Being an Iranian has often meant one of two things: feeling unsafe, or feeling guilty because I’m somewhere safe.

Right now, in 2025, as headlines again shout about Iran and the world watches from a distance, I sit in the safety of Australia. Meanwhile, my family in Iran are in the midst of geopolitical conflict, with internet that constantly cuts off and incredibly basic communications technology.

I carry the weight of that too; sometimes this privilege feels more like a burden.

Image: Adam and his family, courtesy of the author

Within my family, I experience a specific guilt that many second-generation Australians know well.

My father immigrated to Australia from central Iran 40 years ago. He left behind a village built from mud brick, and built a life here instead: safe, relatively stable and rich in expectations.

It’s those very expectations that have morphed into something quiet but heavy: pressure on me to behave and succeed, and to gain validation that the move was ‘worth it’.

Unfortunately, I’ve failed on most fronts. I travel too much, I’m unmarried in my thirties, and I have long hair – which, for some reason, is the most troubling point of contention. In the eyes of my Baba, I am not living the life he imagined for the son he brought to live in the ‘lucky country’ of Australia.

I’ve named this pressure the ‘ethnic tax’.

The ethnic tax isn’t something you’ll find in a textbook. It’s not a literal tax – no money changes hands – but its impacts are commonly understood by many of us in immigrant communities. It’s a kind of inherited debt we feel we owe for being born into opportunity with privilege. For having choices our parents did not. For living in the safety of Australia: a country they gave everything to reach.

As immigrants, our parents came to Australia with a vision, even if they will seldom admit to it. For some, it was just to feel safe and free, to live in peace and calm. For others, it was financial stability and the opportunity to raise a family. Whatever the motivation, this vision came with expectations (spoken or unspoken) about how their children would live their lives.

In my case, it was a relatively simple ask: study hard in school; go to university; get a good job; buy a house; be married and have kids. My parents simply want me to live a life of stability and success (sounds easy enough, right?).

But I’ve been letting the team down for years. And I know I’m not alone.

Image: Courtesy of the author.

It’s a common story in immigrant families: the tension between our parents’ dreams for us and our own desire to forge a new path. This tension is often discussed at the dinner table – either wrapped up with an argument, extended silences, or both.

The ethnic tax is at the heart of so many Australian stories, even if it doesn’t usually get the airtime.

Sometimes, I think of well-known Australians when seeking inspiration: what did their families say when they stepped off the expected path and into the unknown?

What clapback did Nick Giannopoulos (from The Wog Boy) face when he told his Greek-immigrant parents he was pursuing acting and comedy instead of a more ‘stable’ job? How did Guy Sebastian’s family react when he swapped his medical radiation degree for a career in music? Or when Dr Mehreen Faruqi left behind engineering to pursue politics – was that met with celebration or concern?

Sure, my curiosity here is creative; I don’t know any of these people personally. But I do know the feeling of stepping into unknown territory for your family. To be someone who doesn’t follow the blueprint. And to love your parents so deeply, even if that means rejecting the life they envisioned for you.

I wonder about how these experiences have been replicated across our population, time again, given nearly 22 per cent of Australians are second-generation, and almost 49 per cent are third-generation. This push-and-pull between gratitude and individuality plays out quietly every day – across the dinner table, in car journeys and likely in the fresh food aisle of your local Woolies.

Having these differences doesn’t always mean a dramatic standoff between you and your parents (although, let’s be real – it often does). Sometimes, it’s more quietly hurtful than that: extended periods of silence and distance. The phone ringing less.

I’m a writer, so naturally, I refuse to remain silent about these experiences. Despite everything, I will always love and adore my father. From an impoverished mud-brick village to building his life in a new country and global metropolis like Sydney, I’m incredibly proud of his journey and his courage. I owe (at least 50 per cent of) my own freedom to his sacrifices.

But does that mean I owe him my life? Must I conform to the vision he has for me to preserve our relationship?

The truth is, I can’t. I’ll continue to travel. I’ll keep writing. After another failed relationship, who knows if I’ll ever get married or have kids.

Maybe my path will never align with my dad’s vision. But having the freedom to live a life on my own terms is the very thing he wanted for me. Even if he cannot see it now, or if it’s packaged differently. And I’ll try to honour his sacrifice by continuing to live as authentically as possible.

Taxes are part of life. We pay them to contribute to our society and share responsibility.

But when it comes to the ethnic tax, that’s one debt I simply cannot afford.

Image by: The Photo Studio, Glebe.