My parents grew up in Iran before moving to the UK to study. The plan was always temporary: study in London, return home and build a life there. But the events of 1979 changed everything and led them to return to the UK – a stroke of “luck”. It meant they weren’t trapped in the aftermath of a revolution, but it also meant a life far away from family.
For me, childhood meant annual trips to Iran until I was 23. Hot Tehran summers, family gatherings or “mehmoonis”, endless cousins, food, noise and joy – but also restriction and boredom. In those years, my siblings and I were the “glamorous” cousins – for lack of a better word – arriving from London with suitcases full of Topshop clothes, new skincare products and makeup trends that hadn’t yet reached the shops in Tehran.
I’ve walked Iranian streets. I’ve covered my hair in the heat of August (and had to put on my headscarf upon landing, before even disembarking from the plane). I’ve bought VPNs to access completely ordinary websites or stay in touch with friends back home – and before that there were the little internet cards people scratched to reveal connection codes. I’ve watched phone lines and internet connections disappear without warning. I’ve been told to speak English rather than Persian in heavily policed areas. I’ve heard “Allahu Akbar” echoing from rooftops during protests.
Unlike many British families, I didn’t grow up with grandparents nearby. There were no weekends at Nanny and Grandad’s house, no relatives collecting us from school. After the revolution in 1979, much of my family’s assets were lost or trapped in Iran. My parents worked relentlessly to build our comfortable life in the UK and pay for childcare without the financial or physical support of extended family.
Yet Iran remains stitched into the fabric of my life through memories. I’ve wandered through the Unesco world heritage site, Golestan Palace in Tehran, and stood beneath the dazzling glass of its Hall of Mirrors. Seeing recent images of it reportedly looted and destroyed shook me more than I expected. After all, what is a building when people’s lives have been – and continue to be – ruined? “We will rebuild” is a phrase Iranians repeat because they have no choice but to hold on to hope.
People keep asking me if I’m OK. Sometimes I answer honestly; sometimes I give the easier response. Often I simply don’t have the energy to explain. Because the truth is that right now many Iranians – inside the country and scattered across the world – are not OK: mentally, emotionally and morally exhausted. They are criticised for sounding pro-regime when their empathy lies with friends and family there, whom they want to remain safe; yet they are also condemned as privileged or naive if they express relief at the death of a brutal figure.
