In a word, Roza Nozari is impressive. The Iranian-Canadian author of the new memoir, All the Parts We Exile (Knopf Canada) – recently featured in our special International Women’s Day edition of the Scout Book Club – is not only a writer and visual artist, she’s also a social worker (therapist) working primarily with BIPOC and 2SLGBTQ+ communities, and focussing on “processing and healing from intergenerational and developmental/attachment woundings”.

When we recently connected with Nozari about participating in an interview for Scout, in addition to discussing her memoir and writing practice, we could hardly skim over her obvious love and connection with food. Continue reading to find out more about the deeply intelligent, thoughtful, self-aware, committed, and talented human being – and what nourishes her – via our new in-depth Q&A below:

You seem like a super busy woman! How do you spend your time when you’re not “on the clock”?

When I’m not working, I’m spending time with loved ones, cooking, boxing or re-watching episodes of Gilmore Girls.

Why was now the right time to put yourself out there and share your story via your new memoir, All the Parts We Exile?

Timing. I’m at an age where I see my mother aging, and I see her memories fading. Aging is unpredictable. If I was going to write a book like this, I wanted her to be able to meaningfully participate in the process with me, with capacity to negotiate her own boundaries around what stories I shared of hers, just as I was negotiating mine. I was lucky that she was open to the idea when I pitched it to her. And I was lucky that I was ready, too.

In addition to being a writer, you are also an illustrator. Please tell me more about your visual art practice.

I combine illustration with writing to tell stories of oppression and resistance, trauma and healing, grief, joy, rage, hope and everything in-between.

From what I glean from your memoir, your writing and illustration practices have always been intertwined, beginning with a series of “love letters” to yourself, featuring corresponding self portraits. However, is there something that the process of writing provides for you that drawing does not, and vice versa?

With my visual art, I’m bound by space in a way. There has to be succinctness to what I’m saying. I give myself one line to capture an idea. And at times – I love that. I have to get creative, clear and specific when I’m asking myself: how can I take this big concept and break it down into seven words.

The process of writing felt much more spacious for me. In ways, that was uncomfortable for me. It was so spacious and boundless that I ended up writing some of my book on the tiny screen of my phone. I also think the discomfort was about taking up space. Early on in my writing, I remember my editor asking me to expand on a lot of what I was writing. I wasn’t used to saying more, to taking up space in that way. Visual art was a step towards taking up more space; memoir writing was a whole leap.

Why did you choose to frame your personal story as a piece of non-fiction literature, with intermittent illustrations, instead of as a graphic novel, for instance?

Truthfully, I didn’t want to illustrate some of the scenes I wanted to write about. In a way, writing gave me more distance from the stories I was sharing. I needed that.

And how does your experience/work as a therapist give you an “edge” in your creative work, do you think?

I love bringing my therapeutic experience to my creative work. It roots me. It becomes an anchor for my creative work. It’s this experience that shapes the kinds of questions and curiosities I root down into in my creative work. In this memoir, it was a way to frame the book. I love the idea of seeing ourselves in parts. You see this idea in Jungian analysis, in Internal Family Systems, in Shamanism. I’m sure there’s more that I’m not naming here. The memoir becomes grounded in this therapeutic question of how do we become whole? Perhaps even, can we become whole?

The epigraph in All the Parts We Exile is from Chicana queer, feminist writer and scholar Gloria Evangelina Anzaldúa’s memoir, Borderlands, published in 1987 (around the time you were born). Can you please tell me the significance that Anzaldua has had on you and why you chose to include this quote in particular?

The first time I read Anzaldua’s work, I was in my fourth year of university, navigating the internal conflict between my queerness and my cultural and religious identity. She articulated something I had no words for. Living on the borders, in the margins, carrying home on your back, the fear of being seen, the alienation, the silence. She was ferocious, unapologetic and brutally honest in her writing. I wanted to be ferocious back then, too. I read her and wished I could embody more of her. You can’t tame my wild tongue! You can’t brutalize me into insensitivity! You will not rob me of my language! (To paraphrase her words.) More than a decade later, I read her writing again. And again and again every time I needed to access courage, radical honesty, ferocity. It felt right to honour her by choosing her words as the epigraph. Writing this book felt like learning to speak again. It felt like a reclamation of my tongue, of my mouth, of my voice.

What other books and/or authors have made the biggest impression on you – both professionally/creatively and personally?

There is not enough space to name all those who have had big impressions on me. Audre Lorde, Frantz Fanon, Sara Ahmed, Adrienne Maree Brown, Kai Cheng Thom, Prentis Hemphill. These are all people who inform the way I think. While writing this memoir, I read a lot of Melissa Febos and Roxanne Gay. Both taught me much about storytelling, vulnerability and radical honesty. In terms of fiction, I feel most affected by the writing of Toni Morrison, Sandra Cisneros, Rawi Hage, Khaled Hosseini.

