Dear John,
I was in third grade when the U.S. went to war with Iraq. I’ll never forget the look in my classmate’s eyes when he pulled me aside and whispered that he was Iraqi and that his family was being bombed. His voice trembled. He was terrified. Last Friday, I woke up with that same fear; only this time, it was my family. My people.
As a first-generation Iranian-American, I grew up straddling two worlds. I was born and raised in California, immersed in American life. But at home, Iran lived in our kitchen, in our stories, in the rhythms of everyday life. I spent weekends at my grandparents’ house, where breakfast meant black tea and lavash with feta, not bacon and eggs. While others waited for Christmas, we prepared for Nowruz.
I am both Iranian and American, yet I’ve rarely felt like I fully belong in either place. My identity floats between two nations that are often at odds, and my heart is caught in that tension: half rooted in a country I know, and half in a land I’ve never set foot in. This duality isn’t mine alone. It's a shared reality for many children of immigrants. We are the diaspora babies. Those who speak perfect English but still think in our native tongues. We are fluent in both privilege and pain. We live with the opportunities this country offers, while mourning what it has taken from our communities.
In the U.S., the persecution of people like us is nothing new. My father was deported in 1982. My mother spent years fighting to bring him back. She won, but the trauma left a scar that echoes through our family to this day. And still, families like ours continue to be detained, dehumanized, and deported. But amid the loss, my parents passed down something powerful: resilience. That inheritance lives in me now. It shapes who I am, and it fuels the work I do at Alliance San Diego, where I fight every day for dignity, justice, and belonging.
