Café der Freiheit: Interview with Tara Paighambari

For people who haven’t read your book yet, can you briefly introduce the main topics?

The main theme is displacement. It’s about the lives, motivations, and journeys of people who are forced to flee. It’s about their fears and worries. When it comes to the issue of displacement, entrepreneurial topics also play a significant role: Why do people start businesses? What do they get from them? A lot also revolves around social-democratic issues: How can we come together again as a society? Why are we drifting further apart? The fourth theme is courage—why we shouldn’t be afraid and can choose to be brave. Why courage can sometimes feel like fear, though we shouldn’t let it deceive us.

What role does courage play in your personal story and in your book?

When I was younger, I didn’t realize that I am a very courageous person. It only became clear to me over the years. I believe courage often feels like fear. It’s a challenging moment. You have to leave something familiar, a comfortable situation behind to start something new—or perhaps even to return to something old. I think courage has a lot to do with departure and change. And that’s what drives me; it’s part of my DNA.

What are your biggest sources of strength?

I am a spiritual person and draw a lot of strength from my faith. I don’t belong to any particular religious community but take inspiration from everything I’ve learned from various religions. I find it beautiful to see how much they all agree at their core. I’m also a very mindful person. That’s where I draw my courage and strength from.
I also have a very stable support system. I’ve been with my husband, who also plays a central role in my book, for a long time. That gives me a solid foundation. It takes a lot to knock me down. I’m very grateful to my husband for that.

How did it feel to write your personal story? Did it change the way you look back on your own life?

It definitely changed how I look at my life. I didn’t realize what I had actually accomplished. It only became clear to me when I read the 225 pages of my own story. When I finished the book, I cried and cried because the weight of it all suddenly hit me. I told my husband it felt like I was finally feeling the burdens I had always ignored. But that’s part of it too. You don’t become a fearless person like me without going through such experiences. I once spent four days believing that my husband had drowned in the Mediterranean. After something like that happens to you at age twenty, it’s hard to knock you down.
When my book was finished, I patted myself on the back for all my perseverance.
I also realized something else: People have no idea. They don’t know what people on the run go through. Because I lived so deeply in that reality, I thought it must be clear to everyone. Even now, whenever I speak somewhere, people come up to me and say they didn’t know. That was something I never expected.
On the other hand, I’ve realized how many people struggle with issues that may not fit directly into the migration and asylum narrative but that are still somehow connected to it.

What do you remember about your arrival in Germany? How do you reflect on your childhood impressions now, as an adult?

They are fragments burned into my soul. I was diagnosed as having high sensitivity, and I now understand why I remember smells and feelings so vividly.
Arriving in Germany was cold and wet. It was October. I remember thinking my parents had done something ‘bad’. My father was still in prison in Iran and couldn’t come with us. It took me a while to understand that my parents had been fighting for human rights.
In my memory, we moved from this beautiful house in northern Tehran to a warehouse in Reinickendorf. There was mould on the walls and icicles growing in the rooms—it was that cold.
But healing and looking positively to the future are part of my outlook. I also had wonderful friends, who I owe so much. My friend Sarah, who I met at age nine, helped me integrate. Integration only works when both sides participate, and she truly did. When we were older, she drank tea on the carpet at my house, and I toasted with her parents.
Otherwise, I have rather frustrating, bleak, discriminatory memories of my childhood, especially of the caseworkers at the shelter.

At what moment did you decide to write your story?

There were two pivotal moments. The first was in 2010 when my husband was fleeing, and we were on that journey together. Later, we laughed and said: Hollywood makes movies about stories like this—stories that really happen.
The second decisive moment was when Berlin Verlag approached me after hearing my life story. They showed great interest, and I’m very grateful for that.
I also had the political situation in mind. What I know, what I’ve experienced and learned, isn’t common knowledge. I wanted to use my story to show a path where integration and solidarity worked. Because there are many stories like mine.

A question about the writing process: You’ve been open about having a co-author. How did that collaboration work?

I’m dyslexic and can’t write without making mistakes. That often affects my grammar too. But that says nothing about whether I can be a writer or an author. I didn’t know that before. From the beginning, I was transparent, and they assigned me a co-author. Many authors get support like this, but few openly admit to it afterwards.
Oliver Kobold and I met several times and talked a lot about the story. I’m very grateful because we worked so well together. It was important to us to include the cafés and the life stories of the people involved. The book is based not only on my thoughts but on those of the many people who work with me here. Oliver took on the writing, and when he sent me the first chapter, I cried—because it was me. When I read Café der Freiheit, it’s me—it’s my words, the way I speak. But I wrote several chapters myself, especially the ones about being displaced, as well as the ending. The writing process took about a year and a half, and it went so quickly because the story was already there: my life.

You studied molecular biology, worked as a business consultant, and now have your own start-up and two cafés. Your book is called Café der Freiheit. Among all the different things you’ve done, the cafés seem to hold a special place in your heart. What do they mean to you?

We got into the café business through our family and took over from my uncle. They’ve become the centre of our lives. My husband and I often say: These are our two daughters. That’s how we see them, and that’s how we care for and love them.
I struggle when people can’t admit their mistakes, but in the cafés, this works wonderfully. People quickly realize: You can’t say the wrong thing here. And if you say something truly awful, there are clear consequences. But otherwise, I leave a lot of room for the shadows between black and white.
It was important that cafés, and the love people bring into them, played a big role. It’s about freedom, society, democracy, and world politics—and there’s no better place for that than a café.
Cafés are places of being, places of democracy and civil society. The fact that we, as a refugee family, were able to create this space for others makes me very proud.

At the Dokumentale, during the talk about ‘Home and Identity’, you said, ‘As refugees, we always have two homelands, but I define it differently. For me, home is memories and feelings, which is why I can feel at home anywhere.’ Can you tell us more about what home means to you and what helps you to feel at home wherever you are?

We are citizens of the world. I see fewer differences and more similarities among people. I always say, ‘If you take away the skin, the bones look the same.’ That mindset probably helps me feel at home everywhere. For me, home is strongly tied to smells and feelings. Germany reminds me of anise—the spice used in mulled wine. It evokes the warmth of winter. When I eat currywurst in Bali, I feel like I’m at home in Berlin.
On the other hand, I often feel moments of connection with Iran. Rose water, for example, is very typical of Iran and always makes me think of home. And heat. When it’s scorching hot and you can smell the sand in the air, that’s Tehran to me.

How do you view the current situation in Iran?

I remain optimistic. But it pains me deeply that so many people, including non-Iranians, have died. Look at Palestine, Israel, Lebanon, and Ukraine. All because of conflicts caused by a few countries, including Iran. What shocks me is how shameless politicians around the world are when they discuss these crises, blatantly lying to us as people of this Earth.
Despite all this, I believe things will change. Many terrorist collaborators in Iran were killed last year. This means change is coming. I hope it will be a positive change. Looking at the history of Iran, we are resilient. We tend to rise up and bring about change. Human rights have roots in Persian history. I have great hope. One day, the wind will blow through their hair again. Ferdowsi, one of Iran’s most famous poets, says, ‘Like the phoenix rising from the ashes’. And they will rise again.

How can we in Germany support the struggles of Iranian women?

By being more open to discussions and issues. As a society, we need to broaden our perspective and deepen our emotional empathy, rather than sticking to a narrow view. That in itself would be a significant help, because all people deserve to be treated with equal empathy.