Azita Ghanizada on Grit, Authenticity, and Redefining Representation
Azita Ghanizada’s journey from a refugee of war-torn Afghanistan to a trailblazing force in Hollywood isn’t just a story of resilience — it’s a pioneering blueprint for transformative impact.
As an actress, she’s broken boundless stereotypes by bringing authenticity to roles that have historically ignored voices like hers, but it’s her advocacy behind the scenes that is cementing her legacy for generations to come.
Ghanizada is the founder of the MENA Arts Advocacy Coalition — the first organization to successfully advocate for the inclusion of Middle Eastern North African identities in SAG-AFTRA’s diversity categories — a groundbreaking change that rewrote how Hollywood counts, sees, and casts its talent.
But with each role she plays and every policy that she helps shift, Ghanizada is not just making space — she’s redefining the system. With work that seamlessly bridges artistry and activism with ease, Ghanizada proves that representation isn’t just about visibility; it’s about power, dignity, and lasting change.
Our publisher, Kristin Prim, spoke to Azita earlier this month to talk everything authenticity, representation, and her beloved role on Suits LA.
KP: I would like to start by acknowledging that you were the first woman of Afghan descent to originate a role on Broadway, as well as one of the first Afghan women to lead a U.S. TV series, both incredible feats that are immeasurable in terms of their impact for women across the globe.
I don’t necessarily have a question regarding that – I just wanted to give you the space to speak to what that means to you?
AG: Thank you so much for that acknowledgment.
For me, I become incredibly focused on my goals or the project I’m involved with, so I don’t always take the time to look up and out to absorb what I’m doing until someone stops me and asks or sends me a note reminding me of where I came from, how I survived, and also managed to create these new paths that I didn’t consciously set out to do.
It’s rare to take up space in the arts — in Hollywood in a mainstream way — as a woman from Afghanistan; how wild! But seeing the next generation of artists, businesswomen, scientists, and athletes from Afghanistan reminds me how much women have gone through and had to overcome; seeing their excellence and resilience is a source of pride. If I have one-tenth of their impact on others to feel brave and free to pursue their heart's content, then I will live with great pride.
The Kite Runner, in particular, has become a moment in time for me. It was so special that I got to revisit a part of my history that I had long put in a box and locked away. To relive losing your home, navigating an abusive home, having to fight the traditional role of subservient, dutiful wife, and choosing a husband that will treat you as his equal while facing the dark side of his childhood and the oppression of the Hazara tribe in Afghanistan was damning for eight shows a week, 134 shows in total. I was in a state of undoing and being reborn consistently. It may have been the most alive, tender, and raw I have ever felt. It was the first time that I understood how deeply telling stories matters and how being brave enough to do so over and over again is important. Each night is different, each audience is different, and there are a myriad of personalities and cultures in the cast to feel the thing that you would have never even dared to dream, which is aliveness on a stage — a moment-to-moment connection to life in a way that was pure magic.
TV is separate; you do get some audience connection on social media, and, well, the internet has a slew of people who feel brass enough to come in and make harsh judgments about your path, your life, and your choices. But on the stage and after, a swell of emotions is shared among one thousand people. I am so grateful that I was gifted that opportunity and that I was in the right place in my career and life to be the woman from Afghanistan to do that in a place that hasn’t had these kinds of stories told on a main stage. It will never be lost on me, never.
KP: It’s truly remarkable.
Your family fled Afghanistan and settled in the United States as political asylum seekers and later had trouble gaining citizenship due to not having the proper paperwork, such as a birth certificate.
My family sought political asylum as well and fled to America during the 1940s, escaping war, so I have heard many stories about how arduous, and often injurious, that process can be. I know that after my family arrived, they found it incredibly difficult to find work in New York due to the sweeping anti-immigrant sentiment that existed at the time. Sadly, with the way this country is currently leaning, that is something that we have still not pushed past.
What was your family’s experience with coming to America like? How did you all find the strength and grit to not only reside here but to find much success here as well?
