The search for meaning often begins far from established structures. For some, it is found not in codified doctrine, but in the raw experience of devotion—or the radical absence of it. This tension between deeply held conviction and lived reality has shaped an intensely personal journey, one that intersects profoundly with history, art, and the painful complexities of diaspora.
Growing up, I was raised within a household where spiritual comfort was present but faith was absent. It wasn’t merely the absence of religion; it was the absence of true faith. A defining moment came from my father, who taught that love could not be given unless it was received—a lesson that underscored the vital need for genuine connection, regardless of belief.
Yet, amidst this environment, a form of ritual persisted. Before leaving home or embarking on significant journeys, we would hold texts and invoke names, finding a quiet anchor in tradition. This early experience introduced me to the concept of comfort derived from ritual, even as I navigated a world that was increasingly defined by modernity.
This foundation shifted dramatically after 1979. The Islamic Revolution transformed the landscape, and with it, everything felt punitive and severe. The world of belief changed overnight. Myths familiar from history suddenly took on a frightening cast, as established tenets were formalized under the doctrine of Contraband cassettes, smuggled from the West, became sacred objects. They were not just recordings; they were portals to freedom, shared secret treasures that fostered a community among my peers. We pooled our excitement, creating mixtapes and hosting clandestine parties, turning music into our sanctuary.
This experience of finding belonging through shared artistic passion was intensely personal. It carved out an identity forged in sound and community, separate from the oppressive political narrative surrounding me. This bond with a musical tribe—a connection to global sounds like hair metal, Britpop, and acid house—was my true spiritual anchor.
When leaving Iran for good, these physical connections had to be abandoned under watchful eyes. The silence that followed felt heavy, a necessary shield against the trauma of the regime. Decades passed, and I learned the difficult lesson that sometimes self-preservation requires silence, allowing us time to heal from experiences too profound to articulate.
For those of us in the diaspora, bearing the weight of historical trauma, there is a profound struggle to communicate that lived experience to outsiders. The desire to simply be seen as ‘fine’ and unified can often overshadow the need for full, honest disclosure. It is a painful reality that seeking distance sometimes becomes the only way to protect the fragile sense of self.
Ultimately, the journey of reclaiming identity involves facing these silences. It requires acknowledging the history we carry, understanding the scale of past injustices, and finding a way to share the truth so that those who observe can grasp the reality of what happened, ensuring that the suffering is not forgotten.
Credit: Spin
