English/Iranian
Since the loss of both my Dad’s parents in the last few years, I’ve struggled with regret. In the sense that I wish I knew them and their experiences with Iran better. I long to ask my Grandma a thousand questions about fleeing from Iraq to Iran in her teens, how she coped having to leave her home behind again when she became a refugee in London in the ‘80s & how on earth her tahdig would always manage to feed the whole table no matter if there were six or sixteen mouths to provide for.
But, of course, these conversations are delicate and difficult to have with a family who has been in certain circumstances and made all types of sacrifices. Over time, I’ve made peace that Iran is and always will be a part of me. I don’t have to have physically been somewhere to feel a connection to the place. Iran is in the conversations I have with my Dad about his childhood, Iran is in the mirror when I’m doing my makeup, Iran is in my favourite (Peckham) Persian restaurant.
I have always been lucky that my family is very open and supportive. My Grandmother would joke about how she would find my sister and I a suitable Iranian, Jewish husband but I do know as long as we were happy, she would have been happy..eventually. Growing up, Saturday evenings were spent at my Grandparent’s where my Grandmother would cook up a Persian feast. The older I get, the more I want to learn about my culture, and I know I’m only just getting started!
I remember I had just started secondary school. A conversation around being mixed-race came up and I said I was mixed. I had never questioned my identity up until this point, but I was met by kids telling me I was wrong. I’m White passing so I didn't conform to their idea of what a mixed person looked like. That was the first time I was made to feel insecure about my identity. I felt embarrassed that I had claimed a title that I didn’t feel I could justify.
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