AG: I love the word “grit.” I remember reading about it at a very young age in a magazine about survival and how those who have grit can make it more than those who don’t. I was maybe in my twenties, and I thought, that’s it, I have grit; I’m not perfect; I don’t have that idyllic family or childhood to share; I have real stories that made me feel wildly ashamed at times, and I would lie about some things so other people couldn’t see the real me — what I came from. They asked if I was in ESL or assumed I was, so I pushed past their limiting beliefs and became part of the gifted and talented programs as a young kid. I would speak on behalf of my mom quite a bit because other people would bristle at her accent, and I would get so upset — I wanted them to see us as equals.
To be able to come from nothing — I literally did not own luggage when I moved here — is miraculous. Grit, community, and resilience help you get through it. And knowing that so many of us have this story… I mean, all of us. Unless you are a Native American, every neighbor that we have was an immigrant generations ago. So many people I meet who hear my story tell me that their grandmother didn’t know her birthday; they can connect to it and believe that it could have happened so recently.
Sadly, so much of our coming to America is a blur; it was losing a homeland and learning how to adapt and code-switch to survive. I think that America was hard for my parents, but they were happy; they built their community here and didn’t have a war and ongoing bombardments or rights being taken away. My dad was better at code-switching — he became a die-hard Washington Redksins and WWF (now WWE) fan. My mom very much had a harder time adapting. They separated when I was beginning high school, which was radical for Afghans at the time. I suppose the gift for them in America was also the choice to do that. Even though it did cause them shame and pain, at least they were free enough to make that decision.
Their separation made me feel capable of breaking traditional norms to pursue a career in the arts. The passion to be able to tell stories and heal through tapping into my sensitivity instead of purely my survival skills has been the gift of a lifetime.
KP: That is an incredible gift. Of speaking about immigrating, you said that people “threw rocks at [you] and told [you] to go back to [your] country,” searing words that I’m sure resounded over time and hurt. What helped you push past that level of hatred, allowing yourself to not only move on but to thrive in everything you did?
AG: So much of what I faced is similar to the anti-immigrant rhetoric that we’re seeing today — it’s what I remember as a young person. Rocks were thrown at us, telling us to go back to our country, being told that I smelled funny or was poor, that my father was a terrorist — that only really began after the Iraq War — or that I would never amount to anything. It was incredibly hard on little me and every member in my family.
I don’t think that we survived the hardships in the same way. Each of us handled the narratives being forced onto us in different ways. I went through two phases: being the best, winning every award, standing up for myself, and becoming a leader at a young age, and I also rebelled against family authority and sometimes pushed boundaries to the point of putting myself in danger. I think of it often because there have been many versions of Azita, and I love each one of her and wish that I had adult me whispering in my ear, telling me how impossibly bright the future would be. And maybe I did? I’ve always believed that I am only here because of the strength of my angels, who helped me take significant risks, bet on myself, and fight for myself when so much was consistently taken from me and us.
Angels and good teachers: I had so many teachers who also bet on me and stood up for me in unbelievable ways. Investing in someone else's future or telling them that you believe in them goes a long way to help someone believe in themselves. That’s part of what I try to do to pay back the kindness that I’ve seen — that’s what I focus on. I didn’t focus on, “Oh, I’ll show them.” They didn’t matter enough to me; it was always me against me.
I found a way to navigate a system that was bigger than insults or name-calling. We survived a war; my mother showed me images of limbless children to remind me of what I escaped, so whatever I faced, while hard, the alternative was death or the decimation of my future.
Starting my career essentially right after 9/11 is quite crazy in retrospect. I think whatever the voice in my ear was that had me stand up and correct people when they struggled to say my name was the same thing that I had to continue to say that I was from Afghanistan when I walked into audition rooms or parties — the dirty looks, even here, or producers in power positions telling me that women from my part of the world don’t look like me.
Maybe it was naivete, but I didn’t want to turn away from who I was authentically. I had many family members change their names to “Mike” or “Dave.” This isn’t anything to look down on — Americanizing a name has happened throughout history for all cultures, from Germans and Italians to Afghans — especially in Hollywood. But to me, there is a strength in names, much like Game of Thrones. [Laughs.] I am House Ghanizada.
KP: [Laughs]. That’s an amazing house to be from! You’re so right. My paternal family came through Ellis Island and shockingly did not Americanize their Italian name, which is part of the reason why they couldn't get work here! It’s nothing to look down on, you’re right, but I love the resistance of refusing to give up your identity to better suit someone else’s.
