“Go home.”

That’s what they say when I speak up.

When I question colonial narratives. When I mention Gaza. When I challenge the curated silence of wellness spaces. The tone shifts, the air tightens.

“This space isn’t political.”

I’ve been told, subtly and not so subtly, that I don’t belong. That I’m too much. That I’m divisive.

But here’s the truth: I’ve never had a home to go back to.

I come from displaced lineages—Iran, Afghanistan, India—ancestors scattered by empire, partition, and war. In this life, I’ve lived in many places, always slightly out of place. Belonging nowhere and everywhere.

And I’ve learned that the idea of “home” is a myth weaponised by empire.

Who gets to feel safe?
Who gets to belong?
Who gets to speak?

The Soul Knows the Lie

When I speak, I’m not just speaking for myself. I’m speaking for my great-grandmother who bit her tongue for fear of punishment, for my ancestors who had to flee persecution for their beliefs, for the children in Gaza who are erased, even in death.

This isn’t about victimhood.
This is about truth.

Colonialism didn’t end. It just changed costume—from missionaries to media, from settlers to silence. From occupying land to occupying narrative.

Even in the so-called spiritual spaces—the coaching world, the wellness retreats, the “conscious” festivals—we see the same erasure. As long as you’re light, positive, and brand-friendly, you’re welcome. But if you bring grief, anger, or history into the room, suddenly it’s “not the time.”

Decolonisation Isn’t Just a Trend

Decolonisation isn’t an aesthetic. It’s not a buzzword for your retreat workbook or your Instagram post on Indigenous Peoples Day.

It’s the willingness to sit in discomfort. To examine privilege. To hear hard truths without running to spiritually bypass or center your pain.

It’s spiritual, yes—but it’s also political. Because your body, your land, your story, have always been political when you’re racialised.

But I refuse to shrink.

I will not make myself smaller to make others feel safe. I will not perform softness for the comfort of those who haven’t lived the fire I carry in my bones.

I will not go home—because I never left.

My body is my home. My voice is my home. My remembering is my home.

And when I speak, it’s not to attack—it’s to awaken. To disrupt the illusion of neutrality. To remind us that silence in the face of violence is complicity, not peace.

If you’ve ever felt like you don’t belong, like your truth is too much, like your grief is inconvenient—you’re not alone.

We don’t have to beg for belonging. We can build it on our own terms.

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