I’ve been debating whether or not to write this. But the truth has a pulse. And mine won’t let me rest until it’s spoken.
I was born into the Ismaili community. A proud, complicated people. Faithful, tight-knit—often too tight. My parents are related, like many others in the community. That’s not a secret. It’s practically a tradition. Marrying within. Marrying cousins. Marrying those we “know.” But what happens when everyone you know is already in your blood?
What happens is me.
I live with health issues. Asthma, diagnosed far too late. I spent years coughing, choking, gasping for air—and being blamed for it. My father still insists I don’t have asthma, even after the medical tests. To him, I’m just lazy. To my parents, love doesn’t always translate into care. Sometimes, it looks more like denial. Or silence. Or shame.
My mother gives me death glares every time I cough, as though I’m disrupting her peace on purpose. As though I’m choosing this. She tells me to stop coughing like I could just shut it off. But I didn’t choose this body.
They did.
Sultan Mohammad Shah, our 48th Imam, understood. He warned against this. He knew inbreeding came with consequences. He famously said: “Do not give your daughters, but bring daughters in.” I believe what he meant was: don’t marry only within the community—expand the gene pool. Strengthen future generations. But no one listened. Not my grandfather. Not my father. Not even now.
And now, here I am—the result.
They don’t just inbreed.
They refuse to acknowledge the harm it causes.
There’s this overwhelming need to believe their children are “normal”—just like everyone else. Any sign of illness or difference is brushed off, denied, or punished. If a child says, “My back hurts,” they don’t think scoliosis. They think laziness. If a child coughs all night, they don’t think asthma. They think you’re being a nuisance. A burden.
It’s not just medical neglect—it’s emotional gaslighting.
Your pain is never real enough for them.
Your body is never valid enough.
And your suffering? Always your own fault.
The reality is, many enter these marriages with hope. They believe that no one could love them more than their own relatives—that the family bond will make everything stronger. And for a fleeting moment, on the wedding day, there is joy. Celebration. Promise.
But soon after, family becomes in-laws—and you realize not everything is beautiful. Two siblings can be entirely different people. Familiar strangers who share a name but not a soul. And if the marriage doesn’t work out, the shame of divorce traps you together, forced to stay bound by expectations and silence.
This cycle is as painful as it is invisible. It shapes the lives of so many, and no one talks about it.
There are educated individuals among us who still marry their relatives. They face difficulties conceiving, yet their pride and ego won’t allow them to adopt a child. They must have their own—like they’re royalty or something. But we are village people. And when their child is born autistic or with other challenges, they act shocked. Like really? You didn’t see this coming? You ruined your child’s life.
Sometimes I try to bring it up with my father. I try to tell him this isn’t just about asthma—it's about years of a community refusing to evolve. He calls it speculation.
But he doesn’t suffer what I do.
He doesn’t live with this body.
He doesn’t wake up struggling to breathe.
He doesn’t wonder, every day, if it could have been different.
It’s easy to call it speculation when it’s not your lungs.
It’s easy to call it imagination when it’s not your life.
Sometimes I wonder who I would’ve been if just one part of my bloodline were different. If my mother or father had been someone else. I once shared that thought with a friend, and she said, “But then you wouldn’t be you.”
And I remember thinking, “What’s wrong with that?”
Maybe I wouldn’t have been born at all.
Maybe I would’ve been an angel in the sky—breathing freely. No wheezing, no coughing, no shame. Just light.
Because the truth is, I have seen what life can look like outside this circle. My cousins, the ones who aren’t inbred, are sharper. Healthier. More accomplished. And I can’t help but compare myself and wonder—what was I robbed of before I was even born?
I know the current Aga Khan will likely never hear my words.
But I still want to speak them.
I say this not as a rebel, not to defy—but because I want better for those who come next. I speak as someone born from this community, even if I no longer bow to every part of it. I am Zoroastrian by belief now, but my blood still runs through your Jamats.
Please—make a farman.
Your people are not the kind to change gently. They do not shift unless they are made to. That is not slander—it is truth. And if you truly love your followers, then please say it out loud:
Stop the inbreeding.
Open the doors.
Let fresh blood in.
Break the cycle.
Do it for the ones not yet born.
So they won’t suffer what I do.
So they won’t be silenced in their own homes.
So they won’t have to ask themselves, “What’s wrong with not being me?”
Let it stop with me.
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