You also said that, growing up in America, you didn’t think that you were pretty, something that really pierced me to hear. What do you think helped you reclaim your self-confidence through the years? What advice would you give to women who also find themselves feeling “unpretty” due to cultural or societal standards?
AG: I’m still working on that self-confidence part, aren’t we all? I definitely had a learning curve, but I am actually grateful that I wasn’t traditionally or culturally beautiful then; it was very much J.Crew models — exposure to someone like me was rare. I wish I had known more about Yasmine Ghauri, but she wasn’t as mainstream as my five network channels and no internet access would expose me to her. I relied on being street-smart and book-smart instead of focusing on looks or clothes. I was close to my girlfriends and relied on them as if it were life or death because, at times, it was. Adolescence in America in the 90s as an Afghan political refugee was not for the faint of heart. Having parents who did not let you wear makeup or dress in a girly outfit also didn’t help that part.
Because we traditionally weren’t allowed to date but could work in a leadership role in school environments rather than sports or anything that would potentially lead to other families thinking that I was trying to entice the attention of boys, it was the gift that kept giving; I became a savvy public speaker. I learned how to integrate with different groups. Again, code-switching between leadership roles at school, rebellious after-school behavior, and then traditional Afghan girls in family environments pretty much fully informed me about becoming an actor. But when I got to LA, the roles that I was considered for were shocking.
The note almost said that I wasn’t traditional-looking enough. I was more accepted for my looks and thought of as pretty in some odd way — more in Hollywood than I had ever been anywhere else. Then, my intelligence and strength threw people off; I was thrown into an upside-down land and had to learn how to exist in this new space.
In most cases, I think that anyone who feels unpretty doesn’t see themselves the way that the people who love them do. There isn’t a person I admire or am friends with that I don’t see absolute beauty in. Not speaking in a traditional space, I have stunning friends who look alien-like they’re so perfect, and then I have friends who are epically stunning because they are cool, they have a vibe, they have style, they are savvy, they are loyal, and they have all of the other qualities that matter.
I recently was looking after my dad as he was sick and nearing the end of his life, and all of the people in the elderly community… It was truly their smiles and their approaches to life that lit up the room. That’s what beauty is. It sounds so silly when someone tells you when you’re younger that what's on the inside counts, but oh man, that is one of those things that are said for a reason. It’s the truth.
“I think that anyone who feels unpretty doesn’t see themselves the way that the people who love them do.”
KP: It absolutely is. You make yourself beautiful.
You are the founder and president of MENA Arts Advocacy Coalition, which you launched after helping build the MENA category into the SAG-AFTRA theatrical contracts. For those who aren’t already aware, can you tell us a little about the work that you do there and why?
AG: It was something done out of necessity. I had finished a TV series called Alphas. I was very excited for my next opportunity, which was tested repeatedly when TV networks audition their final three actors, and you sign a 7-year contract. If you get it at the end of the test, then the deal is done! I kept losing out and finally was told by a casting director that I was considered white in the inclusion practices because I looked Middle Eastern, and the US census had Arabs listed as white.
The conflation of Afghans being Arab was not surprising to me. Many of the insults or violent rhetoric directed at me were because of that conflation. However, I explained that Afghanistan was in Asia and not the Middle East, and they said that it didn’t matter because of my physical appearance; no one would know that I was Asian in hiring practices. I asked if we had any protections, like an NAACP or GLAAD, which I knew of, and they said that we had a couple of Muslim organizations doing this work for writers, but not actors. I felt very confused by this and a bit thrown into it. The Muslim organizations were doing incredible work informing Muslim storylines on TV and film, but somehow, it became vital that I identify as Muslim to be considered for inclusion. It wasn’t just a few times; this conversation happened multiple times.
It was around 2014, and I could not play mainstream roles unless I identified religiously. I started to call my union and put out a bit of notice with other actors that I knew from auditions who were also West Asian or North African, and sure enough, within those two years, several had also been told the same thing. So we formed a little coalition and found ways to raise our voices and lobby for status in our TV and theatrical contracts, which is no small feat. It was the first new hiring category added to a labor contract in 37 years at the time.
I felt incredibly proud of that and achieved what I set out to do: to make this invisibility known to our industry. I found so much of it was a lack of awareness, so I came from a gentle place of simply talking to people and showing them the data, which I had been lobbying major research institutions to include MENA in their data drops. A labor of love may be part of the earlier chat about grit. Everyone told me that it wouldn’t happen — and I mean lawyers, scholars, and funding institutions — but it did because I was a bit relentless.
