Shab-e Yalda: what happens when the longest night makes you miss home even more?

Shab-e Yalda, the longest night of the year, is meant to be magical. In theory it’s about light triumphing over darkness, about poetry, pomegranates and family gathering around a festive table. In practice, for us, it is a quiet, bittersweet reminder: another year without H’s family, another year of life feeling on hold because our people are thousands of miles away.

Sometimes seeing pictures of other Persian families celebrating together, laughing around a full table, only makes the absence sharper. You might ask why it hits harder. It’s because no one really understands, not fully.

Days before Yalda night, we go on a shopping spree to choose the perfect watermelon, pomegranates, saffron-coated nuts and dried fruits. And always the shirini from Honey Patisserie in Newcastle’s West End, stacked with pistachio baklava, rosewater treats and fig-stuffed delights. C drags me from counter to counter, cheeks flushed, tasting a cashew here, gobbling a syrupy bite there, grinning up at me with that little “azizam” that feels like an offered heart.

By the time we leave, bags overflowing, I realise this isn’t just preparation. It’s a kind of longing made tangible. Each treat is a stand-in for hugs we cannot have, laughter we cannot share and faces we really miss. As we lavish ourselves on these small indulgences, I can’t help thinking of those for whom a watermelon or a bag of nuts is a luxury they can’t afford. The contrast sharpens the ache of absence, and the privilege of our celebration is never lost on me.

One year we threw the dining table out. Blankets on the floor, bowls in hand, rice scattered like confetti, candles flickering just out of reach of curious little fingers. It was messy but undeniably perfect because we’d invited our friends around. There was not a polished table, no perfect pomegranates, it was us, together, while the rest of our family watched across screens.

Yalda is also our language lesson. “Shab-e Yalda mobarak,” “azizam,” “meyveh”. C repeats them with delight, sometimes perfect, sometimes hilariously mangled. Each one is a tiny bridge to family far away, a lifeline across continents. And every time he says them, H and I feel the tug of absence: we’re here, they’re there, and this is the only way to make the distance bearable.

Phones and video calls on screens are our lifelines to the people we love. We toast “health” and “happiness” with a screen between us, watch C offer watermelon slices to his grandma over pixels, and there’s happiness, yes, but it’s threaded with longing.

Life, in a way, feels paused, suspended, because the warmth of a hug in the same room is missing. We’re in constant lockdown. We cook, clean and celebrate with one hand on the phone and one eye on the clock.

I had a lump in my throat answering him. H and I often think, as older parents without any support nearby, what happens when we’re gone?

And then the thought that hits like a punch: why can’t H’s sister and brother, our family, experience this too? Why should love, presence and family ever be rationed or withheld? It’s not just sadness; it’s an injustice. The ability to see your family, to hold them, to celebrate together, this is a fundamental human right.

If the least I can do is to be their voice, then I must. To raise awareness, to make sure the world knows exactly what is happening, to remind people that these are real lives on pause, real hearts aching across continents. Through our messy Yalda rituals, our laughter and tears, our little Farsi lessons, we speak for the family we cannot hold. We make their absence visible, and in doing so, we honour them.

Family support plays a crucial role in mental health, providing emotional stability and a sense of belonging. When that support is lacking, or physically unreachable, it can significantly impact well-being. For us, being so far from family heightens the importance of seeking alternative sources of encouragement and self-care. The gym and small network of Persian friends being our only distraction. Our dinners and little Farsi lessons carved out in these long December nights are part of that self-care: creating belonging and love, even across oceans.

Unlike Eid or Ramadan, Shab-e Yalda isn’t talked about in UK schools. Most people barely know it exists. That makes our insistence on celebrating it all the more vital. Every pomegranate seed split, every line of Hafez read aloud, every bite of fesenjan or honeyed baklava is a quiet declaration: family, culture and connection persist, even in absence. They are lessons for C in resilience, and in love that doesn’t need proximity.

It teaches C that heritage matters, that love exists even when our arms can’t reach each other. It teaches me that happiness and sorrow can coexist, mixed with the ache of missing faces and voices. Above all, it reminds me that family isn’t just proximity. Family is presence in memory, and in deliberate tradition, kept alive across oceans and time zones.

As C grows, Yalda will evolve. Some rituals will stick, some will change. But the essence remains: love, reflection and the enduring ache of missing the ones you love. Watching him crack nuts, choose his shirini and learn a new Farsi phrase each year fills me with pride, and a quiet, quiet yearning. Shab-e Yalda comforts, teaches and reminds us that even the longest night can hold light, even when life feels a little on hold. I hold on to the hope that one day, before it’s too late, we’ll be able to be together again.

How do you celebrate while holding absence in your heart? I’d love to hear your stories.

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