Home is a Place to Stay and Create

Sonbol Pooyan – Toronto

I believe that one’s homeland is not simply the place where they were born, but the land that offers them a space to stay, to work, and to build a life. “Sohrab Shahid Saless”

Sohrab Shahid Saless, the pioneer of Iran’s New Wave cinema, was an artist in exile who traversed the globe seeking a safe haven, only to find none. Neither his native soil nor the indifferent Europe embraced him; nor did Chicago, the final resting place of his body. For him, home was an open embrace for living and creating, a sanctuary he never quite found. For an artist, “home” is a deeply personal place, where their voice can be heard, where they can create freely, and where awareness and fulfillment take root. Then, home is a boundless construct.

This is why an exiled artist, wherever they land in the world, fights fiercely to survive and thrive, knocking on every door to be seen and to create. There, they discover the true. meaning of existence; in any corner of this earth, they build their home and find their audience.

Yet, the first barrier is always the shared language, culture, and history. In my view, when one discovers their self and a sense of belonging begins to bloom, half the journey is won. At least they have found themselves and their immediate audience, a precious, honorable feat. For the second generation of migrant artists, it is like a guiding light piercing the darkness of a long tunnel, illuminating hope. I hope that wherever an artist seeks to create and be present, they are met with support, encouragement, respect, and above all, recognition. A path far from simple.

After years spent merely trying to settle and survive in a host country — a struggle never without hardship — I repeatedly searched for a window to express who I am and what I have lived through. How to resurrect the forgotten obsessions within me. It truly took years to find a path that satisfied me and was within my reach.

I first passed on my books, everything I owned, then revisited my past works. I returned to my circle of connection to find myself again. Still, in the migratory world, finding time for what your heart desires is the most costly stage of being an artist. Spare time means a pause in the flow of life, something your loved ones need. Sadly, being an artist is sometimes branded with arrogance and pride, labels you must endure with patience and grit.

Screenwriting, short films, animation, storytelling, film critique, painting, teaching art, all weighted heavily on my résumé and had turned into memories. Now, burdened with a wealth of stories and experiences born from migration, the weight grew too great to bear without creating something that encompassed all I am and have been. Thus was born my podcast, Radio Mohajer (Radio Migrant).

Despite the struggles of my generation with technology and the discouraging voices, I finally began. I thought, this way I cannot lose myself. What has accompanied me for years and what I have endured must be heard. Now, halfway along this path, I am learning, reconnecting with myself, and finding joy, even amidst unrelated work that sustains my daily life; those small moments of delight, hidden smiles, breathe life into me.

Today, I have a space of my own, a personal platform where I live between two communities: the one where I breathe and the one distant yet inside me. I can share in the joys and achievements of my homeland, observe from afar, and write with fairness and balance. Because for a writer from the Middle East, born amid fire and crisis, silence and passivity are not easy choices.

The migrant artist and writer do not merely leave; it is not flight, it is a transplanting. And the penalty is flailing amidst the judgments and decisions of Western societies, internal and external foes, over identity. At the very least, we can document the era that others have written for us.

And in closing, I recall the great poet Ahmad Shamlou:

I am weary of a pain that is not mine
I have sat upon a land that is not mine
I have lived with a name that is not mine
I have wept for a sorrow that is not mine
I have breathed a joy that is not mine
I will surrender to a death that is not mine…