On April 6, 2025, we gathered at St. Paul for Iran Through Stories, an evening filled with heartfelt memories, reflections, and experiences from the Iranian community. Through personal stories told in both Farsi and English, we celebrated the richness of Iranian culture and life and the connections between generations, both in Iran and across Minnesota.
We invite you to read these stories, feel the emotions behind them, and experience the beautiful diversity of Iranian voices.
Thank you to all our storytellers for their openness and to everyone who joined us in making this evening so special.
My Dream Iran
By SH
It had been almost 21 years since I had been thinking about Iran every single day. I was an immigrant who carried Iran with her everywhere she went! Iran was flowing in my heart and soul. Most people said: Sahar, you were 12 years old when you
immigrated with your family. You were young. Oddly, you are so attached to Iran. Since age 12, when I immigrated with my family to Minnesota, USA, where I was born, I have been learning English. But, because I missed Iran so much and loved the
Persian language, whenever I was with first, second, or third generation Iranian immigrants, I would speak Persian, even if they responded in English. And I always wrote my diary in Persian, maybe because my emotions and way of being were deeply tied to the Persian culture.
I lived long-term in three different cities in the US and Canada, and I also travelled to various other cities. Most of my close friends were other Iranian immigrants. I was also friends with immigrants from other countries. I had friends from across the globe. Yet, my heart was always in Iran! My soul was always searching for Iran! And Whoever or wherever reminded me of Iran would become a part of my life.
Even though I was 12 when we immigrated with my family, I was even born in the US, 9 years that I grew up in Iran from age 3 to 12, had built the core of my personality, and it was the dreamiest section of my life. My first memories from childhood are from Iran! I grew up in an apartment complex named Doostaan (Friends) located in Doostaan Street, Shiraz, Iran. My social circle was vast, rich, and diverse. The door to our home and our neighbors’ homes were always open to each other! The doors to the homes of my school friends and our family friends were also open to me! And the doors to the homes of our relatives and friends in other cities were also open to us! In the Iranian culture, the door to our homes and hearts was open to each other! Very much open! We were each other’s companions and empathetic shoulders in the moments of life. In the Doostaan apartment complex, I had some friends who were my playmates for many years, and we played the most creative and beautiful games together. And over there was a treasure filled with stories and memories.
I played with my friends every day, and I related a lot to the people in my life. I went to school with joy every day, and my teachers and classmates were like my family. We would mess around and study together with my classmates. The children of my parents’ friends were also friends with me, and we would hang out together. I would make unique memories with every person who was my friend. And we would play out our imagination together. We had adventures and explorations outside in the streets, alleys, and nature.
The Iran that I carried with me in my heart was the kindness, love, as well as the tangible and intangible Iranian culture! I tried for 21 years to forget Iran… but it did not work out. My biggest dream, every day, was to return to Iran. I was supposed to follow the American dream! Yet my dream was Iran! And for many years, I carried this dream hidden in my own heart.
My own family, as well as our Iranian immigrant friends, were not interested in returning to live in Iran. And I usually heard stories and news about pain and danger in Iran. And I knew that I had to go on my own to live in Iran. But I could not believe that was possible.
Suddenly, last year, my grandmother in Iran became sick, and my aunt said her doctor warned that she will not stay alive for too many more days. I became sick myself from hearing this news, and was not sure if I should go to Iran or not. My grandmother was one of the most important people in my life. Because my aunt and others told me not to go to Iran, I told myself that one day I will not go, and that day I was feeling terrible, because I felt that I deeply wanted to be by my grandmother’s side. So, I went to Iran and took care of her while also finding new friends in Tehran, where my grandmother was. And it was during this time that I noticed I was ready to live in Iran by myself. And today, almost one year has passed since I have been living on my own in Iran. And I am in love with Iran. I was by my grandmother’s side up until the last moments of her life. She left this world after a few months. And she brought me to Iran to be by her side.
Find a way or make a way
By AB
I’d like to share an experience from back when I was still an undergraduate student in Iran. Before I begin, let me briefly clarify for our American audience that since the 1979 revolution, or more precisely, the Iran hostage crisis following the revolution, there has been no U.S. embassy in Iran. Due to complicated international relations, Iranians must travel to third countries, often requiring additional visas, to apply for a U.S. visa.
My story begins in early 2010, when I received my acceptance from Cornell University. Naively, I underestimated the urgency of scheduling my visa interview. Realizing my mistake too late, I desperately booked the only available slot at the U.S. Embassy in Tbilisi, Georgia—a city I’d never even heard of. After an exhausting journey through Turkey, my hopes were
immediately crushed when the embassy rejected me, saying they weren’t familiar enough with Iranian cases to approve my student visa. I returned home heartbroken, but determined not to give up, I reminded myself: “Find a way or make a way.” Have you ever tried to dodge an issue, only for it to hit you twice as hard later? Well, I did…
Returning home, I faced five consecutive final exams. These were the hardest electrical engineering core courses—ones I’d deliberately postponed to avoid impacting my GPA negatively during grad school applications, as they were infamous for their low passing rates.
