“O Iran”
By Parvin Saberi-Shakib
Our hands clutch phones like lifelines,
scrolling, searching -
for names we could have been.
To be Iranian-American
is to live in translation:
bilingual in grief.
We inherited a better life -
but at what cost?
Here, where we pay into systems
that destroy the places we love.
What do you do
when you belong everywhere
and nowhere –
when your motherland is burning
in real time,
and you cannot reach it.
In Iran, they call me American.
Here, I am “Where are you from?”-
as if my face were a map
everyone feels entitled to read.
My name -
spoken with a question mark.
but silk
in my mother tongue.
We send voice notes to cousins
we only see in summers,
like missing limbs.
Delam barat tang shode -
“I miss you.”
now
it burns in my throat.
“take care of yourself” -
a whispered wish
that isn’t enough.
Those trips to Iran
were never just vacations -
they stirred something ancestral.
Picnics in the shade,
figs ripe and sweet,
streets humming beneath my feet.
Memories swirl like shadows
at dusk -
soft, vivid,
and suddenly fragile.
I hear children laughing
through the bazaar at night,
motorcycles threading
through heat and honks,
and wonder if it
will ever sound the same.
Spices rising in the air,
diesel,
and fresh bread
pulled from brick and stone.
wrapped carefully -
a love language.
Tea steaming between us,
passed from hand to hand,
family stitched back together -
for now.
I was born in the arms of America,
but cradled by rosewater and cardamom,
raised on rice crust golden like the sun,
traditions soaked in history.
Our identities
carry the weight of centuries,
ache of jet lag,
the distance of a land
we mourn.
We translate heartbreak
for those who nod politely.
The blood of our people,
like split pomegranates -
staining the soil
we still call home.
Sorrow in the diaspora -
it blooms like saffron threads,
woven into us
like the patterns of Persian rugs.
And still,
even among ourselves -
something frays.
the quiet disorientation
of always explaining myself.
No -
not your narrative either.
Each news alert -
my body flinches
again
and again -
and life,
impossibly,
goes on.
We are Iranian-Americans.
More than headlines,
we are children of wars and revolutions -
tender and unbroken.
A story still unfolding,
still unraveling.
We are ancient empires
walking through western streets.
The echo of Hafez and Mowlana
on our lips.
We are hospitality
insisting you stay
even as the world burns.
where even goodbyes at gatherings
have second and third helpings.
one more cup of chayee,
just one more thought -
step back inside.
We are more than survival -
we are grace and elegance,
etched in calligraphy.
Made of mosaics and minarets,
Persepolis dust,
and downtown smog.
I wish you knew our joy -
how we find any excuse to dance,
beaming like sunlight
on Nowrooz morning.
I wish you could ride in taxis through Tehran traffic,
pop songs blasting from the stereo,
the city pulsing.
I wish you could see the north,
where jungle kisses sea,
fog spilling over green mountains
that stand in majestic silence.
I wish you knew
how we fill suitcases with herbs and sweets -
from dried fruits to stews,
because we don't know how to leave completely.
I am a constellation of identity:
My name -
drawn from the Pleiades,
a gathering of stars.
each syllable
a trace of legacy and longing.
written between worlds.
inscribed in the skies -
stretched across continents.
O Iran,
I haven’t seen you
for the last time.
Author Bio: Parvin Saberi-Shakib is a California-based licensed psychotherapist and writer. Her work centers on diaspora, grief, and identity, often exploring the emotional tensions at the intersection of her Iranian-American and Muslim identities.