In all our worlds, there is a plethora of rich texture around us. My world revolves around my Persian family gatherings, where touch is a sign of greeting, love, and connection. We experience touch all the time—no matter where we are, and no matter which emotions follow the sensory experience. Whether it is the gentle press of hands shaping dough into dainty, delicious Persian pastries, or the warm, fuzzy feeling of my great aunt’s embrace that lingers like the scent of rosewater on the kitchen countertops, or the soft grass under my feet as I playfully chase my little cousins in a spontaneous soccer game—touch is all around. 

As I step into my family gathering, I am almost instantly enveloped in a flurry of hugs and kisses. My relatives kiss one cheek and the next, a cultural ritual of greeting that has become second nature. My aunt’s soft hands hold my face, her aromatic perfume enveloping me. Her gesture is both loud and aggressive yet gentle too. Each hug carries an unspoken yet thunderous message that says, I’ve missed you, I’m so elated to see you, you are my family! The warmth of these embraces linger on my skin as some sort of tangible marker of our irreplaceable connection—some sort of kindness that reverberates with every touch, whether the hands be old and wrinkly or young and soft. 

Our family gatherings are immensely interactive, with everyone tangled in each other’s business, floating from person to person. The art of cuisine is one of the most tangible parts of our gatherings. The food preparation is a tactile experience, something I gain happiness from by simply standing by my elders and watching them knead noon e barbari (bread dough). I notice their hands pressing the dough with practiced precision. Mimicking their motions, my fingers sink into the fluffy dough, and I feel its softness and elasticity. My aunt rests her hand atop mine, thoroughly guiding my movements as I knead the dough. Her worn hands are a product of years of shaping and kneading bread, and it’s as if her strength and history is transferred through the energy of her touch. Her brow is furrowed but her smile is gentle as she kneads, an exchange of technique and tradition I am blessed to receive. The act of cooking and the preparatory process of food is more than a slight sensory experience; it is the tie to our personal and cultural identity gained by way of memory and this transferring of tradition. 

Washing my hands of the sticky dough, my elders surround me as they recite never-ending stories and life lessons, curious of how I am living my life in ways different or similar to them. As I talk to my elders, my little cousins scream, “NOOR!” and yank my hand toward the back garden, leading me through the tall-ceilinged living room, my feet brushing across the Persian rugs as we scurry about the house. We make it onto the patio, feeling the grass damp from the afternoon watering my oldest cousin did. I bask in the crisp air and feel the cold between my toes as I sprint after my cousins. Their tiny hands grasp my fingers, their grips small but firm as they pull me into their world of play-pretend and make-believe. Their giddy excitement is like a pulse, like an electric current built of joy. Here, touch is everlastingly free. After the wind is knocked out of me and the smile on my face is permanent from playing with the younger ones, I sit with my older cousins. We speak in broken Farsi, lying beneath my grandmother’s paintings which adorn the walls. We braid each other’s hair, feeling the ultimate sense of calm as our fingers weave through thick curly strands in an intimate, even meditative, way. I am reminded of the sensation of a velvety blanket, or of sand sifting through fingers. My favorite cousin’s fingers press against my scalp as she finishes the braid, an intimate gesture that speaks of love in a language words could never do justice. 

The warm sunlight trickles through the glass as my mom picks grapes through the kitchen window—the vine wrapping around the old pomegranate tree in the backyard. Both fruits signify deep cultural rootage. The fruit trees wrap around the house just as they do in the old courtyard-sharing houses in Iran, the perfect example of families living within a community and sharing a general courtyard where people come together to mingle. My family’s gatherings act in the same format, with the epicenter and courtyard of our lives being the living room. Among the furniture is the table that has held every Persian new year, Nowruz, from the time I was born. 

The unfolding night means the uncles and brothers play chess and backgammon, while the aunts and sisters mingle with one another. We come together to sip chai (tea). The hot glass presses into my hands and creates a sense of warmth that flows through me. My brother holds out a family picture album from when my elders were our age. They hit each other in laughter and scream over the others as they tell stories for the young generations to hear. The house which gathers my extensive family is not solely an enclosure in which we reside—it is one that brings us to life, back home. The walls hold the imprint of our loud laughter. The faded marks on furniture and the loose stitches on the woven couches mark the use of beloved objects that have been passed down through generations. Every corner of the house is flooded with nostalgia: shoes forming a pyramid to obey the bare feet rule, the chipped wood on the patio reminding us of the wear of time. Every corner is kissed with traces of the family members who came before me. 

This house was decorated decades ago with the intention of recreating the robust and vibrant energy of my family’s homeland prior to the Iranian Revolution. Intricate Persian rugs cover the house, rugs that have witnessed everything from dancing and celebrating to crying and mourning. I sit on the soft wool to rest and drink tea, tracing the detailed patterns of flowers, animals, and shapes woven around the perimeter of the rug. The scorching hot glass is an embrace to my hands and engulfs my face in steam. The fog travels up the heavy green and gold velvet curtains, fabrics my aunt brought from her favorite store in Iran. The stained glass beneath these curtains casts beams of light onto my grandmother’s oil paintings, which she painted back in her studio on a mountainside of Iran. Her paintbrush has danced across the canvases blanketing the interior of every room in our home. They cover the tall walls, the lengthy height making the energy of the room feel lifted and grand, a parallel to our stories and voices. The crystal chandelier sparkles a nostalgic grandeur, one that serves as a reminder of our ancestors’ former home in the motherland. Coat closets and living room cabinets are filled with frames, photo albums, and tapes of old weddings and family trips. My favorite photo album is the yellow, worn-out book from Tehran in the 1970s, before the exile redrew the ways of life of our family tree entirely. 

In our family gatherings, touch is celebratory. As I have grown up, I recognize this sort of intimacy is not universally experienced within every community. The lingering of a hug before letting go, the touch of calloused fingers holding an entire history, and the tactile embodiment of Persian culture are all affirmations of connection. Touch is broader than just a sensation—it holds personal and generational identity, memories, and meaning, all blended into the soft palm of a hand or the light brush of a cheek. In Persian culture, touch is never forgotten. Instead, it is an affirmation of our oneness.