A Convert’s Journey Back to the Fire
There has not been a moment in my life when I didn’t feel Zoroastrian.
Sure, I didn’t know the word for it when I was young. But I grew up with Faravahar symbols in my home and the Shahnameh on my bookshelves. I was raised on the legends of Rostam, on fire as purity, on truth as the ultimate virtue. Even as a child, I was drawn to light — not just metaphorically, but as a living force.
Zoroastrianism wasn’t something I discovered. It was something I remembered.
But on paper, I was born into another faith.
My family comes from the Shia Ismaili Nizari tradition — a sect often rejected by both Shia and Sunni Muslims for its reformist philosophy. We were the Muslims who were called not real Muslims. We were ridiculed, silenced, and sometimes persecuted. So, from a young age, I understood what it meant to belong and yet be treated as though I didn’t.
And even within that complex faith, I had questions I could no longer ignore.
Yes, Ismailis still celebrate Islamic holidays. I grew up attending Eid celebrations and marking Ramadan. But I remember thinking: What is the point of belonging to a faith if even those within it do not recognize you?
Perhaps if the Ismaili community had formally broken from the Muslim umbrella, I might have remained. But I couldn’t continue identifying with a religion whose foundation I did not believe in. I didn’t see Prophet Mohammad as a moral example. I couldn’t understand why I was expected to pray in Arabic — as if God spoke only one language. I didn’t believe in calling God Allah.
If God is truth and light, then God cannot be the author of both mercy and cruelty.
There were too many contradictions in Islam that I could no longer make excuses for. A prophet involved in war, a theology that blurred good and evil — and the belief that both justice and injustice came from the same divine source.
That was the breaking point.
Because I knew — deep in my bones — that God could not be both. That if there is light, it must come from a place of light. If there is darkness, it is not divine.
Zoroastrianism, in all its simplicity and clarity, gave me that peace.
Ahura Mazda is pure wisdom. Evil is not divine. Life is a matter of choice, not blind submission.
I had always possessed nationalistic sentiments — not out of arrogance, but because I mourned what had been lost. Islam had never been our native religion. It was imposed — a colonial force that replaced temples with mosques, fire with fear, and joy with shame. It stripped our culture, silenced our women, rewrote our history.
What has it given us in return? Generations of despair.
So no — I didn’t convert to Zoroastrianism. I returned to it.
But no one tells you about the loneliness.
Not the grief of leaving Islam. That’s loud, that’s expected. The deeper ache is when you finally step into the Zoroastrian community and realize: no one left the door open for you.
You attend services, but people avoid eye contact. You volunteer, but feel invisible. You believe with your whole heart — and still feel like an outsider.
The community is tight-knit. Parsis all know each other. Iranis all know each other. I knew no one.
I had two choices: hide away or force myself in.
I chose the latter. I showed up. I volunteered. I asked how I could serve. I offered my time, my energy, my sincerity.
And then something unexpected happened.
When you force yourself in, and people see you, they start to respond. They offer a smile. A wave. A hug. Even those whose names you don’t know — they become khaleh and amo, aunts and uncles, in that quiet, tender way that only tight-knit communities can.
Some people saw my sincerity. And to them — I owe so much.
They welcomed me, acknowledged my love for the faith, and treated me not as a guest, but as a fellow firekeeper.
Had it not been for their kindness, I wouldn’t have made it this far.
But others used my desire to belong against me.
I wasn’t looking for power. I was looking for home.
But sometimes, the price of admission was too high.
Still, I stayed. I stayed because the fire in my soul is real. Because truth led me here. Because Ahura Mazda doesn't require a bloodline — only the courage to choose rightly.
When I finally had my Navjote — the initiation into the faith — it wasn’t just a ceremony. It was an act of spiritual reclamation. A declaration that I am not waiting for permission anymore. I am here. I have always been here.
And I will stay — not as a guest, not as a charity case — but as a Zoroastrian in full.
A Message to the Firekeepers
To those born into this faith: be proud of your inheritance. But don’t mistake it for ownership. The fire does not belong to any one family, region, or name. It belongs to truth. And anyone who lives by that truth deserves a seat beside it.
You risk nothing by letting others in — but you risk everything by keeping the flame to yourself.
I am Zoroastrian. Not by birth. But by choice.
And what greater offering is there than a truth chosen freely?
Closing Reflection
Islam taught me to worship Mohammad, Ali, Hassan, and Hossein, and to abide by the will of Allah.
But Zoroastrianism taught me how to be human.
It showed me that faith is not about blind submission to figures or fate, but about choosing truth, embracing responsibility, and living with courage.
In the fire, I found not only my past but my future — a path illuminated by light, reason, and the sacred call to asha.
Comments
Post a Comment