There are days when joy walks through the front door of your soul.
And you say,
“Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
The day of my Navjot was one of those days.
Not because my parents came.
They did not.
Not because the hall was packed with familiar faces.
It was not.
But because someone came who had every reason not to.
A man—African-Canadian.
No ancestral tie to Zoroaster,
No name in the community,
No lineage to trace back to Persia.
He stood out like a flame in a room painted beige.
And yet, he stood.
He came.
He came because I asked.
Because friendship meant something to him.
Because respect was not a concept he reserved only for people who looked like him.
He walked into a place where the fire was called sacred,
but the glances were cold.
Where prayers rose to the heavens,
but prejudice clung to the floor like dust.
And still—he stayed.
My friend, proud and bright-eyed, said:
"Your Navjot should be in the ZSO newsletter."
She knew what it meant.
We both did.
But her father said no.
"There is a Black man in the photo. I can’t publish that."
Let that sit with you.
Let it fall on your skin like a sudden chill.
Let it sink into your bones like winter that overstays its welcome.
We speak of purity, of tradition, of fire.
But what is the use of a holy flame
if it cannot illuminate the shadows in our hearts?
Zoroaster did not preach skin color.
He preached Asha—truth.
He walked against the winds of his time
to stand for justice, wisdom, compassion,
not skin, not bloodline.
So I ask you—what is the real impurity here?
A man honoring his friend’s sacred day?
Or the hands that erase him from the frame
because his skin does not match the cloth?
I remember something else.
Norouz came.
The New Year, when light returns to the earth.
And just before midnight, he showed up again.
No announcement. No parade.
He brought me Iranian sweets.
Placed them gently in my hands.
Did not stay.
Did not ask for praise.
He honored a culture that was not his by blood
but had become his through love.
That simple gesture—
That quiet offering—
It burned brighter than the white robes
of any man who thinks God speaks only to his own reflection.
So to him, I say:
You are seen.
You are remembered.
You are written into my story,
even if they tried to crop you out of the picture.
And to the elders who denied that photo,
to the hearts shuttered by fear disguised as tradition:
You may guard your walls,
but we are building bridges.
You may hide the photo,
but you cannot erase the fire that burns in those of us who know better.
This faith is not yours to gatekeep.
This fire is not yours to hoard.
This community will not heal
by shrinking itself smaller to fit your idea of what it once was.
We are the firebirds.
We rise from the ash of silence.
We name the harm done,
And we speak the truth aloud.
And still,
we light the fire.
Comments
Post a Comment