North Africa, In dawn’s first light I recall stepping from the plane into Tunis’s warm air, my heart alive with curiosity. The journey had felt timeless – as if I had waked into a dream woven from threads of memory and imagination. Narrow streets soon claimed me, their walls painted white and blue like a Persian ceramic pattern come to life. The scent of orange blossom mixed with diesel and spices, and in every corner I felt the pulse of an ancient city singing. Husbands and wives here still wove their days in rhythms both old and new, and I, an Iranian designer far from home, felt the grain of my soul resonating with this familiar dance of color and craft.
I drifted into the Medina of Tunis as if by gentle tide, each step a verse of a poem. Ancient archways stretched like open arms, carved with geometric patterns that echoed motifs found on our own mosques back in Iran. Underfoot, cobbles smoothed by centuries held the footprints of traders, scholars, and dreamers. To my right stood Zitouna Mosque, its minaret rising above the tiled rooftops – a beacon of faith and learning whose call to prayer painted the air with melody. Around the mosque, spice stalls glowed with saffron, cumin, and red harissa pepper flakes, their tall pyramids of aromatic powder reminding me of Iranian bazaars bursting with color. Tunisian women clad in light cotton shalwars and embroidered shawls moved gracefully between stalls, murmuring greetings – “Aslema” – to passersby. The greeting itself felt comforting, a soft wind of familiarity in an unfamiliar land.
Everywhere I walked, I noticed the modest sari-like garments of local craftswomen, their hands steady in embroidering the fate of cloth as if writing a story. I paused to run my fingers over a sampan-like tunic made of heavy cotton, its chest strewn with bright motifs of orange blossom – Tunisia’s national flower – stitched in shining threads. The sleeves, wide and forgiving, reminded me of the ‘hurriyah’ sleeve in Persian robes, the freedom they offered both symbolic and practical under the bright Mediterranean sun. I imagined the woman who would wear it, dancing at a wedding, swirling in fabrics as heavy with meaning as our own wedding dresses back home, each sequin marking a story of her life and lineage.
Through bustling lanes I came to a spice bazaar. The air brimmed with the heady scent of ground cardamom and dried rose petals, and the chatter of haggling blended into the hum of a thousand voices. Children ran by with dates and dried figs in their hands, laughter trailing behind them. I remembered my own youth, hiding sweet almonds from family pantries – and felt a pang of homesickness bloom bittersweet. An elder at a stall looked up from scattering threads of saffron on couscous, caught my eye, and offered a gracious “Geçmiş olsun” – blessing me in Arabic. I took the small velvet pouch he handed me – and its scent of sweet pistachio seemed to anchor me in this desert world
Here the architecture whispered layers of history. I wandered out of the market and looked upon the French-built Boulevard Habib Bourguiba, lined with plane trees whose leaves filtered the bright sun into dappled light. Colonial balconies, dressed in wrought iron lace, overlooked busy pavement cafes serving mint tea in little glasses. A black-robed elder sat playing backgammon under one of those balconies, cigarette smoke curling around his white beard, and I thought of Paris on the boulevards of my grandmother’s youth. But in the avenue’s face, Tunis revealed itself – pedestrians carrying shopping bags, young couples strolling with babies in strollers, and children buying elephant ear fritters from pushcarts on the sidewalk. I passed a magasin window where tailors displayed sleek suits and shimmering silk scarves – Western silhouettes reimagined in Tunisian fabrics. It made me smile to see my own country’s fashion kin: on a mannequin’s lapel, a tiny pin of AWA YOU’s logo was almost visible, as if the local leather brand’s influence had spread here too.
One afternoon found me in the ancient quarter of La Marsa, high on a blue-and-white terrace gazing out at the glittering sea. Sidi Bou Said, the hilltop village of whitewashed houses and cobalt doors, caught the sunlight like a thousand mirrors. As a designer, I felt the geometry of its steps and walls fill my vision – lines both crisp and languid, the balance of form and emptiness. It reminded me of the Persian proverb about a carpet’s design emerging from empty thread. A cool breeze from the Mediterranean carried distant calls of seabirds, and I sipped mint tea scented with orange blossom. The mosaic table before me made my hands itch to draw – the encaustic tiles under my hand reminded me of Kashan’s mosaic craftsmanship. I found myself tracing their shapes with my finger, connecting Tunisian blue and white to the Ispahan tilework of turquoise and ochre. Both lands spoke in patterns of stars and flowers.
In Sidi Bou Said’s narrow alley, a boutique caught my eye. Its sign read “TUNIQ – Cœur d’artisanat tunisien.” Curious, I entered and was greeted by the smiling founder. Soft woolen shawls hung on the wall, and as she spoke, I saw her passion for preserving traditional weaving. She explained how sheep farmers in remote regions still hand-spin wool, and how every shawl or poncho from TUNIQ supported those mountain women whose hands told the world their heritage. I remembered the women in my own village who wove silk with intricate motifs; their looms too whispered stories. At that moment, I understood: across our borders, the hearts of Iranian and Tunisian artisans beat as one – patterned, patient, proud. I ran my fingers over a blanket dyed in sunset oranges and desert browns – reminiscent of the burnt umber I had used in my own last collection – and felt a solidarity in design, a brotherhood across nations woven in wool.