Since I’d been focused entirely on applications and the visa process, I hadn’t attended most classes or submitted much homework, hoping I would somehow miraculously ace the finals. Extreme sleep deprivation, intense pressure, and perhaps some luck allowed me to scrape by, but those five brutal days without sleep created a domino effect —every small oversight
compounded into bigger problems. I barely survived.
Just as the exams ended, I received an unexpected lifeline: an emergency visa appointment at the U.S. Embassy in Dubai, set for just two days later. Frantically, I began securing my paperwork, only to discover a new directive from the government. Have you ever had a president known as a self-praise specialist and conductor of controversy? Well, we did… At the time of President Ahmadinejad, his government forbade public universities from providing supporting documents for military service exemption to all students intending to study in the United States. In desperation, I forged a student verification letter using official stationery from the University of Tehran’s Faculty of Engineering. A Ministry of Science official instantly caught me, leaving me panicked and frozen. Acting quickly, I discreetly replaced the forged letter with an older, genuine one already in my file from the previous attempt to travel to Georgia. Disaster was narrowly avoided, but the emotional turmoil was immense.
My anxiety escalated further the next day, as I rushed to obtain my mandatory military exemption minutes before the office closed. A friend literally held the door of the military base open, enabling me to complete the process just in time. Exhausted and sleep deprived, I didn’t manage to print out my essential documents. Have you ever mistakenly packed your father’s suit instead of your own? Well, I did…
In a chaotic blur, I grabbed a bag, threw in whatever seemed right, and hurried to the airport, unaware of the trouble waiting ahead. At the airport the following morning, border officials stopped me from exiting the country. I helplessly watched as my plane departed without me, as if it carried away all my hopes. Reality felt cruel and surreal, but again I repeated, “Find a way or make a way.” I had to spend a frantic day resolving an entire week’s worth of paperwork issues, eventually managing to catch another flight later that evening.
Arriving in Dubai at midnight, utterly exhausted, I realized I had forgotten to print my hotel reservation—yet another domino from sleeplessness. Two frantic hours passed before a stranger kindly helped me locate and find my way to the hotel. At 4:30 AM, while preparing for my interview, I opened my Yahoo email—my only digital storage at the time. That’s when I saw it: an unread message from my thesis supervisor. My heart sank as I read: “It has come to my attention that there is much for you to learn about research and ethics. I have decided to fail your bachelor’s thesis and prevent you from graduating. Have a good day!”
Reality fractured. I was paralyzed by shock, disbelief, confusion, and fear. Why now, of all times? Was the universe mocking me? Had someone sabotaged me out of jealousy because of my acceptance into Cornell? Questions overwhelmed me. Time stopped, yet I had no room to process any of it. My entire future depended on the interview just hours away, forcing me to suppress all my emotions and push forward. I asked the hotel concierge to arrange a taxi to the U.S. Embassy. After half an hour of driving, the confused driver stopped in the middle of the desert, insisting this empty patch of sand was the embassy. Disoriented and anxious, standing alone in Dubai’s scorching June heat, panic started to rise—I couldn’t take any more setbacks. Eventually, another taxi rescued me. I arrived at the real embassy feeling emotionally drained and physically exhausted, unaware that another storm was just about to hit me.
At the U.S. Embassy, humiliation struck again when the zipper of my dad’s suit broke during the security checks, exposing me to another wave of embarrassment. My face burned with shame as I awkwardly tried to hide the suit’s opening, painfully aware of curious stares around me. For four endless hours in that hot, crowded waiting room, the anxiety intensified
because the interview numbers displayed on the board were scrambled randomly—every time a new number flashed, my heart jumped, thinking it could finally be mine. I couldn’t close my eyes for even a moment of rest or loosen my choking tie, knowing there would be only seconds between my number appearing and the start of my interview. My mind became
a battlefield, torn between exhaustion, discomfort, and relentless echoes of my supervisor’s devastating email, “It has come to my attention that there is much for you to learn about research and ethics. I have decided to fail your bachelor’s thesis and prevent you from graduating. Have a good day!” Each minute felt like an eternity as anxiety and self-doubt filled me with troubling questions: Would this nightmare ever end? Was I destined to fail after everything I’d endured? In that chaos, the broken zipper felt symbolic—as if my entire world was unraveling, piece by piece, beyond my control.
When my interview finally arrived, I approached the officer window, heart pounding, ready to answer the countless questions I’d rehearsed in my mind. Yet, to my astonishment, the officer asked only one simple question: “What’s your name?” Confused, I gave him the answer, expecting a deeper conversation to follow; perhaps an opportunity to share a bit of my story, the hardships I’d endured, and the sleepless nights that brought me there. After all I’d been through, I felt I deserved a proper interview, a chance to explain myself, or at least some acknowledgment of the journey behind me. Instead, the officer quietly typed something on his computer, glanced briefly at me, and then casually said, “You’re clear.”
Those brief words provided only momentary relief. Little did I know, my case had entered administrative processing—a bureaucratic limbo delaying my visa by six long months, ultimately costing me my scholarship and my fall semester. Looking back now, I realize this immigration journey taught me invaluable lessons about resilience and determination. Behind every immigrant’s journey are unseen struggles, emotional turmoil, and incredible strength. Even in our darkest moments, we always have a choice: “Find a way or make a way.”