As I fear for my ancestral homeland Iran, I find solace in Persian music

The Guardian

20-07-2025

My vintage Pioneer turntable is playing the music of the Ballarat-based duo Zöj. The voice of the Iranian singer Gelareh Pour and her Persian kamancheh, a bowed string instrument, are feeding my lounge with the song The God of Rainbows. The weather is bleak but then so is the state of the world. I try not to let my mood follow. The music helps, offering a welcome contrast to the pain, violence and despair churned out by my social media algorithm.
I've been listening to Persian music a lot over the past month. Not only as a source of respite but as I strive to connect to my motherland – a place I've never been able to visit. My parents, who belong to the Bahá'í faith, left in 1979 during the Iranian Revolution. They have never returned.
Iran's people are struggling through an intense period of civil unrest and suffering. Media continue to speculate about what the future holds for the country and, while the rockets have stopped for the time being, human rights organisations are reporting that the Islamic republic has turned on its own, arresting ordinary citizens, activists and members of religious minorities to 'stamp out any trace of dissent and reassert its control'.
Nothing, it seems, can tend to our perpetually ailing hearts.
Except, perhaps, for art.
As I listen to these musicians who sing with fervour from the depths of their hearts, the Iranian people's deepest desires are made abundantly clear. Persian singing is a unique art form and traditional music is greatly influenced by Sufism – a mystical branch of Islam that emphasises purification and spirituality. Persian music is often infused with ancient poetry and, even though I'm not fluent, I still understand the essence of what is being said – the desire for eshgh, or love, and a yearning for light.
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I've not just been reconnecting through music. Rumi and Hafez, two Persian poets from the early 13th and 14th centuries, are known for their inspiring literary works, as are Saadi and Omar Khayyam, whose writings form the basis of many songs – including those of Zöj. Centuries after they were penned, these words fill me with spiritual insights, tranquility and nourishment.
At a time of escalating global turbulence, music and art unite us and provide a lens into our spiritual truth. They speak to our common suffering, advocate for resilience and connection, and promote hope. They transcend boundaries and bind us together, speaking to what it is we all truly desire, no matter where we see ourselves on the political spectrum.
As we search for the light and seek meaningful ways to contribute towards beauty wherever we live, we can find inspiration through the syllables and sounds emanating from the turntable.
Rumi writes:
Do not stray into the neighbourhood of despair.
For there are hopes: they are real, they exist –
Do not go in the direction of darkness –
I tell you: suns exist.
And therein lie the rainbows.
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