Thinking ahead to the future, if you had to select a single idea/phrase from All the Parts We Exile to be epigraphed by the next generation of queer women of colour writers, what would it be and why?

Perhaps this one for reasons of relatability across time: “The reality was that the confines of what made a good woman were always this suffocating and sharp… I edged myself closer and closer to the edges of the box, willing to cut off whole parts of me, willing to make myself smaller if it meant I could belong with them and stay here, in the land of good women.”

There are so many impressive nuggets of wisdom in All the Parts We Exile, gleaned from friends and strangers alike. For instance, when you were feeling burnt out (to put it mildly) by your work for a small organization with survivors of violence, you retail some advice from a peer/coworker: “Matter-of-factly, she explained that my workplace simply wasn’t set up for social work, at least not in a way that was supportive enough to staff. That it wasn’t a personal failure; it was a structural one. One that, regardless of the heart of the organization or the empathy of those working there, plagued most non-profits.”

…Later on, another notable exchange of advice comes via your interaction with an Uber driver, who is Arab and an immigrant to Canada circa the 1990s, with three adult children of his own (a story parallel to your own family’s). During the drive, he puts your own feelings of guilt, and compulsion to work hard in order to compensate your parents for their sacrifices into perspective; and you recount his lesson as such: “…sacrifice does not demand reciprocity. Its beauty lies in the fact that it’s an offering without promise. An offering without promise. An offering for the sake of a desired, but not conditional, outcome. It’s a gift, not a transaction.”

Then, shortly thereafter, your mother confirms this idea, and you talk about self-care, which inspires you to finally find a new, less-taxing job. What do you do for self-care these days? Do you have any rituals or reminders in motion that you can share with us?

I think about self-care as connection to the things that nourish and sustain me. Right now, cultural connection and community is what nourishes and sustains me. That looks a lot like cooking Persian food – even if I haven’t perfected the recipe yet. I’ve been newly visiting waters (at spas), which honestly feels very luxurious. My mother grew up going to bathhouses, so there’s something that feels old and familiar to me. And of course, having a meal or coffee with friends. These days, my reminders are just me being radically honest with myself about when I’m neglecting to take care of myself.

It occurred to me, as I was reading All the Parts We Exile, that some of the most evocative, positive, and/or light moments in your memoir involve eating and sharing food (plus, it would be remiss for me not to mention how, even as a young child, you were exalted for your big appetite – something I definitely appreciate!): drinking chai and eating fruits, seeds, nuts and pastries/baklava with your mother and her best friend while they socialized and had discussions at home; breakfasts of feta with herbs and pita, noon barbari with jam and butter, and chai shireen among family in Iran… Since building a menu is a form of storytelling in of itself, please break down your story, so far, in five courses.

Entree (early childhood): Abgoosht (an Iranian stew with lamb and chickpeas), Sabzi Khordan (an herb platter) and Noon Barbari (flat bread)
First Course (adolescence): Adas Polo (Rice with Lentils)
Second Course (20s): Kebob Vaziri (Skewer of Chicken and Beef, Grilled Tomato, Rice) and Mast-O Musir (Persian Shallot Yogurt Dip)
Third Course (30s): Khoresht Fesenjan (Walnut, Chicken & Pomegranate Stew) and Salad Shirazi
Dessert (of course): Chai with Zoolbia Bamieh (two sweet fried dough desserts – one is crunchy, one is chewy – often paired together)

“Writing this memoir became a way to return my creative practice to its roots. I treated it as a sacred place, again. Having done that, I feel a sense of openness to what’s next creatively for me. I feel a renewed commitment to balance. And to being led by curiosity, play and pleasure.”

Speaking of food, in one of the aforementioned scenes, during your childhood visit to Iran, you mention the phrase Nooshi joon, which translates to “May your soul be nourished.” I love this mentality, the correlation between food and its ability to satisfy more than just a base hunger, but something more meaningful – the idea that appetites and general well-being are interwoven. Riffing on that, I wonder: what nourishes your soul lately? And how has this attitude informed your relationship with food?

Connection to culture and community is what nourishes my soul right now. Food is a big part of this. Perhaps because I grew up with this saying, food has always been spiritually nourishing for me. It’s not just the food itself, either – it’s the entire process. I love going to Iranian grocery stores in the North End and stocking up on spices, or meat, or torshi (vegetables in vinegar). Even with my imperfect Farsi, it makes me feel spiritually nourished to hear and speak my language there. I love spending time on stews, on making rice the Iranian way (with tadig, of course). Some days, I play older Iranian music in the kitchen and make food. That’s the epitome of nourishing my soul.

