What happens when a 600-year-old Persian poet meets the Capybara Song?

What do a 14th-century Persian poet and a capybara have in common? Until recently, I’d have said absolutely nothing. One writes about love, longing and the mysteries of human existence. The other is a large, placid rodent that has somehow acquired an international following on YouTube. But introduce both to a British-Persian 10-year-old and the distinction is less important.

In our Newcastle home, Hafez and the Capybara song can share an evening quite happily. One provides centuries of Persian literary heritage, while the other accompanies Cyrus attempting to breakdance across the living room. Both have their audiences, although I suspect the capybara currently has the advantage when it comes to securing my son’s attention. And, inconveniently for those of us preserving ancient traditions, the rodent is easier to dance to.

Cyrus has worked out that having a British mum and an Iranian dad comes with advantages. Two cultures mean twice the opportunities for food, celebrations and, if he plays his cards right, presents. I can’t fault our pesar taleh’s reasoning.

In a British-Persian household, apparently they don’t have to compete. One belongs to the traditions Cyrus has inherited, while the other belongs to the childhood he’s living.

Every December, we celebrate Shab-e Yalda, the Persian festival marking the longest night of the year. H grew up celebrating it in Iran, while my childhood Decembers involved Christmas films, sweets and lying awake at my gran’s house convinced I could hear reindeer on the roof. We started celebrating Yalda during Cyrus’s first year because I wanted him to grow up knowing his dad’s traditions.

Cyrus gets both. Christmas brings Father Christmas and presents. Yalda brings pomegranates, watermelon, Persian music, friends and the possibility of staying up until an unearthly hour. For him, neither celebration requires an explanation, they’re just things our family does, although I suspect the presents have a slight advantage over the poetry.

At Yalda, families traditionally open a book of Hafez’s poetry at random and interpret the verses as guidance or a fortune. This time, somewhere between refilling the kettle and watching the children charge around the house, I nearly forgot the book all together. Our friend from Shiraz eventually read my fortune beautifully. I made my wish, hoping for something encouraging, and discovered that 2026 was going to take even more resilience.

I was hoping for a peaceful year, perhaps a holiday and several months without anything character-building. Instead, a Persian poet who died more than six centuries ago appeared determined to keep me on my toes. Cyrus, meanwhile, was enjoying himself without consulting any ancient literary figures about his future.

This year, our pomegranates cost £14 from Newcastle’s West End. For that price, I expected seeds resembling rubies from the Iranian crown jewels. Instead, we discovered pale pink ones that looked rather apologetic. Perfectly edible, admittedly, but spiritually disappointing and not from our usual haunt either.

We couldn’t find quince either, and our favourite Persian sweet shop, Honey, had closed down. We substituted cupcakes for traditional shirini, which didn’t seem to concern the children. H made chicken wraps with potato wedges, hummus and salad for our guests. It wasn’t a Persian banquet, but everyone ate happily. Sometimes preserving cultural traditions means accepting that people just need feeding.

The irony is that I’m often more enthusiastic about organising Yalda than H, who actually grew up celebrating it. I’m hunting down fruit and worrying about authenticity while he’s concentrating on dinner. Sometimes I wonder which one of us is supposed to be Persian.

Watching Cyrus with his Persian friends is one of my favourite parts of Yalda. Some are also growing up in Britain, surrounded by traditions inherited from families thousands of miles away. Nobody needs to explain why there’s a watermelon on the table in December, they just recognise the celebration and get on with being children.

There’s a quieter side, too. H’s family remains in Iran, and every Yalda we exchange photographs across thousands of miles. The children grow older, another year passes and the distance remains. I can’t recreate H’s childhood for Cyrus, but I can give him memories connecting him to his dad’s family, even if those memories involve questionable YouTube music.

Eventually, our guests went home, leaving the British shorthair cat we’d been looking after cautiously considering whether to emerge from beneath Cyrus’s bed. He’d apparently decided that Persian hospitality was best appreciated from somewhere a lot quieter.

Cyrus and I, however, weren’t ready for bed. We decided to learn Persian dancing. He approached it with the confidence of a breakdancing 10-year-old. I approached it as a woman who attends Zumba and mistakenly believes the skills are transferable. Three hours later, we had a video we were proud of, although professional Persian dancers can probably rest easy.

Maybe one day Cyrus will turn to Hafez for wisdom, just as generations of Persian families have done before him. For now, he’s more interested in the Capybara song, and that’s OK. He’s growing up with Christmas, Yalda and two cultures that belong equally in his life. He doesn’t see himself standing between two worlds and we’re not forcing him to choose. He’s too busy enjoying the best bits of both.

Do your children embrace family traditions, or have they given them a thoroughly modern makeover?

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.