Blog
Survivor’s Guilt
A few weeks ago, I was horrified to find myself online, in the middle of booking a plane ticket to Iran. I know part of me really wants to be with my sisters and brothers at the moment when they’re on the cusp of ending forty years of tyranny and oppression. But another part of me was terrified to realize what a suicide mission I was planning.
East Meets West
Spending time in Istanbul this summer has helped me redefine my relationship with my family on my own terms. When I was a child in Iran, the idea of a relationship on my own terms meant absolutely nothing. Relationships were set in stone: people expected me to act and communicate in fixed ways. My only choices were to stay or go, to submit or rebel. So I rebelled, which was necessary, but also exhausting.
The Difference Between Isolation and Solitude
As humans, we need both connection and solitude. Even if we’re introverts, we still need intimacy, touch, and social contact. Even if we’re extroverts, we still need to be alone sometimes. Many people are scared of solitude because they confuse it with isolation. So what’s the difference?
A Doctor’s Note
When I was a teenager, my mother and stepfather became obsessed with my virginity. I was sexually abused as a child, so I hadn’t been a virgin for a long time, but no one wanted to talk about that. They wanted to talk instead about the boys they insisted I flirted with — most of all, Reza — all of whom I’d done absolutely nothing with. But my parents’ suspicions only increased.
Meha
I didn’t expect that meeting Meha was going to keep me up at night, but it did. In my dreams, those days, I was always on a boat in the middle of a dark ocean, when a bigger boat, full of male guards, stopped mine to arrest me and take me back to my family, who had paid for my abduction. I woke up screaming in my bed, night after night. It wasn’t Meha’s fault, of course…
The Hustler
I’m really good at ping pong. Or at least, I used to be. Lately, a lot of people have been beating me, again and again. I take it as a sign of my progress. Let me explain. When you are a homeless, undocumented immigrant, you need to be resourceful. Never knowing where your next meal will come from heightens your sense of survival.
I Heard His Voice…
Marco was waiting for me outside Jivamukti Yoga Studios, leaning against a white Ferrari. He held the door for me and I got in. “Okay, yoga girl,” he said. “What do you feel like eating?” “I don’t care,” I said. “Let’s just drive.” This was our first date. Spring 1998.
I Ran from Iran
It wasn’t easy to find the right Ali Mohamedian on Facebook. That name is about as common in Persian as “John Smith” is in English. But I was determined to make amends, after all these years. And to thank the man who was responsible for getting me out of Iran. “Atash, is that really you?”
