We hear a lot about immigration. We hear about war and destruction and see people suffering somewhere far away. But little do we know about the one who immigrates, integrates, and struggles to survive – and to thrive. The individual who just wants a different and better life.

My family first left Iran in the early ‘90s; later, I moved to Paris independently, to enrol at university in 2001. I was a bright student with great marks, driven with great social skills. I wasn’t scared of working hard, I spoke French perfectly since I partially grew up in Paris and identified as half-French.

But life as an adult was going to be very different: suddenly, I was no longer equal to my friends. I no longer had the same opportunities and my options in terms of career and professional experience were cut short. I needed special documentation to work, to study, to move. I could not easily change my line of studies and every move I wanted to make was conditioned and had immediate consequences on my stay in France.

My life soon became a cycle of never-ending applications, temporary permits, standing in lines, providing proof of one thing or another. Almost overnight, I was rendered powerless. I was less than the ordinary citizen, with their ordinary rights.

This is when I began to identify more and more certainly as an immigrant. My friends were now Russian, Mexican, African. We shared a common reality. Naturally, I began to connect with my Iranian identity more. As an immigrant, you are expected to integrate and adopt the new culture and values of the host country. And your survival instincts push you to do exactly that. But when – despite all your best efforts – roadblocks meet you at every turn, you begin to question your role and place in society. Not being fully accepted by a society forces you to redefine yourself.

This is an aspect of immigration that we seldom talk about. We tend to associate immigrants with refugees. Too often portrayed as helpless, poor or ill, refugees are in turn perceived as lower-class citizens who not only cannot and will not contribute to the system, but who will rob it. The truth is that without being able to freely play a satisfying role in society, it is impossible to integrate and thrive.

But this is not a story that ends badly or sadly.
The moment my European residency was solved, I began to thrive. Without the pressure of my stay coming to an end, I finally felt free. I could at last focus on me and I felt a strong urge to express myself.

But music was not an obvious choice. Even though I was always drawn to music and fascinated by it, I could hardly afford to enjoy it, let alone dream of it! It was my spiritual practice that put me on this path. Almost as soon as I began university, I became a student of Sufism. I learned to sing and play Iranian instruments through these teachings.

In a way, this musical path had already begun before I was aware that it could turn into my main occupation and that one day I would identify as a musician or as an artist. And such is life: if we truly get a chance at following our heart, our path is right before us.

I just released the second single of my forthcoming album My Enemy, My Love. Musically, it is an encounter of eastern and western sounds and melodies. Lyrically, it reveals my inner and outer struggles. And quite frankly, I have no idea how it all came out of me.

I found myself writing and singing and producing and found this incredible force inside. A force I had. A force I had lost and found again as soon as I was free to move and to follow my heart.

I believe that I am part of a generation of immigrants who can identify with some of these social realities. With music we get to communicate our identity, strength and talent. We get to be heard and seen; and popular if we are lucky. I call it post-immigrant-pop and this – in 700 words – is my journey into music.