As a second-generation Persian immigrant, my connection with my roots has always been relatively surface-level. Admiring the intricate artworks adorning the walls of our homes, hand-loomed rugs crafted by my own grandmother, barberry-laden rice and saffron-infused stews, the music of Googoosh, Bijan Mortazavi and Susan Roshan blasting from dawn to dusk.
My parents spoke Farsi to one another and to me when I was a child and as such it was my mother tongue. But I was born in Australia, so it was only going to be a matter of time before I became more proficient in English. Now I stumble my way through conversations in broken Farsi, longing for the day when Iran will be safe enough to finally visit and I can hopefully scrub up my language skills.