Affinity groups at the guilds, the Academy, universities, and studios have sprung up over the past several years. Now, the US Census will include the category in 2020, and Afghanistan is officially designated to Asia, so it's time to let others step in and take the baton. But continue to converse on ways to be seen, heard, and not completely erased.
KP: Wow! That’s truly remarkable. You should be so incredibly proud.
You gave an amazing TED Talk in 2020, called “Invisible to Stereotyped: The Journey to Hollywood,” where you said you discovered your purpose through watching television. Is there any particular experience you remember that prompted you to explore your greater purpose?
AG: What is so fascinating is that television dictated such a large part of my life. It was such a part of our immigrant experience learning about families and different cultures through television, and studies have shown over and over again that TV is one of the biggest influences on people‘s perceptions and opinions of other cultures, and specifically minority cultures. So when I didn’t see myself on screen, it made me feel even more isolated and alone. I also felt confused and ashamed, to be very honest, of what I was seeing in my family — our foods, our religion, and our language — not being represented. So there was a big code switch to what I saw on television. I desperately wanted to find a way to feel like other people could understand me — I just felt so misunderstood in Virginia at the time.
So when I talk about purpose, I think I was driven by a whisper or an angel or another version of myself in a different time and place telling me to heal that feeling of a lack or invisibility by creating change within the medium that truly helped raise me. It helped teach me English, and it helped to teach me about culture.
So when I bought my one-way ticket to Los Angeles, having never really traveled much before and not knowing anyone in the city, I didn’t know what my journey would be, but I knew that it was where I had to be. I kept walking one foot in front of the other towards that purpose by following things that lit me up, saying yes, and standing back up after the thousands of no’s that I received, and doubling down on myself.
The only times that I ever really failed or thought this wasn’t for me were when I stopped betting on myself. I had to continuously remind myself that I have come from nothing and have made a really lovely life for myself. I tried my best to feed that back into the community and be a voice for others whenever I could, so that I will always be okay no matter what. And in that truth, I can keep going when there is no path in front of me. I can keep going in the dark and find a way to create one for myself. Along the way I’ve met other really wonderful, talented artists that are in the same position as me, that are doing the same thing, and are having their successes with it. It’s so wonderful to be able to look up in the dark and see all of these other examples of what I needed when I was young coming to life.
KP: That’s so inspiring. Maintaining authenticity is invaluable to you, both through your personal life and your work. How do you define authenticity both on-screen and off?
AG: Authenticity is one of the most important things to me in life. The way that I define it is by asking myself, is it a truth? Are you comfortable with this truth? Is it a painful truth? Is it a joyful truth? I think that people become comfortable with lies, half-truths, or false narratives. I witnessed that in my life. I grew up around a family unit that had a tough time being very honest about what we were experiencing. I don’t think they had the tools, so I don’t have any anger in my heart about that, but I could see the lie. I think that by growing up in an environment that’s unsafe, you become very hyper-vigilant to what’s true and what’s not true — it was always my marker. It was my intuition. It was my guide, and it’s kept me safe my entire life.
There are times when I struggle with whether or not my silliness or my playfulness or my gregariousness when she comes out… Is that the authentic me, or is the truly still, grounded, and wise version the authentic me? I have to reconcile those versions of myself because both exist — both are part of the creative entity that allows me to fly and also will enable me to crumble when I need to crumble. It’s a wonderful gift, but it’s also a hard experience to hold yourself in the mirror and ask yourself if you’re being completely truthful with yourself, what you can do better, how you can be more mature, how you can be a softer place for people to land, and how you can be more tender in this life.
Losing my father was a re-engagement with my authentic self. I remember being in that grief, and it was so jarring — almost as if a part of my body had left. My father was not an easy man. It was not an easy two years for me, but that loss helped reconnect me to something so gentle. It was almost as if any pain or resentment or anger dissipated from my body when he passed. It connected me to the love in my heart in such a way that I was grateful to be in that grief and to be feeling one of the most real things in the world. As hard as it was, as horrific as it was, it was the most honest experience in life that I think I have been through in a long time.
