I’ve always carried a deep sense of gratitude for my ability to speak more than one language. It has allowed me to build bridges across cultures, to connect with people from vastly different walks of life and to find a sense of belonging wherever I’ve been: Australia, Germany, Pakistan or Afghanistan. Each language I’ve learned has brought with it a new lens through which to view the world. But nothing has stirred my soul quite like Persian – the language of mystics and lovers.
My journey into the Persian language felt less like consciously acquiring a new skill and more like unlocking a secret passage inside myself. It has opened doors not just to new ideas and ways of thinking but to the deepest emotions. For the first time, I’ve found a language that doesn’t just help me navigate time and space in mere practical terms but helps me to express and feel every moment beyond that.
My journey with Persian began a couple of years ago, with some naive assumptions and fake smiles when Persian-speaking Afghans cracked jokes. I was new in Kabul, following years of wandering in neighbouring Pakistan and then later in Europe. I had no idea about this second national language of the country – mine was Pashtu. I have been fascinated with the Persian language since learning it in an entirely natural way – just by talking to friends, through music, movies and poetry. It is the cultural elegance so woven into the language and its abundance of rich emotional expressions that make it unique.
For instance, consider “Nosh-e jaan” (May it nourish you) said to someone eating food, or “Gul Gufti” (Your words are beautiful like roses). There’s also “Del-at shad bashad” (May your heart be joyful) or “Khak-e paye tu-am” (I am the dust beneath your feet), used to show respect to and love of elders or teachers. These may sound bizarrely formal, but they are everyday staples in Persian.
From its greetings to the haunting depth of its classical verse, Persian is rich with rhythm, subtlety and emotional nuance. It is a language that carries music in its tone and wisdom from the music of Bollywood to the mountains of Afghanistan to the valleys of Iran, orchids of central Asia and as far as the gates of Europe in Turkey. Even the most ordinary phrases seem to hum with history and feeling. It’s as if every word carries a centuries-old heartbeat.
In Persian I’ve discovered expressions for emotions I had long felt but could never articulate. I’ve found metaphors that mirror my own journey, phrases that feel like home and poetry that speaks directly to the soul. It’s more than a means of communication – it’s a new way of being, of loving, of remembering and of dreaming.
My romance with Persian began when Afghanistan’s Pashtu speakers were pushing to reclaim status and space for their language in a country with a deep-rooted Afghan dialect, Dari, which has long been used in almost all official communications. For me, the politics of it hardly mattered. I had learned Pashtu at home from my sweet mum and loved it as my inner core language, before learning my second language, Urdu/Hindi, then English and Punjabi during my years in Pakistan’s biggest and most diverse metropolis, Karachi. I learned German when I went to work at that country’s public broadcaster Deutsche Welle in Bonn. English, perhaps the most professionally transformative of the languages I speak, is the language I write in, but it remains a bit foreign and a bit distant. Like a guest who had overstayed but never fully moved in.
Persian was not a language I learned; it was one that absorbed me. Unlike the others, Persian didn’t just expand my vocabulary – it rewired my emotions. It cracked open an interior world I hadn’t known how to access. It wasn’t about fluency – it was about awakening.
It is a language that doesn’t shy away from feeling. It doesn’t rush towards meaning or neat endings; it lingers. In Persian even pain is a form of grace. You don’t just say you’re missing someone, you say “Dil-tangetam” “My heart is constricted because of you”. “Safa avordi” (You brought good energy/joy with you), is often said when a guest visits.
For me, someone who wasn’t lucky enough to spend hours reading Persian books when I stayed in Kabul, it is delightful to see how convenient it is to access the Persian maestro, Afghanistan-born Jalal al-Din Balkhi or Mawlana or Rumi as he is known around the world. He is like the god of Persian language for me.
I remember the moment I first read this line by Rumi in its original form:
Bemir ta bemani
Az in khak bar ayi
(Die, so that you may live —
Rise up from this dust)
And Hafez Sherazi saying:
Asheq sho, gar na ruzi kar-e jahan sar ayad – Nakhande naqsh-e maqsud az kargah-e hasti.
Fall in love, or someday the work of the world will end – And you’ll leave this workshop of being without having seen its purpose.
Somewhere in this journey of learning Persian, I felt its role in overcoming the noise of modern urgency. There’s a word in Persian – delneshin – that means something that sits sweetly on the heart. That’s what Persian has become for me. A quiet, enduring echo.
Shadi Khan Saif is an editor, producer and journalist who has worked in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Germany and Australia
This article was amended on 26 August 2025 to correctly attribute the poetry of Rumi and Hafez Sherazi
