MADE WITH WANDERLOVE

Fourteen years have passed since you left this world, and still, not a day goes by that I don’t hear your voice in my head and reminding me to stand tall, to ask better questions, and to never, ever betray who I am.

You were a man of justice and fairness, of tough love and sharper truth. You did not sugar-coat life. You believed in doing what was right even when it was inconvenient, unpopular, or dangerous. You challenged authority unless you were the authority and even then, you held yourself to the same unflinching standard. You taught me that dignity is not something you ask for; it is something you wear, like a finely pressed suit, with pride.

And you made sure I knew exactly who I was.

I am Iranian.
I am a Mostowfi.

You never let me forget it. I thought it was because you were rigid, but I realize now it was because you were proud. You carried our name, our history, and our culture like something sacred. As a child, I thought you had a God-complex. As an adult, I see the truth: it wasn’t all ego, but more integrity. You stood in your worth. You knew where you came from, and you refused to let anyone make you smaller than that.

Before the regime, before exile, before survival became the priority, you and Mom came from a world of education, elegance, and respected family names. Life was about conversation, travel, culture, and joy. Your struggles did not begin in Iran. They began when you chose the impossible: leaving everything you knew to come to a country where you had no language, no map, and no guarantees.

You didn’t come to America for a better life.
You came to do something people said was ridiculous.

And when I was born in 1980 with a fragile, complicated, needing everything health condition, going back was no longer an option. So instead, you brought Iran into our home. You built my foundation from our roots, our discipline, our standards. You were strict. I was obedient. It felt like a dictatorship. You and Mom were royalty and I was the subject. And yes, I rebelled hard. But now I understand: you weren’t trying to control me. You were trying to protect my future.

Education was my north star because freedom depends on knowledge. Strength depends on preparation. Survival depends on being better than the systems trying to limit you.

And now, as I watch what is happening in Iran, I understand you even more.

Change only comes when people are so exhausted by injustice that staying the same is no longer an option. That is where Iran is now. Generations rising together, demanding dignity, demanding fairness, demanding the right to simply exist as human beings.

This is what you always believed in.

So today, with my heart heavy and my spirit loud, I dedicate this to you. The man who taught me to stand in truth, in heritage, and in courage. I pray for the people of Iran to reclaim the futures you dreamed of. I pray they find the justice you always demanded. And I promise you this:

I will never forget where I come from.
I will never betray who I am.
And I will always stand up for what is right. Just like you taught me.

I love you, Baba.
Always.