🩸 Who Is the Imam Without You?

By the Daughter You Tried to Silence

My father said,
"You are no longer Ismaili."
And for the first time
In all my twenty-four years,
Something bloomed in my chest—
Not sorrow.
Not grief.
But pride.

I am not Ismaili.
And thank the fire for that.

When I first walked away,
When I first turned toward the flame,
I still carried you in my ribs.
Still whispered,
"But I come from an Ismaili family."
As if that were something noble.
As if your silence hadn’t bruised me
And dressed itself as peace.

But now—
Now I see what it means.

I see what you defend.
And what you abandon in the process.

I do not stand with those
Who shame their daughters
For speaking the truth.
I do not bow to leaders
Who hide from letters
And call themselves divine.

I do not belong
To a house where courage is called madness
And conformity wears the crown.

I am Zoroastrian.
Not because fire is easy—
But because it is honest.
It does not disguise its heat.
It does not call the burn a blessing
And demand your thanks.

I am Zoroastrian
Because I would rather walk through ash
With a spine
Than kneel in marble halls
With my mouth sewn shut.

You say I’m no longer one of you?
Let me make it plain—
I never truly was.

I was born to break this cycle.
Born to strike the match.
Born to raise a daughter
Who will never have to choose
Between truth and belonging.

You disowned me.
But I reclaimed myself.

And in the fire—
At last—
I am free.