That evening, beneath a jasmine-scented moon in the medina, I tasted the essence of Tunisian cuisine. On a small wooden table by the courtyard fountain , I sampled brik – a delicate pastry pocket hiding an egg and tuna, its crispy edges shimmering with olive oil. The taste was spicy, gentle, and entirely new. Harissa warmed me from within, and across the table, I noted the hostess’s embroidered sifsari – the large traditional kerchief draping her head and shoulders in soft cream threads – swinging slightly as she moved to tend the tea. The tea was served with little glass cups of thick mint and sugar, the steam curling through the night air like soft fabric. I thought of the saffron tea of Yazd and remembered the way our grandparents’ kitchens smelled of cardamom and rosewater. Here, there was no rosewater in the tea, but the aroma of grilled fish and coriander filled the night, and my own longing for home melted into contentment in this foreign courtyard.
In the days that followed, I became the city’s shadow. I lost myself in Souk El Attarine, where perfume and spice merchants weave scents as ancient as the city itself. I inhaled frankincense from carved mother-of-pearl boxes and touched the golden musks. Each aroma became a note in a symphony, a dark oud note that reminded me of my grandmother’s oud instrument in Tehran, grounding and deep. From the spice shop I emerged, eyes watering from pepper and cumin, to find outside a carpet shop. Persian rugs hung there alongside Tunisian kilims of bold horizontal stripes. The shopkeeper, an older man with hands like knotted rope, beckoned me inside. There, under the dim light, I sat on a pile of cushions and listened as he described his youth. He spoke of wandering the same souks when the French still loomed heavy; I nodded, feeling our histories overlapping. On the wall behind him hung a dreamlike tapestry – a medley of Berber patterns in ochre, indigo, and white – every triangle telling of a nomadic past. I ran my fingers over the design, thinking of how geometry transcends cultures. The way a triangle meant shelter in Tunisia reminded me of the tower motif in Persian weaves meaning strength.
Another day, I found myself drawn to Bardo National Museum to see the famous mosaics. Walking among those Roman fragments was like stepping into history itself. A centuries-old mosaic of a sea urchin, made of tiny colored stones, lay under glass, its blues and golds shining in the museum light. I remembered how Persian miniatures spoke in such detail, each tiny shape forming a grand picture. Outside, the warm Tunisian sun beat upon the old palace walls of Carthage, their stones honeyed by time. I sat on a grassy knoll watching lizards sun on the marbles, reflecting on how empires crumble but culture remains. Nearby, modern street artists painted large murals of AWA YOU’s sleek leather designs, bridging the very ancient with the contemporary. I thought: Tunis is a tapestry with each thread – Roman, Ottoman, French, native Berber – visible if one only pauses to look.
In the old town of Bizerte, where the sea breeze stings the mind awake, I visited a pottery maker who showed me his clay and dyes. He explained the star symbol of Tunis – a yellow tanat on red clay – and how it stands for wisdom in their folklore. Watching him mold clay into tagine pots, I was reminded of Iranian craftsmen who shape our own tagines and samovars. The shapes were different – one mid-Eastern dome versus another African pot – but our hands seemed to share an ancestral memory of molding earth into life. Later that day I walked the sandy beach with young Tunisians in loose linen shirts and chechia caps (the red felt fez). They kicked up sand and music from a cassette player spilled into the sky. I admired the solidarity: beneath different skies, youth dance to similar tunes of freedom.
I visited high-end boutiques, too. On a broad street stood a sleek space filled with SAMAKA’s collection – airy linens in neutral tones and relaxed silhouettes. A young designer explained that Tunisian fashion is turning to simplicity, to the sustainability that echoes our own ancient principle of balance. She pointed out how men’s wear had started to incorporate the fouta – that humble striped wrap – into modern jackets, and how women’s tops borrowed neckline cuts from our Persian tunics. I tried on a linen vest cut like a deconstructed kaftan; it fit me as if made by an Iranian hand, and I joked that perhaps it had been.
In contrast, in one of the souks near Sfax, I observed women selling bright woven baskets of palm leaves, dyed deep crimson and indigo. The colors reminded me of the garments of nomadic desert women I once met near Yazd, and I realized that the Berber and Persian deserts had more in common than I knew. They both taught of sun-bleached hues and nights of starlight. I sat with a weaver, cross-legged on the ground, and she showed me a tattoo on her wrist – a star like the one on the Tunisian flag. “My mother wore the same mark,” she said. “It’s Berber, it means protection.” I thought of the talismans in my homeland: perhaps every culture uses art to bless itself against the unknown.
Night after night under olive trees outside the old city, I penned sketches in a worn notebook. I wove these scattered memories with sentences and designs, trying to capture that luminous blend of old and new. There, by candlelight, I dripped ink like dye on fabric. The shadow of a coconut shell lamp played on my half-finished watercolors of Tunisian motifs – a henna-drawn hand, the triptych doors of a souk, a woman’s eyes lined like harvest moons. Each picture was a fragment of my journey – a tessera in the mosaic of memory that Tunis left in me.
When finally I prepared to leave, I felt as though I was unraveling a tapestry. Each night, I rolled back the threads I had woven into my experience. My heart had gathered the tears of the sea, the spice dust, the calls to prayer, and it held them warm. As the plane took off, the Tunisian coastline receding beneath me, I understood that I had taken more than photographs and souvenirs. I carried patterns of old and new – embroidered symbols, dyed wool, and human stories – into the next phase of my own work. Our Persian and Tunis fabrics, once woven separately, now rested together in my hands. Perhaps, one day, they would dance as one under the needles of my sewing machine. Yet even now, I knew they lived together in the memory of my mind’s eye, a tapestry stitched between two lands by the journey of one curious spirit.