Probably the most obvious food reference is of the sofreh-e nazri, when women come together over ceremonial food offerings and prayer. This concept takes up a different meaning towards the end of your book: “Art, both writing and illustrating, became a way to free myself from the survival mechanisms that had taught me to disconnect – to minimize, shame and even abandon myself. In ways, the page was a sofreh-e nazri. A spiritual gathering with myself, an invitation to feel as deeply as I wanted to feel, knowing I was right there with me. My art often feeling like prayer – one for myself, one for the collective. And always, spoken from a place of truth. Over time, art wasn’t a thing I did, it was a place I went. A sacred place where I could feel and heal.” How has the purpose of art changed or evolved over time since you first started pouring yourself wholeheartedly into it?

Great question – one I’m grappling with right now as we speak. At first, art was a place I went to process what was happening in my life. It was a practice of care, of tending to myself in a capitalist world that would rather we didn’t tend to ourselves. When it became my work, my personal creative practice started to fade away. It became a thing I did, not a place I went. And more specifically – a thing I did for others. There was no balance. Writing this memoir became a way to return my creative practice to its roots. I treated it as a sacred place, again. Having done that, I feel a sense of openness to what’s next creatively for me. I feel a renewed commitment to balance. And to being led by curiosity, play and pleasure.

Continuing on the theme of food, one of my favourite quotes, that I underlined, compares Iranian culture to a particular fruit: “Sweet and tart, the culture felt akin to a pomegranate. Each seed a new cultural teaching I wanted to consume and embody.” Can you please expand on that idea for me?

On the surface, the sweetness is the loving warmth and care of our interactions. The tartness is our sense of humour. There’s a lot of joking around at the expense of others. On a deeper level, the tartness is the devastating parts of our past and present – namely the historical and current political traumas people have endured. Every family has their own story of what happened and how their families were changed by the revolution, for example. Of family members who disappeared or were murdered, of those who packed their belongings and ran away, of betrayal and pain. I am never not aware that my mom and her family went through a pain that I will never fully understand. That’s the tartness to me – sharp, overwhelming, hard to swallow. The sweetness – the warmth and care – keeps us surviving, keeps us going.

For our Vancouver readers who are planning on visiting Toronto in the near future: do you have any recommendations for Persian food in the city?

Toronto, culturally, tastes salty and spicy to me. Literally, it’s an explosion of flavours when it comes to the food scene. For Persian food, I would say Herby in the East End, Queen of Persia in the West End. Takht-e Tavoos is a wonderful place for brunch.

What was the last most memorable dining out experience that you had and what made it so special?

Diner Seoul, a Korean-French restaurant, is always a memorable experience for me. In the hustle and bustle of Toronto, it’s a special thing to create a spot that feels comforting, soothing and calm. It’s the food. It’s the staff. It’s the ambience. It’s delightful.

What is your ultimate comfort food, i.e. the dish that you seek out or make for yourself when you need a pick-me-up?

Oh no – this is a hard question! There are many kinds of comfort food for me. If I’m making it myself, I’d say a variation of Aash Reshteh that I picked up from Bon Appetit. From restaurants, I seek out a good old’ kabob koobideh. From my mother, I ask for khoresht gheimeh every time. It’s a lentil stew with chunks of meat. Just writing about my mother’s gheimeh is making me salivate.

Nowruz is fast approaching. Any special plans for celebrating the Iranian New Year this year? Old and/or new traditions surrounding the holiday?

Khaneh tekani translates to “shaking the house,” meaning cleaning the house. The idea is that you are cleaning out and leaving behind the bad, or ridding the home of cheshm (“salty eye”). This is the first year where I feel like I want to “shake the house.” I’m also feeling pulled to make aash reshteh this year. The noodles symbolize the many life paths that exist before us. As we approach the new year, eating the soup is about landing in possibility and finding guidance towards the most meaningful path.

Let’s talk collaboration: you’ve worked on a lot of different projects with a spectrum of collaborators – from illustrating children’s and cookbooks, to designing the label for a special Pride-inspired Gin and large-scale posters for the Wilfred Laurier University Campus (where you once were a student yourself), various non-profit organizations, big brands, and more. What makes a “good” collaboration for you? Who would you most like to work with next, and why?

A good collaboration to me is one that honours the specific style/perspective I bring to a project and gives me space to be curious and playful. Right now, Pride-related projects feel especially important in this political climate. I would love to work with folks seeking to honour and affirm 2SLGBTQ+ communities – whether that be through murals, clothing designs, Pride festival design or creative workshops.

Finally, now that your memoir is out in the world, what’s next for you? Any upcoming events, projects, collaborations, etc. that you can put on our radar?

I’m excited to have some time/space to explore fiction. I’m interested in novel-writing as my next project.