Humber Literary Review · Vol. 10 Issue 2
Queen of the Mountains
I left Iran with two suitcases and a backpack brimming with clothes and books, the essentials. I left behind the rest of my belongings in my room at my parents' home, in Tehran. I assumed I would go back every year for a visit and gradually bring what I'd left to my new home.
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The Ex-Puritan · Issue 58
Scenes I Thought I Would Never See Again
I was five or so, standing in a line with my mother for rationed butter and sugar on a sizzling, hot summer day. Butter had been out of stock for months, and I hadn't had my favourite breakfast for so long that I had forgotten how it even tasted.
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ROOM Magazine · Ancestors 45.1
The Samovar
Like many other Iranians, my mother visits the cemetery at the end of each year, right before Nowruz — Persian New Year — to honor her deceased loved ones. She brings hyacinth bouquets in a rainbow of colors and Sabzeh to lay on the tombs.
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The New Quarterly
The Lut Desert
I grew up in the 80s and 90s in Iran. My parents' travel methods were basically focused on road trips — they wanted my brother and I to see and feel our diverse country and culture in a tangible way.
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The Globe and Mail
Writing in Longhand Gives My Stories More Soul
I remember how hypnotizing it was as a child looking at my father's pen scribbling on paper. He is among the last generation of writers who still use a pen on a sheet of paper. "Typing is soulless," he says.
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Hamilton Spectator
How My Mother Filled Her Empty Nest with African Violets
Ever since I can remember my mother has loved growing plants. There were always two or three large ones in the corners of the living room — until my brother left home ten years ago, and she started wildly growing African violets.
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Hamilton Spectator
On Human Rights Day, Let's Stand Up for Our Rights and for Those of Others
Dec. 10 marks Human Rights Day, an opportunity for the world to celebrate global progress toward human dignity and also to recognize how far we have to go to achieve what we deserve.
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Waterloo Region Record
I Am My Home
Last winter, I took a drawing class in an art gallery. The first day of class everyone introduced themselves and talked about their favourite artists — but when my turn came, I felt uneasy. The first thing I said after my name was, "I am an immigrant."
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Waterloo Region Record
How I Got My True Canadian Experience
It all started with a bad feeling on a sunny day in May. I was washing my face in the bathroom and couldn't take my eyes away from the mirror. Almost two years had passed since I immigrated to Canada. I had two master's degrees, but failed to find a job.
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