The Loneliness of Being Iranian in the Diaspora
My Mamanbozorg (Maternal Grandmother) died on Monday, January 5th, 2026, in Iran. My family and I hadn’t seen her in roughly four years. We didn’t get to care for her or help her adjust to life in a nursing home. We didn’t witness her dementia firsthand. We said our goodbyes from afar. We watched her burial through video footage and photos. We grieved as a family on FaceTime.
This is not unusual for Iranian families outside of Iran, who don’t feel safe returning to their birth country, not even during times of grief. The Iranian government is unpredictable. They may be held on false espionage charges.
This is a layer of grief of being an immigrant that no one really talks about. To be an immigrant, especially one in exile, is to grieve not just the loss of a homeland but also the loss of loved ones. Some believe that seeing the body after death helps the living with the grief process. What about the immigrant mother who doesn’t get to hold her dying mother’s hand on her deathbed?
As I write this, Iran is once again in the headlines. Mainstream headlines are calling out the number of protester deaths. A hypocritical media is the perfect match for a hypocritical government. They assume the position of caring for the Iranian people and their human rights. When it comes to Iran, democracy and freedom matter to American media and politicians. Meanwhile, they have no problem with the slaughter of Palestinians. Palestinians’ freedom and democracy are never considered.
Everyone on the Internet has an opinion on Iran. Leftists, conservatives, monarchists, liberals, Zionists: a collision of beliefs about what’s right for the future of Iranians and Iran.
I was born and raised in Iran and lived there for 11 years. I moved to the U.S. in 1999. My family has suffered unimaginable grief and cruelty under both governments: the Pahlavi Kingdom and the current Islamic Republic. No version of the Iranian flag resonates with me. I can sit here on my comfortable couch in suburban America and write about my dreams and visions for the Iranian people.
Instead, I sit with the reality that I have no idea what Iranians really want. I don’t know what they go through day to day. I haven’t been on the ground. I haven’t spoken to them. I have a general sense from reports from friends, family, and the diaspora, but I don’t know. I don’t have the right to pretend that I do. I don’t have the right to dictate to my Western audience that I am writing on behalf of all Iranian people.
I write from the position of being an Iranian immigrant woman in my late 30s, grieving the loss of my beloved Mamanbozorg, calling my mother daily to hold her grief and to fill the gaping hole in her heart with love. I am heartbroken to see Iranians dying on the streets, their voices yet again repressed. I am angry at Western politicians who pretend to care about Iranian life for their own interests and agendas in the region. I am angry at the Iranian government, which continues to kill, repress, and quash dissent. It feels isolating to want to speak on this grief but knowing that I must do so carefully or my words will be taken out of context.
Iranians, like any other people, deserve full human rights. They deserve dignity and freedom, and the right to choose their government. What they don’t need is a Western savior.