06/04/2026
Two photos, years apart.
In the first, I am a little girl in Iran. I didn’t know then how much of that place I would carry with me.
I grew up in Germany, in an Iranian home, somewhere in between. For a long time, I felt like I didn’t fully belong to either place.
As a child, I had dreams without really understanding them. Over time, I had to work for them, reshape them. What stayed was something quieter, the realization that strength is not loud, and that you often only recognize it once it has already carried you through.
The woman I am today did not appear all at once. She was built slowly.
And through all of it, my roots never left me. Iran was never just a place I came from. It became something I carry, in the way I think, in what I question, in what I feel responsible for.
Especially now, it is impossible to look away. There is so much pain, so much pressure, and at the same time so much courage in people who continue, who endure, who still hope for something as simple as freedom.
That is what makes roots complex. They are not just belonging. They are also memory, responsibility, and sometimes a quiet, constant ache.
Another year older today, and more aware of where I come from, what I carry.
̇ran
