Mina Rezaei, My Story 27.03.26

My name is Mina. I moved to New Zealand 11 years ago, initially for study. I was completing my PhD while working at the same time, and like many people who leave home, I arrived with a mix of ambition and uncertainty. But my decision to leave Iran was also shaped by something deeper. Growing up under a system where human rights—and especially women’s rights—are consistently restricted had a lasting impact on how I saw myself. It affected my confidence and sense of possibility in ways I didn’t fully understand until I experienced life somewhere different.

My family is still in Iran, and at times, even the most basic lines of communication—internet and phone—are shut down by the regime. There are moments when silence stretches for hours, sometimes days, and you’re left not knowing if they’re safe. It’s a kind of helplessness that’s hard to describe. And yet, despite all of that, our connection has never loosened. If anything, it feels stronger, more visceral—something you carry in your chest rather than something dependent on a signal.

Over the past few months, that distance has felt heavier than ever, there’s a constant tension between the life I’ve built here and the reality unfolding there. You move through your day—meetings, conversations, routines—but underneath it all, there’s a quiet, persistent worry. Your body is here, but part of your mind is always elsewhere, replaying possibilities, waiting for news. It can feel like living in two parallel emotional worlds, never fully able to settle into either.

Living in New Zealand has reshaped how I see myself in ways I didn’t think were possible. It gave me the space to rebuild a sense of confidence that had been worn down over time—not suddenly, but gradually, piece by piece. I don’t think I became someone new; I think I reclaimed someone I was always meant to be.

In doing that, I’ve come to understand something deeper about where I come from. There’s a quiet strength in my culture—resilience, patience, persistence. The ability to endure, but also to insist. To keep going, even when the cost is high. I see that same strength in people back in Iran every day, especially now, as they continue to stand up for their freedom, often at great personal risk. That connection grounds me. It reminds me that strength isn’t something I found here—it’s something I brought with me, and finally had the space to live out.

What has helped me navigate this time is connection, in the simplest sense. Talking to people who are willing to listen without needing everything explained. Being around friends who don’t try to fix things, but simply sit with you in it. Even small gestures—someone asking how your family is, or acknowledging what’s happening—can mean a lot. It creates a sense of being seen, which is more powerful than people sometimes realise.

I’ve also found myself leaning into routine in a more intentional way. My work as a data and insights analyst gives structure to my days and a sense of direction. Alongside that, learning and small daily habits have become anchors. They don’t remove the weight of what’s happening, but they help me stay grounded.

The support I’ve received in New Zealand has often been quiet but deeply meaningful. It’s in conversations, in people making space, in a kind of understated care. I think meaningful support, especially in moments like this, doesn’t need to be grand—it’s about consistency, empathy, and a willingness to understand without assumptions.

In the short term, my hope is to stay grounded and continue building the life I’ve worked hard for. I’ve reached a point where I feel proud of myself—of what I’ve managed to achieve, and of the fact that I now feel capable of doing what I want to do.

Looking further ahead, I think a lot about what it means to exist between cultures—not as something fragmented, but as something layered. Being Iranian and living in New Zealand has shaped how I see the world, how I work, and how I relate to people. There’s resilience in that experience, but also a sense of responsibility to carry stories and perspectives that might not always be visible.

I hope for a future where those identities can coexist more openly, and where conversations about places like Iran are more nuanced and more human—not reduced to headlines, but understood through lived experiences.

For me, being an NZ-Iranian isn’t about leaving one place behind for another. It’s about holding both, even when it’s complicated, and believing that, despite everything, there is still space to build something meaningful here—while staying connected to what matters there.