief. Because in the end, competing on the world stage isn’t only about how fast you run or how strong you are, it’s about how well you hold yourself together when it matters most.

More from inside the film coming soon…

Poppy

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Before the World Tuned In, There Was Bayeux, France

Poppy Farsijani — Thu, 09 Apr 2026 22:02:04 GMT

They gathered in Bayeux, France, just days before the 2024 Olympic Summer Games.

Final training camp. Focused. Locked in. Different languages, different pasts, different countries… and yet somehow, all moving as one. It was my first time meeting many of them, and there was this quiet intensity in the air, the kind that tells you something big is coming. And then there was Bayeux itself, charming, almost suspiciously peaceful, resting alongside the shores of Normandy. History everywhere, you feel it without trying. Even your coffee feels more reflective!

And then… there was the bike ride. After a long day of training, bodies tired, minds probably racing, they decided, naturally, to go on an “adventurous” ride. I would have personally chosen pilates and hydration, but this is why they are elite athletes and I am documenting them. And when they came back, it didn’t end with protein shakes and early sleep, of course not. Just spontaneous, joyful dancing, the kind that happens when people from completely different worlds somehow share the same instinct: to release, to celebrate, to be alive in the moment. Not for cameras. Not for content. Not for anyone.

And there it was, that unspoken connection. Across cultures, across histories, across everything that should have made them different. And there it was, that shared instinct across cultures and backgrounds, that pull toward joy, toward movement, toward turning a moment into something alive.

Standing there, just miles from the beaches of Normandy, where history holds some of its heaviest moments, and now this, laughter, music, movement, life continuing anyway, and with better dance moves than I could ever attempt. Before the cameras, before the medals, before the world tuned in, there was this moment, unexpected, unfiltered, a little magical.

And that’s where Still A Lion began.

Poppy

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They Compete Without a Flag

Poppy Farsijani — Thu, 02 Apr 2026 18:18:20 GMT

There’s a moment before every competition when everything goes quiet, not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel. The noise fades, and all that’s left is breath… and the weight of what it took to get there. I’ve spent the past few years following athletes the world doesn’t quite know how to place, athletes who don’t walk into stadiums behind a flag, with no country stitched across their chest and no anthem waiting at the finish line.

Some didn’t just leave home, they lost it. They fled overnight or left knowing they could never return. Families, identities, entire lives fractured. And still, they found their way back to sport, not because it was easy, but because it was the one place where they could still recognize themselves. I remember watching one athlete stand alone before competition, no flag, no name echoing, just her, carrying everything it took to get there.

We celebrate medals, but the real story begins long before the podium, in the quiet, unseen moments where resilience takes shape. They compete without a flag, but they carry everything else.

As we are in the middle of post-production, join us on this journey as we prepare to share their story with the world, because this is not just a story about sport, but about what remains when everything you thought defined you is gone, and the choice to keep going anyway.

Poppy

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A Nowruz State of Mind

Poppy Farsijani — Thu, 19 Mar 2026 21:43:55 GMT

My first Substack, what Nowruz feels like in Iran.

Imagine Christmas… but stretched over two weeks, warmer, louder, and somehow more chaotic in the best way. Tehran before Nowruz feels like December 23rd everywhere you go. The streets are packed, everyone’s shopping, carrying bags, bumping into family like it’s perfectly planned, “Oh hello! Is that you? You’ve grown!” (even if you saw them last week). There’s khaneh tekouni, spring cleaning on another level, like you’re not just cleaning your house, you’re resetting your life. And then Haji Firouz appears, our version of Santa Claus, singing, dancing, announcing that joy is coming whether you’re ready or not. The Haft-Seen table comes together like decorating a Christmas tree, but more meaningful, each piece symbolizing life, renewal, hope. And then suddenly… everything pauses. Two full weeks off. No school, no real responsibilities. Just vibes: family, friends dropping by, endless food, constant laughter.

Nowruz has always felt like a reset button, it literally means “new day.” Nowruz isn’t just a holiday. It’s a mood. It’s a rhythm you don’t plan, you just live inside it.

I saw that version of Nowruz in my late teens while in Iran and it stayed with me. The smell of sabzi polo (herbed rice) and fresh fish, saffron blooming in tea, cardamom in the air. Family pouring in, like a real open house that never ends. Belly laughs, everyone dressed up just because they feel like it. Backgammon boards clicking, cards being shuffled, someone sipping a glass of wine, kids in the middle of it all fighting over soda gummy bears. And then the best part, escaping to Shomal (the North of Iran). Khezer Shahr, Darya Kenar… the Caspian Sea, that deep green, those slow, golden beach days. Think Malibu meets Martha’s Vineyard, but more nostalgic. Ten people sitting around watching a movie that honestly sucks… and still having the best time.

And now… it’s different. My country is fighting for its freedom, and Nowruz feels heavier. Like celebrating Christmas when something big is happening back home, you show up, you smile, but your heart is in two places. From the diaspora, you can recreate the table, the food, the rituals, but everything feels a little quieter, a little more reflective. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe this year, Nowruz isn’t about loud celebration, it’s about something deeper. About honoring what was, while believing in what can be.

Because Nowruz is renewal. And renewal means change.

And this year, more than ever… we hold onto hope…that better days are coming.