My name is Aliakbar, but most people here in Wales call me Ali. I was born in the south of Tehran, into a working-class family. My parents had no formal education, but they worked hard, and they gave me everything they could. I grew up with two sisters and a brother, surrounded by the smells of rice fields and rain-soaked streets when we would visit my childhood home in Gilan, in the north of Iran. Those smells still stay with me — the earth after rain, the scent of trees and rice plants. 

After finishing my studies I went to an art university, where I completed my BA and MA in theatre and film. I became a theatre artist, a director, and eventually a lecturer at an art college. I had a permanent job there and worked with young people, mentoring them and helping them find their voices. I even worked with Afghan immigrants and LGBTQ+ communities — something dangerous to do in Iran, but I felt I had no choice. Art, for me, was never just performance. It was protest, truth-telling, a way to speak for those who could not. 

Then, three years ago, everything changed. When the Women, Life, Freedom movement began, I supported my students who protested. I joined the strikes, and together with colleagues, we signed a letter condemning the arrests and killings of young people in the streets. For that, the authorities charged and interrogated me. I was threatened and finally told I could no longer work at the university. 

It was a terrifying time — but it also made my decision clear. I had to leave. Through an organisation that supports persecuted academics, I found a placement at the University of South Wales, in Cardiff. That’s how I came to Wales in October 2023. 

At first, everything felt strange — the quiet streets, the politeness, the smallness of the city compared to Tehran. But I loved it immediately. Cardiff felt human-sized. People smiled. They spoke kindly. In London, I would have been lost; here, I found peace. 

Still, it hasn’t been easy. Back in Iran, communication was my life. Working with people, especially young people, was what gave me meaning. When I left, I lost that. It’s not just the language barrier — it’s losing the rhythm of your world. I miss my friends, my students, my family. But I know I can’t go back. That life is finished for me. 

Since last year, I’ve begun working with a theatre company in Porth, near Cardiff. They’ve given me a space to work with local artists and young people, and it’s become a new beginning for me. We made a show together last June — four writers and four directors. They’ve asked me to continue, one day a week for now, but I think they’re going to offer me some more projects and I’m going to work more regularly with them in the future.  

I’ve also volunteered at the Oasis Centre, working with refugees and newcomers. It gave me the same feeling I used to have — helping people find their voice. I’ve also just finished my PhD by portfolio at the University of South Wales and am waiting for feedback on it. 

When I left Iran, my last unfinished play was an adaptation of Alice in Wonderland, called Alice in Tehran. It was about a young girl searching for her father, who had been killed by the government. One day, during rehearsal, I realised I couldn’t go on — unless I censored myself. I told my actors, “If I continue, I will have to silence myself. I can’t do that anymore.” 

So as soon as I arrived here in Wales, I rewrote the play with total freedom. No censorship. For the first time, I felt what it meant to create without fear. It became a dangerous play — politically, sexually and socially. 

There are small things I miss deeply. Food, especially. Authentic Iranian food is hard to find here. I’ve tried the restaurants in Cardiff, but they taste different somehow. So I cook at home, the way my mother did, using ingredients I find in small shops. When I eat that food, for a moment, I feel I am home again. 

Sometimes I walk to a cemetery near my house. It’s full of silence and the smell of trees and earth. Strangely, it reminds me of my childhood place in Gilan — the stillness, the peace. In those moments, I feel close to both my past and my present. 

Wales has been kind to me. The people are warm and open, though it’s not easy to build deep friendships, especially with how busy everyone is. But I’ve found some true friends. I want to stay here, to make a life here. I want to work again as an artist, to help others, especially immigrants and young people, to find their own voices. Theatre, for me, is not entertainment. It’s connection, truth, resistance. 

If I could say one thing to the people of Wales, it would be this: please look deeper into the world. Don’t believe only what the news tells you. People in Iran, Syria, Iraq — they suffer in silence, beyond the headlines. Thousands of young people have been killed in Iran, but no one hears their names. We share the same humanity. 

And to everyone who welcomes people like me to Wales — remember that culture is what unites us. Food, music, dance, stories — they bring us together. When we share these things, we see we are not so different after all. 

Now, my dream is simple: to stay, to create, and to give back. To make theatre that helps others speak, to work with young people, to remind them that freedom is fragile — and precious. I left behind one life, but here, perhaps, I can begin again.