When I was a little girl, my grandmother unknowingly taught me that I did not love people equally in my heart. She did not explicitly teach me this or facilitate my thoughts concerning uneven distribution of love. But through the inordinate amount that I loved her, she showed me that the type of devotion I had exclusively for her was unquantifiable and incomparable to how I felt towards anyone else.

My grandmother raised my sister and I for the better part of our lives. This isn’t to say my mother and father were completely absent; they just let us be latchkey kids. That lead to trouble, especially for my sister. So my grandma stepped in and was more present than both my parents. I spent nearly everyday with her, listening to stories of her childhood growing up as part of a large tribal confederacy of Turkish-speaking pastoral nomads called the Qashqa’i. These stories were like lullabies to me. Her soothing voice combined with tales of travel upon rough winter terrain for the seasonal migration, moving from village to village, how their camels would cry when grieving — their mournful tears able to melt the hardest heart — would set my imagination soaring. And soon I would fall asleep next to her, dreaming of colorful tents and crying camels.

My only understanding of the Qashqa’i came from my grandma’s stories, and from my familiarity with Persian tribal carpet designs — especially since my grandmother hand-made these rugs. But, of course, this leant little to my knowledge of Qashqa’i life because it never told enough about the people who wove them.

In Shiraz, I met my grandmother’s past for the first time. I only wish she were still alive so I could tell her the story of meeting her Qashqa’i. Now, my Qashqa’i.

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