I’m having a bit of a hard time. Going through a rough patch. Perhaps it’s the winter blues. It’s cold, it gets dark at 4.30pm and all the leaves have fallen off the trees. Or maybe I’m tired of routine…plus, the earthquakes back home aren’t helping. I really worry for my family. You know, hence the gloomy poetry. Sorry, I feel I’m still rhyming.
So the one thing (but this thing is so darn significant that it’s OK to be A thing) that has kept/is keeping, me going is the thought of reuniting with my parents after what seems a century. Also, I miss speaking Farsi. As in real-life Farsi instead of Soulja Boy through the phone styles. I dunno, something to do with my roots, maybe.
This post “Meet the Kazemis”, inspired by Meet the Patels (hehe) is the first of the many (not too many) blog posts that shall be documenting their soon-to-come time with me.
My parents are the best people in the entire world and I honestly wouldn’t be who I am today and where I am today without them. And I don’t mean that in a cliched way, although that’s probably one of the most cliched statements eva. I mean that 100% wholeheartedly. Perhaps someday, you’ll read about it in my *fingers crossed* published memoir but for now, I’ll just say, they sacrificed a whole lot (friends, family, basic comforts) to migrate from Iran to NZ, a country where they didn’t know a word of the language or a thing about the place and they did all this, solely for the sake of me and my sister. So that we could be permitted higher-education and so, have a better and broader future.
So, without further adiue, meet maman Afsoon (Kaviani). I don’t know why she keeps her original last name. She’s the one who instilled the passion of healthy eating in me. She’s the one I’ve been crying on the phone to when things here have been excruciating and not surprisingly my blog’s biggest fan. And by that, I mean she likes EVERYTHING on Facebook and Instagram without actually ever clicking the links.
Next, Baba Sirous (Kazemi). Or Sirius as NZers mispronounce. He’s a real joker. And by that, I mean he thinks he’s funny, but he’s often just rude instead. He is the kebab master of our family. Persian kebabs, much to my disappointment, with ample meat. One day, about 6 years back, he stupidly used petrol to light his kebab charcoal because whatever he usually used wasn’t there or wasn’t working and long story short, he passed out from the fumes. Thankfully, he survived (after an ER visit!) and got back on the horse (cooked kebabs) the following day. This all took place because Baba loves EATING which places him behind my accidental eating of the whole thing(s).