Escaping our city of Shiraz in Iran, I was but an eight-year-old child, my mother's "little Simorgh," named after the mystical bird from the tales she told with her blue eyes sparkling against her raven hair, draped in the traditional Persian garments whose name evokes a tapestry of our heritage. We, a Jewish family, were the lingering echoes of the ancient Persian dynasty of King Darius, often whispered in legends as the 'Prince of Persia.'

The Simorgh, a creature of lore that soared the heavens in pursuit of the Divine, only to discover it within its own heart—this was the fable that paralleled our own journey. It mirrored our struggle, our flight to Israel, akin to the ascent of the Simorgh, seeking solace and sanctuary in the skies, only to find it within.

I can still recall the last glimpse of my father; he fell defending us, a hero in the truest sense, as my mother would often recount with tears that mirrored the sorrow and pride intermingled in her tales. And now, here I am, adorned in the colors of ancient Persia, my attire a modern homage to the past. It's a reminder that a Simorgh like me, born of resilience and legacy, can still rise, can still stretch wings wide against the vastness of the sky and the breadth of history.

I wear these clothes not just for fashion, but as a narrative woven into each fiber, a story of where I come from and the heights to which I aspire, carrying the spirit of the Simorgh within me—a spirit that even in the most unfamiliar of lands, tells me I can rise, just as the legendary bird sought to ascend to the heavens.