This piece was written during my MA Arts and Lifestyle Journalism - University of the Arts London.

Bridging traditional Iran and alternative London: “This city embraces all misfits”

In 1983, four years after the Islamic Revolution and a year before the Iraq-war, the Iranian Shideh P. lived in the capital of her country. Just like any other 17-year old, she was questioning her identity. The only difference was that she was not worried about the boys in her class and next week’s party, but about her father in jail and the sharia-law. Like so many others, Shideh fled her home country to chase a better life.

Shideh P. is a 54-year-old doctor living with her husband and two sons in South-London. Their small garden is quite typical for the area where they live and the pictures on the shelf in the living room instantly create a warm feeling. However, Pourria remembers growing up quite differently. In Iran, capital punishment is a legal sanction for almost any kind of crime - varying from homosexuality to being politically active. (“Writing slogans with a marker on a wall, for example,” Shideh remembers, “or simply reading a left-wing newspaper.”) Although those memories date back to the 80s, much remains unchanged today.

When Shideh P. lived in Iran as a teenager, there was, unless you were utterly religious and hung out in the mosque most of the time, no possibility to go to university. “Let alone any kind of self-development,” Shideh recalls. The minute borders opened after being closed for four years, Pourria’s mom tried to get a passport for her two minor daughters which allowed them to travel to the United Kingdom. But as the country’s situation was so unpredictable, they had very little time. Unlike our alphabet, the Iranian alphabet starts with ‘A-B-C-P-...’. Fortunately, the system operated in alphabetical order, which was in Shideh’s favour. Almost miraculously, they got their hands on one on time.

“There was no possibility to say goodbye to anyone, the risk of getting caught was too high” says Shideh. “When I visited my dad in prison for the last time, I told him how I was planning on visiting our uncle that lived in the United States at the time. He got the hint.” A month after Pourria arrived in the UK, she found out that the police showed up at her doorstep to arrest her. One of her so- called friends in school snitched on her in exchange for a spot at the university. “Although I wouldn’t have done the same myself, I kind of understand. At some point it’s simply every man for himself.”

Margaret Thatcher and punks

Going from a war zone to a country that’s ruled by Margaret Thatcher, money and fast cars on one hand and punks on the other is, to say the least, confusing. Especially at age 17. “I could hardly connect with anyone. I found everyone so superficial and spoiled. I was convinced they didn’t know what the real life was.”

During the first few months Shideh was lonely and scared. London got dark early at the time, and as she was still traumatised from a city filled with bombs, she was always on the look-out. After a while she started to look for things that resonated with her. British cinema, literature and music eventually bridged traditional Iran and alternative London. “We would pay £5 for opera tickets with seats all the way in the back,” Shideh remembers,“I couldn’t stop smiling.”

Cross fertilisation

“Did you bring the Vietnamese spring rolls?” Shideh asks when her teenage son walks into their South-London home, he just went to the market. She has lived here for 37 years now,  married with two kids and a job as a children’s doctor. For the latter, her Iranian family name was never a problem. “I don’t think I could have established the life I have in London today elsewhere in the United Kingdom. This city is so allow-full for everything that’s alternative. All kinds of misfits, like me, are welcome. There are so many different communities: Asian, Middle-Eastern, African, American. You’re likely to fit into at least one.”


“But what is ‘British’ actually?”, Shideh replies when she is being asked if she feels more Iranian or more British. “I was never a traditional Iranian, but I’m definitely not British.” She doesn’t think nationalities identify us anymore, in a world full of cross fertilisation. “It’s like having a dinner with vegetables but also with cheese, with meat and with fish. I guess I am just my own personal mix, a transcultural. One who’s fortunate enough to live in a time where people mix up and simply bring to the table what’s theirs.”