A Personal Reflection of Spiritual and Cultural Identity

by Melissa Gheisari

Upuntil about nine months ago, I considered myself irreligious. As a student of philosophy, I came to believe that the existence of God is too good to be true. I studied proofs against the existence of God made by white men who lived hundreds of years ago. Hume’s philosophical atheism and Sartre’s existentialism were among my favorites. Although atheism felt most logical to me at the time, I felt that there was something missing from my life. I remember a distinct feeling that I would come to terms with my spirituality eventually and that I still had more to learn.

Ironically, my heart opened up to spirituality through philosophy. In my classes, I learned of metaphysical proofs for the existence of God made by philosophers like Ibn-Sina, Al-Ghazali, and Spinoza. I realized that both sides of the debate are logical. Either argument could be true. Still, I was hesitant to choose to believe in God. It felt like it wasn’t a choice for me to make. How could I just suddenly become a believer? It didn’t resonate in my soul or my heart.

Over the summer, I stayed at my family’s vacation home in Istanbul. Every afternoon, my Kurdish neighbor would sit in front of her home and read the Qur’an. Every morning at dawn, the azan played by the local mosque would echo through my neighborhood. It would drift into the windows of my neighbors’ home, and it would drift into mine. Istanbul is not too Western, but not too Eastern; not too Muslim, but not too secular either. It felt right, it felt like I belonged there. I was comfortable being in a city that is somewhere in-between.

From Istanbul I flew to Barcelona, where I completed a semester abroad. During this time, Jina Mahsa Amini was killed by the Islamic Republic’s “morality police”. I walked from Plaça Catalunya through La Rambla with hundreds of KurdishIranians chanting Jin, Jiyan, Azadi. People wanted to know where I was from – “I live in America but my family is Iranian.” I explained the situation in Iran to at least one person every day. I flew to Granada to see the Alhambra – twice. It was the most beautiful monument I have ever seen. A kind Moroccan hijabi woman pulled me into an alleyway to do henna on my hand while my Palestinian friend kept watch. We drank tea and ate date cookies in an underground parlor run by Egyptians.

I went back to Istanbul during my semester abroad. I took my friends to the Hagia Sofia. For the first time in my life, I had a deeply profound spiritual experience. It was during evening prayer. I sat down with the older women and while they performed their Salah I remained seated with my eyes closed. I have seen my father pray enough times to where I know the postures of Salah, but there is so much I don’t know, like the recitations of the Qur’an in Arabic, the timing of the movements, or if women are to use different postures than men. I sat there and the recitation took over my body to the point where I no longer felt like I was in my body. I felt the devotion – the pure love – of the older women praying next to me. Images of my devoted grandmother and aunts living in Iran passed through me. As did visions of the fearless women of Iran who are fighting for freedom from an oppressive regime.

Before the Iranian revolutions of 1911 and 1979, Islam flourished in Iran for hundreds of years. Likewise, Islam flourished because of Iranians. The anti-religious policies of the Pahlavi dynasty and the ill-constructed religious policies of the Islamic regime gave way to the tainted relationship that exists between Iranians and Islam today. The regime has pushed an entire generation of Iranians away from Islam. The religion has tragically been weaponized against us; their destructive, controlling ideologies were forced upon the Iranian people as a nonnegotiable, definitive way of life. Those in the diaspora feel as though they were left with no choice but to flee their homeland in hopes of a better life for their kin – a life with the freedoms that the Islamic Republic refuses to allow in Iran.

Islam is not defined by the Islamic Republic’s ideologies or practices. Islam manifests in a plethora of different ways – reducing the religion to the doings of the Islamic Republic would be illogical. Every Muslim has their own subjective experience with Islam and a unique relationship with God. Islamophobic tropes tend to generalize followers of Islam: they are fanatics, they are Arab, their women are oppressed. These tropes are plainly false and rooted in racism. For example, the country with the biggest Muslim population is Indonesia – a nonArab country.

It would be easier to exist by denying my affinity for Islam, but I would be lying to myself in doing so. Islam has reaffirmed my longing for knowledge and critical thinking. In the same way that I am a student of philosophy, I am a student of Islam. I am fortunate enough to take courses on topics like Islamophobia and Interpretations of the Qur’an. My Muslim friends, educators and family members have taught me lessons beyond how to pray or make wuzu. They emulate unwavering love and devotion through their existence. Through observing them, I have gained a deeper understanding of what kind of person I want to be.

This Islamic introspection has been parallel with an exploration of Iranianness; an ambition to cultivate Iranian knowledge, music, poetry and other art forms. This past semester, the Iranian Students Cultural Organization at Berkeley (ISCO) has been my life. For our Nowruz show, I practiced an Irooni dance and a performance of Soltan-e Ghalba alongside my closest Iranian friends. I don’t think we realized it in the moment, but it’s obvious to me now that we were healing through cultural and artistic expression. Being in ISCO has heightened my realization of how Iranianness plays a significant role in the shaping of my values. Proximity to Iranian diasporic art has shown me that the struggle can be beautiful and painful at the same time.

My time at Berkeley has been transformative to say the least. I am leaving Berkeley with a sense of self that I never had before. This wouldn’t have been possible if it weren’t for spaces intended for SSWANA1 students like ISCO2, Perspective, and MENARRC3 These student organizations have allowed me to find both comfort and power in my identity. There is a lot more work to be done, and it can only be done through community. The struggle of Iranians is intertwined with that of the Palestinians, the Syrians, the Afghans, the Yemenis, the Kurds, and so on. We must abolish fear and foster solidarity at all levels: in our student groups, in our workplaces, in our homes. This is the path toward liberation, and this is the path I take as I graduate Berkeley and navigate the world. □