I apologise for my brief hiatus from blogging – however, on the positive side, the reason for my absence is what formed this idea and this story.

You see, I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandparents in Iran. For those of you who don’t know, my parents are, for the most part, originally Iranian. In fact, I was born in Tehran, however I’ve spent most of my meaningful existence in the place I now call home; England.

I may be biased, but Iran is a very beautiful country. It has a very rich heritage and is a wonderfully cultured place, with scorching summers and the whitest winters. You can see the history bursting out along every pavement and every dated building.

Now as I say all this – I’m not ignorant of the political dynamics that have run alongside this history, but what is absolutely incredible is that regardless of the anthropological influence, the traditions have remained cemented and continue to be passed along generations.

I understand that many people have a certain degree of apprehension when it comes to visiting a country that is so vastly different to places they are more familiar with, but I encourage you to visit if you get the chance – you won’t regret it!

My perspective, though, is perhaps a little different from yours. I am the child of Iranian parents, and I have family in Iran. Therefore, I am not treated like a tourist would be – there are assumptions made about me understanding the culture and traditions, being able to speak the language, and engage appropriately with people in Iran. Whilst some of these assumptions are fulfilled by what my mother has taught me growing up (like being able to speak fluently), some of these ideas were and are absolutely alien to me.

Sometimes, I felt like an imposter; I looked Iranian, I spoke Farsi, yet I still didn’t understand what people were talking about. I didn’t have the same perspectives as them on a lot of subjects, and I sometimes, I struggled to understand their viewpoints, laugh at their jokes, or share their sentiments.

And this is where the idea for writing this came from. I am certainly not the only British/[insert another nationality] child to have grown up in the UK and yet still have ties with their parents’ country of origin. However the experience I’m documenting here is something I feel that only children born in my situation may understand. How do we ensure that connection, to people vastly different to us, doesn’t fizzle out simply because of Geography?

This is something I am hoping I can work out, because although being Iranian isn’t the reigning part of my identity, it is still my identity, and it will be my children’s identity also. Whilst I am more comfortable in the presence of British culture, I still go home to Ghormeh Sabzi and rice. I don’t want to forget about such a large chunk of my heritage, but more importantly I want my future family to understand where they (partly) came from.

I’ll let you know if or when I figure it out. Until then, just know that I’m proud of being a culturally mixed child.