That version of me, I loved her. I love her so much for what she went through and what she was capable of. I had forgotten a piece of that, so I think that defining your authenticity through your personal life, your onscreen persona, or your business life is just being as truthful in all of the moments as possible.
KP: I think you’re exactly right about that. And speaking of authenticity, you have also completely redefined representation through your work. How important was doing that to you? What are ways in which any woman who faces unfair stereotyping can do the same?
AG: Thank you for saying that. I don’t know that I have redefined representation. I do believe that I’m a small drop of water in a bucket of many people who are trying to redefine representation in these spaces. I think that it takes the community — everyone is working towards these changes differently, regarding their needs.
Mine was very specific: I needed to be able to be seen as an individual, not justified as a religion or culture. I wanted to be able to exist in a mainstream space because so much of that was what had raised me, and for other people, they are redefining their representation based on their experiences.
Research is essential, as are meaningful conversations and getting the community behind your calls to action. Much of the work is done not just on social media — audiences and community have a significant impact on buyers and creators regarding what’s important to them, what they want to see, how they define authenticity, and how they want to see their representation on screen — so being outspoken on social media or creating those calls to action to community online is incredibly important.
However, sometimes making those calls to people in power and to nonprofits that can assist you with that work is valuable, because they do a lot of the stuff that’s not on social media platforms. A lot of internal lobbying — which is how I went through it — was aimed at disrupting the system from within by finding ways to deal directly with corporate mandates and with MO use. It was hard. I needed a lot of time to do that. It took a couple of years of my mental capacity towards acting that I had to give to the nonprofit, so it was a big commitment, and I did suffer creatively, but it was my way through.
However, I see many wonderful people from various groups speaking up for what they want to see on screen and how they want to be represented. I think that’s impactful and valuable. And then I see so many wonderful people creating the things that they want to see themselves in — making those TV shows, making those films, producing them, writing them, hiring people from their community, and having those films funded. That truly is the way to create change. Looking to people like Mindy Kaling, Issa Rae, and Reese Witherspoon — what they’ve been able to do for women’s stories — for inclusive stories — is fantastic.
KP: It’s certainly admirable. And speaking of the screen, you now star in Suits LA, which is the latest expansion of the Suits universe. How did that role come to be, and what has that experience been like?
AG: It’s been wonderful. The job came to me like every other job. It was an audition in person when my dad was recovering from a heart attack, and my mom was packing up and moving to be closer to her family in Virginia. I had very little time with the material, but I immediately felt very connected to the character. The audition process was ongoing. The character was open to ages 30 to 60 and all ethnicities, so they auditioned every person that they could. They did their due diligence and then kept coming back to me, which is a wonderful feeling.
Joining a beloved IP like that had a big spotlight on it, but Suits LA as a show is a whole new beast, a whole new animal. A new cast. It’s a new coast. There’s new energy. I’m playing the legal secretary, which is an archetype that has existed throughout time on film and television… Pepper Potts to Tony Stark, Alfred Pennyworth to Batman, Peggy Olson to Don Draper, and Donna Paulsen to Harvey Specter — these kinds of characters are valuable, strong, steady arms to these kind of larger-than-life characters.
It’s a fantastic space to have been playing in, and, like any new show, we have been growing with our writers and as a cast, getting to know each other more throughout this first season, developing trust, and building our chemistry. The show, to me, is flying in the second half of this first season. It feels so nice to shake off some of that original IP pressure as well as some of the comparisons, which were very intense coming into it!
KP: I could imagine! It’s great to hear that you’re settling in — everyone loves it so far.
What do you feel makes a provocative woman?
AG: I think a provocative woman is someone who is unafraid to be who she is — entirely who she is and not performing for others. And, dare I say, is okay with being unlikable. It’s okay to not be everyone’s cup of tea if you stand for something that others don’t agree with.
She exists in embodiment, whether she is an extrovert, an introvert, a boss in the office, or a boss at home. It might be that she’s starting a small business or quietly working two jobs and going home to be a single mom. Regardless of position, she is a woman living proudly in her skin, embodying her femininity, and handling all of the pressure and curveballs that life throws at her with grace, fire, and compassion — never losing her inner wisdom or gut instincts. And age… Age is a beautiful thing and opens you up to a more authentically provocative you.
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Photography: Jackson Davis
