My Dream for Iran: Laughter, Love, and Freedom

A few years ago, during the pandemic, I posted a glamorous makeup tutorial on social media from my childhood home. A stranger commented, “So you're Persian, you're non-binary, and you're queer. What age did your dad leave you?”

The comment struck me as ironically amusing, not only because my father has always been my staunchest supporter, but because he had actually filmed that video for me since I lacked a tripod. In response, I created a humorous TikTok about "trying to connect" with my straight dad. It was lighthearted, as anyone familiar with me knows my father and I share a very close bond. I posted the video without much thought and went to sleep. Upon waking, it had garnered 10 million views.

Our family's history is rooted in our parents' departure from Iran after the revolution, their meeting in France, and subsequent immigration to the United States for work. In our household, creativity and love were always paramount. I came out as gay to my parents around the age of 11. Their initial concern was how I would navigate school. Like many, the adversities I encountered strengthened my resilience. I also discovered the power of laughter, a tool I never anticipated would become so integral to my daily life. To borrow a phrase from my friend Jonathan van Ness of *Queer Eye*, “Can you believe?”

Later, I also came out as non-binary, finding my freedom in gender fluidity. As I explored my sexuality and gender in adulthood, I recall numerous discussions with my father about the complexities of being an Iranian-American with these intersecting, marginalized identities. It's a delicate balance to simultaneously observe how Western beauty and femininity standards influence gender perception through rising homophobia and transphobia in the US, while also acknowledging the privilege of not being in Iran, where deviating from sexual and gender norms can tragically carry the penalty of death.

As I reflect on my personal identity, thousands of miles away, the people of Iran are undergoing a similar introspection amidst escalating political tensions. They are doing so in the shadows, both literally due to frequent power outages, and figuratively, living in a state of concealment. There are countless discussions about what is or isn't appropriate for Iran or its people. As someone raised in the diaspora, I feel a pull between wanting to support *all* Iranians and the necessity of making space for those currently living in Iran. Nevertheless, it seems the most profound connection we share as Iranians is the shared aspiration for a free Iran—an Iran where its people, especially women, possess their own autonomy.