Every story has to start somewhere.

Sometimes seemingly insignificant pieces of the story can end up containig the truth. In a world where inequity and disparity of well-being are normalized, we must do more, say more, and be more mindful to intentionally amplify under represented voices. 

So let's start at the beginning. This is my story. 

I was born in Tehran, Iran in the last two weeks of 1974, in a fancy hospital to intellectual parents that saw themselves at the forefront of technology, arts, and feminism. The first 3 years of my life, although I remember little, were filled with love, dancing, and joy. The memories of family I have forced upon myself as imprints of what I have lost forever include tender intimate moments of play with my grandmother and aunts, quiet introspection amongst wild flowers and trickling creeks, and most important, the feeling of belonging; just belonging. Sometimes these memories seem so sweet, I wonder if I made them up. 

Most of my other early life memories by contrast  are unfortunately of the 1978-79 Iranian revolution; the feeling of walking between thousands of bodies at protests; the burning of my lungs due to our house being tear gased; the horrifying images of people being shot, being ripped apart; of their loved ones trying desparately to hold their bodies together; endless despair and physical pain at the hands of one's own government.

I remember my mom making endless cheese and cucumber sandwiches to pass out to the newly impoverished, and when she couldn't even find that, she passed out buttered  bread. I remember my father always carrying a gun at his hip, a knife on his leg, and an assault weapon across his back. I remember the shuffling of strangers in our house, most of them crying, unconsolable, and yet grateful to be there. I remember fearful silence, staring into strangers eyes as we all pretended we weren't being attacked, assaulted, at the brink of death. 

Just as I came to recognize myself as a person at four, I became a nomad. We escaped from Iran three months after Khomeini arrived with one suitcase each. The Iranian revolution ousted one oppressor to be replaced by a much, much worse one. We escaped to a world that didn't want us and made it clear to the fact.

By the age of six I understood well what it meant to be a refugee, even if my parents tried to hide the reality as best they could. They spent all their savings on our education and building a stable home  in hopes that we'd escape the predicaments of being foreign, forever an "other".

We were refused hoteling when we traveled across Europe due to fears that "we wouldn't leave once we were given refuge". We had our rent raised on us unexpectantly because "we were too successful for refugees". And finally, we were willingly pawned from one "safe" government back to a murderous regime in the name of diplomacy.

My story really shouldn't even be told but I was saved by America.

And that is how this began.

This is how I got here, an immigrant, a proud first generation American. This is why I choose to fight for Democracy, Inclusivity, and Feminism.

And from here, we go forward.