ANAHITA SADIGHI: We come from Water, live on Earth, and dream of Flying

Anahita Sadighi: I was born in Tehran and moved to Berlin with my mother as a toddler. My father had settled here in the late 1960s. Although I’ve spent most of my life in Germany, the idea of “home” has never been fixed to a place. It is fluid, shaped by memory, language, and cultural continuity rather than geography. But I miss everything about Iran: the people, the places, and the feeling that holds them together. Above all, the warmth in how people relate to each other. There’s a softness in everyday interaction that’s hard to replicate elsewhere.

I miss all of it: the people, the places, and the atmosphere that binds them together. Above all, I long for the warmth in how people relate to each other. There’s a softness and sensibility in everyday interaction that feels deeply rooted in Iranian culture and is hard to replicate elsewhere.

Yes, though they’re not always visible at first glance. One is a necklace with the symbol of Ahura Mazda, given to me by my mother. I keep it close. It carries the traces of a civilisation shaped by early philosophical thought, artistic refinement and a profound sense of balance. It speaks to a lineage rooted in clarity and dignity and it reminds me of where I come from.

It doesn’t comfort me in a sentimental way, it grounds me. The charm reminds me of a continuity beyond urgency, of something enduring that isn’t always visible but deeply felt. It anchors me in a larger narrative, one that resists the noise of the present moment.

I would send a set of music. Music has always been my language of connection. It carries love, memory and resistance all at once. A set can travel freely, cross borders and reach people directly. It’s alive, changing with every listener and for me the most intimate way of being present when I cannot be there.

To me, it sounds like home. Like something that stays with you and grounds your spirit. It tells stories of love, memory and movement. It whispers: good thoughts, good words, good deeds. In Zoroastrianism, these are guiding principles of life. Thinking with clarity, speaking with kindness, acting with integrity. For me, it’s a reminder that dignity and love can be daily practices. Leading to well-being.

Often it’s sound, fragments of a melody, a certain tonality. Sometimes it’s scent: spices in warm oil, rosewater on skin or something sweet. These are sensory links to something continuous. They don’t describe a place, but evoke a sense of coherence. Love, in that moment, feels quiet and expansive.

It’s not one smell, but something in the air, like warmth rising from the ground or spices like saffron or jewellery rice carried through a hallway. What grounds me is when I connect with my senses and instincts, when I feel joy in life and a moment of peace. Love then feels expansive, like presence itself. As Rumi wrote: Love is the bridge between you and everything.

I wouldn’t say I’m away from my cultural roots. They’ve always been a constant, shaping my perspective, my sensibility and much of my work. What has changed is how I relate to them. Distance opens space for reinterpretation. Love, in this sense, is less about belonging and more about resonance. It’s something I carry with me, not something I return to.

More intentionally, yes. I’ve learned to be deliberate with words, gestures and rituals. Distance hasn’t weakened the bond; it has sharpened it. I pay closer attention to what continues to move with me. There’s beauty in the slowness of intentional love. It may feel quiet, but it’s never passive. It’s an active, conscious form of care.

“Delam barat tang shodeh.” It means “My heart misses you.” In Farsi, there’s a softness in the way it’s spoken, almost like a sigh. It simply holds space, like an embrace in the form of a sentence.

We exchange voice notes, old photos, sometimes just emojis that only we understand. I also speak regularly with my grandmother. We have a quiet but strong bond; she’s a deep source of inspiration for me. We send each other photos, little videos, recipes, even pictures of animals – we both love cats. These small exchanges keep our bond alive and close, no matter the distance.

Yes, I believe yearning carries a kind of love that isn’t always visible, but deeply present. It keeps you connected to something beyond the moment. A memory, a place, a person, even a version of yourself. It shapes how I move through the world. Longing isn’t absence, it’s presence in another form.

Often. Fesenjan or just warm flatbread with herbs. Also omelet in a copper pan, saffron milk rice or pistachio ice cream with chunks of cream. Making these dishes feels like a ritual. In Persian culture, food is one of the most sincere ways love is expressed. It’s an offering, a form of care, a way of bringing people together. Sharing a meal, or even just the smell of something cooking, creates a sense of belonging. It reminds me that love can be generous, sustaining and ultimately full of joy.

Yes, I’ve experienced both: loving someone while longing for somewhere else. Sometimes even loving more than one person at once, in different ways. We’re multidimensional beings. Love doesn’t divide, it multiplies – at least in its most generous form. It’s a balancing act: being emotionally present with someone while part of you is still walking through another landscape, another language. When shared with someone open to that complexity, it can lead to a deeper connection. And longing is always there. It’s part of being human. We come from water, live on earth and dream of flying. That space between here and elsewhere, that’s where yearning lives. Not as absence, but as a quiet force that keeps us moving.

Nostalgia plays a role, but not a defining one. As I get older, I notice it surfacing in small ways. Through music, images certain places. But I don’t dwell there. I’m more interested in presence, in how love unfolds in real time. Memory can be tender, yes, but it can also blur. I try to stay close to what’s real now.

The air smells like food and something festive, warm spices, grilled vegetables, sweet rice. Family is visiting. My cousins arrive, one after the other, loud and laughing. Women from different generations gather in the same room, moving between the kitchen and the music. Someone starts to dance. its probably my cousin. Someone else brings tea. Everything overlaps. like a kaleidoscope, The senses are fully awake.

Home, like a lover, isn’t just a place, it’s who I am when I feel most myself. For those of us moving between cultures, home often exists in the in-between: a space shaped by courage and the willingness to live authentically, even in moments of fragmentation or solitude. For many with a migratory background, this in-between becomes a source of strength and inspiration. It carries transformative energy, creating something new from what already exists. That’s where home is made.

Love, too, has shifted for me. As Bell Hooks reminds us, love is not simply an emotion but a practice of courage. It asks us to show up fully, to risk vulnerability and to nurture connection. In this sense, both home and love feel less tied to fixed forms and more to presence – fluid, honest and rooted in the courage to align life with what truly matters.