‍This journal entry was inspired by the celebration of the winter solstice, and inadvertently led to a larger exploration of how we celebrate heritage and keep it alive.‍

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Sitting in my Berlin apartment on December 21st, with the night falling at 3.50pm, I was about to lament the grey cold long winter as I’m reminded that cultures around the world are celebrating the winter solstice today. It gives me solace and a reason to honor the longest and darkest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere (instead of falling into despair). The ritual and seasonal event has long been celebrated by indigenous cultures around the world. In the Persianate cultures, it is known as Shab-e-Yalda. 

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This night of deep darkness is also a time of reflection.

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It reminds us that light and shadow are inseparable, each defining the other. Ancient Iranians saw in this night the promise of renewal, celebrating the sun’s gradual return and the lengthening of days ahead—a symbolic rebirth of life and hope. In modern days, families and friends come together, sharing the warmth of companionship and the sweetness of pomegranates and watermelons. Poetry, particularly the verses of Hafez, is recited, connecting generations through words that transcend time. The gathering of family, the sharing of stories and poetry create a bridge between past and present. Elders share their knowledge, weaving a collective identity through tales and verse.

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The pomegranate, a centerpiece of Shab-e-Yalda celebrations, holds profound meaning. Its jewel-like seeds symbolize life, fertility, and the cyclical nature of renewal, mirroring the rebirth of the sun after the solstice. In Persian and Turkic cultures, the fruit has long been a sacred symbol of love, prosperity, and continuity, appearing in art, textiles, and stories. We see the ubiquitous depictions of pomegranates in the patterns of timeless suzanis, for example.

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I happen to have a pomegranate and some persimmons at home - enough to create my own small celebration of Shab-e-Yalda, and fill the night with warmth, meaning and peace. What a beautiful way to celebrate the cyclicity of nature and of us, to honor the present moment as it is, to celebrate the darkness as well as the light, as one does not exist without the other. This led me to another feeling of deep gratitude for the wisdom passed down through these rituals and celebrations having existed for millennia and kept alive until today. In our fast-paced world increasingly powered by social media, traditions like Shab-e-Yalda remind us of the importance of coming together and of generational memory.

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The celebration of Shab-e-Yalda is rooted in Zoroastrianism, often recognized as the world’s earliest monotheistic religion, which flourished in present-day Iran, Central Asia, and beyond. I grew up in Uzbekistan, where the traces of Zoroastrian traditions are ever-present. They are present in the rituals, in certain celebrations and historical monuments. Most prominently in celebration of Navruz, the spring equinox that marks the start of the new year, arguably my favourite holiday and time of the year. It is a time of awakening, renewal of nature, and the arrival of a new season. But while Navruz thrives to the present-day, the thread of Shab-e-Yalda seems to have faded in Uzbekistan (except perhaps in Tajik communities). 

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When and why did this change happen? Was it because of the policies during the Soviet era, or much earlier after the conquest of the Arabs? How did traditions tied so closely to the rhythm of nature and the passage of time begin to disappear? These are questions I often ponder, not just about Shab-e-Yalda but about the many stories and customs that have evolved, faded, or adapted over time. How were connections between lands and cultures formed, broken, and rebuilt? And how do we preserve and nurture these links in today’s world, where globalization and migration stretch the bonds between generations?

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There’s a sense of loss in not knowing—a gap where a connection to the past once was. It feels as though an essential thread tying me to the natural world and its cycles as well as my roots and ancestry has been cut, leaving an emptiness that is hard to articulate. Yet this absence can inspire a search, a rekindling of what has been forgotten, to shine light into the void. This search and yearning for shining the light onto something so valuable, and yet at times neglected lie at the core of al Qadr.

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When Valerie and I first discussed the idea of al Qadr, we spoke a lot about the beauty, richness and diversity of the vast region to which we individually feel connected. We also talked about the value of heritage, trade and craftsmanship in preserving it. Guided by kindred though different purposes, we settled that ultimately al Qadr was also about movement, migration and the relationships between lands, people and everything in between. Celebrating our unique trajectories while highlighting our connections and common essence.

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As I moved from one country to another, I learned more about my heritage and its existing resemblance somewhere else in the world. It’s almost as if there is an invisible thread that has a different coloring, sometimes a different texture - silken, cotton, woolen - but a thread, nonetheless, that connects civilizations through time and space. Similarly to how the Silk Road at the time created links between places, introduced new foods, spices, textiles, promoted exchange and influenced ideas.

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This thread has been woven by people, by foreigners, who yearned to know another.

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Like the philosophers and scientists of Central Asia who left their respective homelands and went on journeys to Damascus and Baghdad to study, learn and experience life from a different, wider lens. In these interactions and dialogues, they honed and developed their treatises and works that lay the groundwork for centuries and the millions of people to come. They were part of a common culture - from Samarkand to Al-Qayrawan, through Persia and the Levant - a common thread that united all the disparate and uniquely singular lands. Distinct on the surface but part of a whole, like the identity of so many travelers and migrants today, that cannot be reduced to one word or adjective.

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‍al Qadr is about keeping these threads alive–by uncovering what sometimes has been forgotten, honoring the beauty and the wisdom of heritage, redefining the value of craftsmanship, (re)connecting lands and people, and reimagining ideas and narratives.

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As we face times that feel increasingly uncertain and divided, the enduring lesson of traditions like Shab-e-Yalda remains clear: even in the longest night, the light will return. Let us honor that promise by celebrating what connects us—our traditions, our stories, and our shared hope for brighter days ahead.

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