What is the most important thing in the world? It is people, it is people, it is people.

A story of Iran, and the parts they don't want you to see.

My angels! We have a very special guest piece from my beautiful friend Zahra today. Here’s a little bit about her.

Zahra Shahtahmasebi is a half-Irish, half-Iranian writer, fitness instructor, and fighter (in every sense of the word). Born in the UK and now living in Aotearoa, Zahra carries many places in her heart - but none more vivid than Iran, where she spent time with family in 2017. That visit, and the memories it left her with, are at the core of this piece. She writes in the hope that peace will one day return, and that those memories will become futures again.

---

What is the most important thing in the world? It is people, it is people, it is people.

Are there any words that can describe the horror of watching one country carry out a genocide right in front of our eyes, while world leaders sit on their hands?

Every day we search for these words, and yet there are none.

Today, they are striking Iran. They will continue to bomb Palestine. People will keep starving in the dark.

Something I learnt very quickly, being brought up in the West, is that there is limited understanding about the Middle East, because of the very carefully constructed narrative designed to show the entire region as war-torn, a war zone, a battlefield.

Something else I quickly learnt was the power of words – it’s what made me so fascinated by writing, after all – words like terrorism and extremism and hijab and how they can be used to demonise and dehumanise an entire population.

But behind every oppressive regime and twisted leader, behind the discrimination and the stereotypes and the smoke and the mirrors, there has always been another side of the story, and I am drawn again and again to the te reo Māori proverb:

He aha te mea nui o te ao? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.

What is the most important thing in the world? It is people, it is people, it is people.

The people are always forgotten, casualties and pawns in a story they don’t get any part in writing themselves.

But as an Iranian, I want you to know that our people do have a story.

It’s a story of twice-roasted pistachios, of a language I love, but am still trying to learn.

Of recipes, passed down generations, no measurements, just ‘add the herbs until it looks right’.

Of bedtime tales, a new year in March, fish and broad bean rice, a haft-seen.

Of dancing to Viguen.

Of hot summer nights sleeping on grandma’s balcony, and waking up with the sunrise.

Of my cousins, of fresh juice, then fresh bread, baked on hot stones. (Eaten with crumbly cheese, walnuts, and mint, the breakfast of dreams).

Of cooking over charcoal, of meals shared sitting down together on the floor: lamb kebab, rice, crispy tahdig. Of being full (sir shodam) but being fed more anyway.

Of tarof and treats and presents and flowers. Of hugs and kisses and laughing, always laughing.

Of ancient cities and ancient architecture. Of poetry and pottery, of turquoise and gold.

And tea, always tea, brewing in the samovar, drank straight or with nabat. And of saffron too, in the tea, in the rice, in the bread, in the ice cream.

Of lunchtime naps and late-night coffee shops, of conversations in two different languages.

Of fruit: watermelon, melon, figs, pomegranates and plums. Of walks in the mountains before dawn (because it’s still so hot).

Of being called Zari, joon, jeegar tala, azizam.

Of leaving something behind because it means you have to come back.

Of our name, of its heritage, of family, of people.

A story of home.

These are the words I could find today.

---