"Mah, Shamim! Esmesh Mah-e" (The moon, Shamim! It's called the moon!)
my Agha-joon (dear grandad - what we called him in Farsi) says to me, with a slightly confused but regardless joyous tone over a Whatsapp video call. He had abruptly interrupted our regular conversation to remind me of a memory he had been thinking of recently. To set the scene, he was over from Iran, visiting us in London maybe around 15 odd years ago. He described me looking up at the illuminating white circle in the night sky and saying "esmesh chieh?" (what's its name?). To which, he replied "Mah Shamim! Esmesh mah-e!". At the time, it felt like an incredibly random story but nevertheless touched me immensely that despite his dementia and progressive decline he still remembered that little story of me and the moon. I knew he had started to get more confused over the last few months, but what I didn't and couldn't have known was that that was the last time he would speak full sentences to me, and in fact the last time we would ever speak at all.
Being a second-generation immigrant is a complex and double-edged experience. I have the luxury of divulging in a rich culture, incredible food, traditions and dance. I can connect with my roots by speaking my mother's mother tongue but simultaneously, I can access the richness that the West offers without feeling as though my experience has diluted. However, what I hadn't or maybe didn't want to consider was how difficult it would be to be 2500 miles away from family when the time comes to say goodbye to a family member. All the beautiful traditions of Shab-e-Yalda, Christmas, Nowruz and Easter suddenly meant very little to me when I was sat at my kitchen table doing some work when my mum rang to reluctantly let me know that my Agha-joon had passed away the night before she flew out. Similarly, I wasn't thinking of the cultural perks of being a dual citizen when my mum, who is the eldest sibling in her family, was grieving on facetime in the sitting room with her family for my grandfather's chehelom (the 40th day after someone passes - up until this point, mourners continue to wear black, men refrain from shaving, women from wearing makeup or colouring their hair out of respect). Not to put a downer, but you get the idea. Being so far from my homeland (vatan) has its challenges.
As one year of my grandfather's passing approaches, and my mother is back in Iran, writing about my grandfather felt like the most feasible way to connect with him until I can hopefully go visit him in the summer. After someone passes, their loss can feel almost insurmountable. For a while, following the news of his passing, thinking of my agha-joon was almost too painful an experience which stopped all of the fun and joyous memories from seeping through. When time goes on a little bit more, I can feel past the nettles and remember the softer moments also.
I'd like to now share a story from Shahnameh; an epic poem written by the Persian poet Ferdowsi.
The Moon and the Beautiful Princess
Once upon a time, in the great Persian empire, there was a beautiful princess called Mahinbanu. Her beauty was said to shine like the moon itself and her name even meant 'moon-faced'. She was often compared to the moon, and some even thought she captured the moon's divine light. The Moon, personified as a divine entity, became enchanted by her beauty and began to shed its light upon her every night, making her even more mesmerising. As Mahinbanu’s fame spread, the noble prince Khosrow arrived at her kingdom, and the two fell deeply in love. However, their love was challenged by the Moon’s jealousy, as it could not bear to see someone else share the attention it had once claimed. In a fit of envy, the Moon darkened the sky, taking away its light and leaving the world in darkness.
Khosrow, wise and compassionate, recognised the Moon’s sorrow and climbed the tallest mountain to speak to it. He assured the Moon that love is not a finite thing, and that Mahinbanu’s beauty was a reflection of its own light. Moved by his words, the Moon relented, restoring its radiance and filling Mahinbanu’s life with light once more. From that day on, the Moon became a silent guardian of their love, watching over them with its gentle glow. Whenever the moon shines brightly in the night sky, it is said to be a reminder of the eternal bond between Mahinbanu and Khosrow, and the Moon’s acceptance of their love.
I like to now look up at the moon and think of the eternal bond between my grandfather and I.
Sham x
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