Through this Banned Book Writing Prompts series, Teachers & Writers Magazine aims to push back against the growing movement to censor what students can read and to show what happens when we enthusiastically embrace banned works rather than fear them. You can read an introduction to this series by Susan Karwoska here, and you can find more Banned Book Writing Prompts here.

I make and teach comics, which means I spend a lot of time thinking about how stories work (or don’t). Storytelling isn’t just about perfect technique; it’s about curiosity, honesty—and audacity. Which is why Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis matters so much. And why it drives me nuts when self-appointed censors call it “inappropriate,” or—worse—try to ban it.

Originally published in France, Persepolis is a graphic memoir that tells the story of Satrapi’s early years in Tehran, from age 10 to 14, during one of the most turbulent periods in Iranian history. During that time, she lived through the overthrow of the Shah, the rise of a new regime, and the Iran-Iraq war. Satrapi writes about her family, her culture, and what it means to grow up as a modern girl in the Middle East. Religion, politics, gender, war, and everyday life are all part of the story, told with honesty and insight. 

It’s a text that can be taught in middle school through college and beyond. And the book has earned widespread recognition, including the esteemed Angoulême Coup de Coeur, placement on countless “best-of” lists, and a film adaptation that was nominated for an Academy Award and won the Jury Prize at Cannes.

But despite being a celebrated graphic memoir, Persepolis is also one of the most frequently challenged comics ever. Here in the U.S., parents and school districts have raised concerns over the book’s “graphic language and imagery” and its political content, sometimes censoring it entirely. These challenges make the book’s survival on library shelves all the more remarkable and underscore why students need access to it.

Students see a comic that doesn’t look like anything they’ve ever seen before, and suddenly, possibilities open. The book seems to say: “You don’t need to have the perfect skills. Start telling your story.”

I first read Persepolis as a seasoned comics consumer (and maker). Sure, I’d read Maus, American Splendor, plenty of “serious” graphic novels. But Satrapi’s work hit me differently. The voice. The point of view. The drawings: raw, minimal, almost “art brut” in quality. At first, I didn’t fully get it. But I learned to appreciate it. And now I adore it—not because it mirrors my own approach and style, but because it is so different. That difference makes it a fantastic teaching tool.

Satrapi wasn’t a seasoned comics master when she made Persepolis. She had studied visual communication but hadn’t told a long story in panels. That’s part of what makes her book so powerful. The drawings are deceptively simple—minimalist lines, clever use of black to guide the eye—but sophisticated in how they show rather than tell. They nod to Persian miniatures while remaining resolutely modern. Students see a comic that doesn’t look like anything they’ve ever seen before, and suddenly, possibilities open. The book seems to say: “You don’t need to have the perfect skills. Start telling your story.” 

The character of Marjane, too, comes alive on the page—she’s messy, funny, rebellious, and fiercely human. Growing up under an oppressive, ultra-religious regime sharpens her rather than flattens her. During the sections when she is a child, the book’s storytelling is playful; as she matures, it becomes reflective without losing its spark of irreverence. Marjane’s struggles with identity, friendship, freedom, and authority can speak to any reader, anywhere. 

The story of Persepolis is also about standing up to bullies—a theme that resonates deeply today. In 2009, following Iran’s contested presidential election, Satrapi’s story was updated as Persepolis 2.0. Two Iranian-born artists reused her illustrations with new text to reflect the protests. The update demonstrated the book’s enduring relevance: the fight against repression and injustice continues—even here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.—and students can learn from Marjane’s courage.

Banning Persepolis does more than keep students away from a celebrated graphic novel. It cuts them off from the perspective, empathy, and inspiration the story offers.

You don’t need me to point out the irony of a book celebrating these themes being censored. It’s the predictable panic: “Graphic language! Inappropriate images! Politics!” Often the fear animating the urge to censor is difference itself: that readers might see Iranians as real humans—messy, funny, complex—and rethink stereotypes. Satrapi refuses simplification. Yes, she portrays the brutality and repression in Iran, but she also shows the humor, love, and everyday life there. As Satrapi herself has said, Iran is not just “fundamentalism, fanaticism, terrorism.”

Banning Persepolis does more than keep students away from a celebrated graphic novel. It cuts them off from the perspective, empathy, and inspiration the story offers. It says: “We’d rather you not see a young girl navigate her world, confront injustice, and find her voice.” Satrapi demonstrates how words and images can tell complex truths about our lives. Students need and deserve stories that reflect their lived experience—and stories that push them to see differently. Persepolis does both.

Writing Prompt 1: Conveying Sensory Realities

Here’s an image from Persepolis, showing the citizens of Iran celebrating when the Shah of Iran was deposed in 1979:

Notice how Satrapi conveys the sensory reality of the moment—the cacophony of uplifted voices, the press of bodies in the crowd, the ecstatic gestures, and the variety of patterns in the people’s clothes (a huge contrast to the severity of the coming era of Islamic fundamentalism). Look closely at how the figures are arranged on the page. Observe how Satrapi uses the repetition of certain shapes to create rhythm and focus, and how the variety in patterns contributes to the mood. Even without sound or motion, the drawing makes you feel what it might have been like to be there!

Exercise

Think of a time when you were part of a big celebration—a holiday, a graduation, a parade, a concert, or even a sports victory. Before you start writing, jot down what you remember (or imagine) through your five senses:

• What did it look like?
• What did it sound like?
• What did it smell like?
• What did it feel like (touch, texture, atmosphere)?
• Were there tastes connected to it?

Now, write a one-page story about that moment, using as many sensory details as you can. Using descriptive prose, make your reader feel as if they are right there in the middle of the celebration, the way Satrapi does with the page from Persepolis.

Writing Prompt 2: Copying

Here’s another representative panel from Persepolis. Author Marjane Satrapi augments her simple-seeming art with repeated imagery, decorative elements, and brilliant spotting of blacks.

Exercise

Now it’s time to copy the drawing—as faithfully as you can! While plagiarism isn’t okay, copying has always been an essential tool for artists. Master artists like Michelangelo, Kehinde Wiley, and Faith Ringgold all honed their skills this way.

When you copy another artist’s work, you start to see how they translate the three-dimensional world onto the page—what they notice, what they emphasize, and how they guide the viewer’s attention. Details you’d normally miss suddenly become clear, and your own drawing skills grow stronger. By replicating Satrapi’s panel, you’ll see how she makes her story come alive.

This isn’t tracing, and it’s not about reinterpreting the work in your own style. It’s about slowing down and replicating Satrapi’s choices—line by line, mark by mark. But remember: a “simpler” drawing isn’t easier. Fewer lines make each one more important—one small misstep and the drawing can feel “off.” Satrapi’s style may seem naive, but it’s sophisticated: she simplifies shapes, uses contrast and clarity, and makes objects and gestures instantly recognizable.

You can use any tools you want, but I suggest a No. 2 pencil and some sort of pen—a technical pen, a Micron, a Sharpie. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Start by lightly sketching the whole panel in pencil to make sure it fits on your page. Next, do an initial pencil copy of the details to get a handle on tricky sections. Finally, carefully ink over your lines.

Tip: Take your time and notice the little things—how lines curve, how shapes interact. It may help to see the elements as simple geometric shapes—circles, crescents, rectangles—to understand their underlying form. Breaking a complex figure into these parts makes it easier to replicate. 

Enjoy the process! It’s not just about copying; it’s about seeing the world—and Satrapi’s choices—through an artist’s eyes . . . and hands.