A Letter To My Daughter — an introduction
One of the greatest gifts my mother gave to me is her wisdom on how to live well. And when my daughter was born, I wanted to give her the same guidance. In my book, A Letter To My Daughter, I hope that I have done just that.
I became a father when I was 42. This is, even by today’s standards, relatively late to embark on this journey. And I think this made her birth even more emotional than I thought it would be.
She stubbornly refused to hit her due date and instead was induced when the doctor decided she really must enter the world. This was, I’m afraid, her first experience of one of the defining realties of human existence — you often can’t control events.
The miracle of birth and a brand new life
My little girl was induced at 6.30pm on a late summer’s day in a London hospital. In many respects, there is nothing like witnessing the birth of a child. There is a sense of absurdity that a fully formed human being can emerge from another. And there is amazement at the impossibly miniature body that arrives. There is also, of course, the wonder we feel as parents along with the realisation that nothing in our lives will ever be the same again.
Finally, there is the magical sight of a new arrival ready to start anew the process of discovering this complex and blessed world we live in.
Most of us don’t remember our first moments of life. And so I marvelled while watching my child discover every element of existence in turn. The air we breathe, the sun we need, the touch of her mother’s skin, the love conveyed by her father’s kiss. To watch this miraculous process is to relearn how naked and helpless we are when we arrive on this earth, and how life progresses from that moment on.
The fear and the joy of being a parent
Like every other parent before and after me, I was immediately worried about how my little girl will have to fend for herself. While my stoic side is convinced there is little to be concerned about, the nervous counterpart thinks about how hard life can be. It’s difficult to let go of the fact that human existence has been afflicted with violence, misery, hardship and a thousand different forms of struggle.
I wonder how she can reach the elusive elixir of happiness and the personal fulfillment that can come from good relationships, a peaceful environment and satisfying endeavour. As I reflect on this perplexing dilemma, it occurs to me that my personal sense of satisfaction and tranquility has increased as I’ve aged. My experience formed over four decades of internal and external personal struggle made me want to share it with my daughter.
Whether sharing the lessons we’ve learned with our children is wise, or even possible, is anyone’s guess. But the desire to do so remains. I cannot help but think that I’d be happier 20 years ago if I knew then what I know now. So, I wrote this book for my daughter as a set of my reflections on life. They’re for her and anyone else who may be interested.
Questions of faith, individuality and community
Primarily intended as reflections on living a good life, they’re contextual. Life must occur within the world we currently live, and so they’re also reflections on our most fundamental existential matters. How should we understand faith, express our identity and how can we balance the drive for freedom with the bonds of responsibility?
The lessons we each learn from life are crafted by our own individual experience. I’ve lived in five fascinating countries: Canada, America, France, Britain, and Iran. I’ve been privileged to attend wonderful schools, done things I’ve thoroughly enjoyed, made fabulous friends and learned a great deal about both myself and the world.
I’ve had my share of successes but also no shortage of pain and suffering. I could not run when other children were sprinting across playgrounds. I was insecure in asking girls out for dates because I thought my disability made me less attractive. I had to fight for my independence despite the limitations of my body. And I felt utterly trapped at times by the sticky clutches of emotional depression and anxiety.
Contextualising our existential search for meaning
We live in curious times. On the one hand, the world is better off than it has ever been. Billions of people have emerged from poverty over the last 20 years. Countries that once only knew authoritarian governments now live freely. Entire continents have largely escaped the global warfare of the last century. But I personally tread a path between the West and the Middle East. Between Christian and Muslim worlds. And it’s a path that remains bloody and torn with conflict.
How then do I define my personal identity? What does it mean to be a Muslim, a Jew or a Christian in this environment? What does it mean to be of a certain nationality and how do I say I’m American or British or Iranian when it’s so loaded? As we move inwards to our own personal sphere, the balance between individualism and shared experiences remains critical. Life is a tough balance between our own desires and sharing with others.
Finally, how do we perceive our own experiences and the cards we are dealt? Are we privileged or oppressed? Fortunate or unfortunate? How do we as human beings deal with the imperfect nature of our very existence and how do we develop the internal tranquility amid the tumult? Perhaps most important, how do we learn to love ourselves as a prelude to loving others and loving God?
My first letter to my daughter
All of these questions are difficult to answer, and difficult to explain to my daughter. But they form the mosaic of life that balances between what we construct and what is constructed for us. Here’s the very first letter I wrote to my daughter.
Dear Valeh,
Welcome to the world my love. You have no comprehension of this yet but the very fact that you exist is a miracle. The moment of your creation was a moment of great activity and great uncertainty. One tiny sperm produced by your father, which resembles a little jellyfish, found its way into one egg produced by your mother and the fact that you were created is only because the one sperm that could have produced you and only you ended up in that one egg.
And so it was that your mother and father managed to do the best thing they’ve ever done and could possibly do which was to produce you. I mention this at the start of my letter because as you’ve already realised, life is not easy! As your tears made clear from the beginning a lot of stuff happens to us that hurts. And that’s not just the physical bit. There’s also the emotional bit. All the things we want, or think we want, but cannot have. So, it’s easy to feel sorry for yourself right from the start and most of us do.
But before you do, just remember that you wouldn’t even be here had it not been for the magic of a miracle. You wouldn’t even wake up in the morning to experience everything that you are experiencing had that miracle not happened. Now that you are at the beginning of your journey the most important gift that you can give yourself is the gift of gratitude. Never forget that the real question to ask yourself in life is not: “why can’t I have this but not that?” but: “Would I rather have all of this or nothing at all?’” So the very fact that you’re here and have the opportunity to live and experience all the kaleidoscopic things this world can offer is itself the first reason to be grateful.
My grandfather and your great grandfather was the healthiest and happiest man I have ever known. He was a military officer by training and career and had learned the virtues of discipline early in life when still a child he was sent by his father in Isfahan to study at the military academy in Tehran.
At some stage in that early part of his life he had developed a habit of reciting the Sureye Hamd, with which Muslims formally pray several times a day, separately every morning just before he set out for the day’s activities and every night before he went to sleep.
Unfortunately, I did not inherit my grandfather’s good looks or good nature but in this one respect, which was within my control, I decided to mimic his habit and do the same. It had something to do with wanting to be like him but more to do with the fact that the meaning of what I was saying resonated so deeply. Every time I recite this it reminds me that first of all before anything else and all things, good and bad considered, we must be grateful for the gift of life from which everything else can flow. I find that this has a tendency to put things into perspective and perhaps it was one reason that his eyes had such a bright glow as if his life was filled with such light.”
With love.
