I’ve lived half of my life in Iran and half in Canada, and sometimes it feels like I belong to both places and neither. I grew up during years when the world around me felt heavy. There was a revolution, then war. I remember how early on, we all became aware of things that were too big for us, loss, fear, silence. But somehow, even in those quiet and difficult years, I started to notice beauty. Light through a curtain. The shape of a shadow. The softness of my mother’s hands. I didn’t know it then, but I was already seeing the world like an artist.

I’ve always been quiet. Not the kind to talk much in big groups. I listen more than I speak. Over time, I learned to express myself through images rather than words. That’s where I feel most honest.