Memories From the Year 2030 is a collection of fictional letters, memos and visual artifacts created by a group of futurists, speculative designers, authors and artists. Read the entire series here.
"And though home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration."
—Charles Dickens
Before March 2020, I had three homes. I lived in one, had roots in another and, in the third, I thrived. I was always haunted by the fear of losing one. My heart grew restless whenever a crisis hit any of them. I would feel guilty for not being there to support my land through its hardship. After each storm passed, I felt a bit more separated from my people and that I had lost another piece of home.
But then the shared storm of the COVID-19 pandemic hit. Suddenly, I felt a newfound kinship with everyone adjusting to a similar kind of separation and restlessness I had long grown used to. For the first time in ten years, my entire family celebrated Nowruz, Iranian New Year, the way I always did. We each sat alone, next to our imperfect Haft-Seen table, with a phone in hand talking to loved ones far away. Everyone now understood what it was like to latch onto your fading tradition in unconventional ways and proudly claim it.
In March 2020, when healthcare workers in Iran were overwhelmed by the flood of patients, they turned to the ultimate Middle Eastern refuge— dance. Watching videos of nurses dancing in hospitals to boost morale during the long nights was the perfect manifestation of my Iranian teenage years. We used to hide from the school principal as we moved our bodies in dance, shaking the very foundation of the law that forbade us from doing it. For the first time, this side of our revolt was broadcasted to the world. Had anyone known how hard we had been fighting for laughter and life prior to this? Was this the first time the world was seeing the humanity of Iranians? Maybe.
When New York City was scared and in silence—so different than how we typically see it—the rest of the world got a more realistic view of the city beyond its romanticized image. The struggles normally hidden behind New York’s glamorous facade became visible. New York was not used as propaganda anymore. It became its people, its toughness, and its stories. It was the first time others believed our tales and wanted to hear more.
I repeatedly found myself in video calls with loved ones from three continents - all locked in their apartments, sharing the same struggles, not knowing when they were going to be free again, not knowing when they would see their loved ones, and scuffling with their future plans. It was the first time I fully believed it might be possible for others to empathize with how Iranians felt during the U.S. Travel Ban. The challenges of immigrants trapped in a broken legal system were new to many, but suddenly we were being asked to share our stories. The scars of millions were seen as never before.
Beyond the habits that any kind of trauma might induce— hoarding frozen groceries or saving more for rainy days— the 2020 pandemic gave me an unexpected momentary experience of solidarity. For the first time, I had a sense of belonging everywhere that I called home. I walked through the crisis with everyone I called 'my people,' empathising with one another. And ever since, we've danced more, listened better and loved further, believing more in people and their stories.
Melika Alipour is a creative strategist, designer, performer, and troublemaker with a focus on social innovation and technology. She is the Senior Design Strategist at Grab in Singapore, one of her three homes. Born in Tehran and having lived in multiple cities around the world, Melika's experience navigating cultural contexts has led her to develop a unique perspective on belonging and innovation.