The Persian carpet lies silently in my father’s living room, no defiance, no opposition, no nothing.
I wonder how many Iranians have walked on it, and where it once used to lie.
The rich and harmonious colours shine through the wool.
Glimmering beams through a spec of light,
Of a luxurious golden yellow and a deep red damask.
The intricate patterns of the Mina-Khani design and Shah Abbasi medallions slither through the carpet.
The Symbols of Eagles representing good fortune, and Leopards representing bravery, run through the fabric. They stand strong.
They all trace back to our culture, our heritage.
Something I have never been a part of.
I imagine lavish parties.
Row after row of carpets, just like this one,
Existing magnificently elsewhere.
I imagine them praying together, most definitely laughing,
And the people of Iran dancing with fluidity and freedom.
Respected, celebrated, and adored.
My waist-length black curls remind me of the natural serum that blesses,
And curses, any Persian woman that walks.
I wonder if they were bullied in their own country.
My country.
A place I have never been.
My eye draws to the great Iranian poet Omar Khayyam’s book that my father still adores.
I remember as a young child;
Pages and pages which encased silver and gold,
Standing so delicately,
As if it were handmade.
The bold and bright font of the Persian language, Farsi,
Which looked so eloquent on the glossy paper.
‘Be happy for this moment.’ I could hear my father say.
He liked to read me his poetry,
The poetry I struggled to read.
I stare at myself in the mirror and talk out loud.
My voice sounds English, my skin is white, my nose is British. That’s what my father said.
But I don’t belong anywhere. Not here, not there.
So, I’ll sit happily, enjoying rice over potatoes, and wine over chai.
Although there are downs to mixed identity,
The confusion of who you are,
And the ignorance of others,
The stares when out with my Persian father, and the smiles with my English mother.
I love the way I take ownership over my identity, every day, expressively.
© Rosie Cherag-Zade, 2021