I was fourteen when I first wanted to learn an instrument.
Music was never something unusual in my family. If you have ever been involved with music education in Tehran, you have probably come across several music teachers who share my surname; some of them are among the people dearest to me. Even so, my own path was never quite so straightforward.
My musical taste was probably similar to that of many people from my generation, and it did not necessarily begin with traditional Iranian music. But eventually, I picked up a setar. Mrs Izadpanah, on Khajeh Abdollah Street in Tehran, was the first person to introduce me to the instrument.
The setar very quickly became more than something I was supposed to learn.
It became my companion in private moments.
At that age, like many other students, I also encountered the idea that if you had been playing for a while, you were supposed to play “well”. It was as though the distance between I’m learning and I should already sound like a professional musician was very short. The fear of making mistakes and being judged took some of the pleasure out of learning, and I did not continue along that path with the same momentum with which I had started.
But the instrument never really went away.
I played occasionally, mostly for myself. Not to perform, and not to prove anything to anyone. Little by little, the setar found its place in my private world.
Then university came. I studied statistics because, for many of us who grew up in that generation, going to university felt almost like part of a life already mapped out for us. Study, work and later married life followed, but the setar remained somewhere in the background of my life.
Some time later, I decided to take that relationship more seriously. Bahareh Fayazi, a highly respected Iranian musician, taught me the Mirza Abdollah radif. For a while I pursued Iranian music in a more structured and traditional way, and I even made a brief detour into playing the daf.
Then my son was born.
And, like many things in the life of a mother, music once again had to step a little further back.
The setar returned to the place it already knew well: my private world.
During those years, something else also became clear to me. The music I listened to every day was not necessarily traditional Iranian music. Western music, pop and rap could be playing in my car and be part of my everyday life, but the setar occupied a different place.
That music was my taste; the setar was mine.
Years later, despite work, family and a thousand other responsibilities, I decided to pursue more seriously and academically the knowledge I had until then gained mostly through experience and private tuition.
The circumstances were not right for me to sit the national university entrance exam and follow the conventional academic route, but the University of Applied Science and Technology gave me an opportunity I did not want to miss. I continued to bachelor’s level in music and graduated with top grades.
That period was not simply about becoming a better player. I studied solfège, harmony, music theory, ensemble performance and other areas of music with wonderful teachers at university. What had until then largely been a personal relationship with music gradually acquired a more structured and academic language as well.
My professional life, of course, was never only about music. Work circumstances led me into graphic design, I completed professional training in the field, and I continued running a business together with my husband.
But my old companion was still there.
During those years, I also began teaching setar privately and worked with several music schools in Tehran. My own learning did not end when I received my degree, either. I continued advanced setar training with Master Isa Ghafari.
And perhaps one of the most important things I learned during those years did not come only from my teachers. It came from my students too.
Teaching gradually showed me that people do not all learn in the same way. Something that feels easy to one student may be difficult for another. One person is intimidated by theory, another by performance; one has very little time to practise, while another believes they are simply too old to begin.
The more I taught, the more I understood that teaching music is not just about passing on technique. You also have to understand the life in which the person sitting in front of you is trying to make space for music.
And now, England.
Life has now brought me to England.
And here too, my life has not suddenly become only about music. I still work in graphic design, I have my family life and everyday responsibilities, and like many other people I have to make room for different things in a limited amount of time.
But I brought my companion with me.
The setar is still beside me, just as it was when I was fourteen, just as it was through university, work, motherhood and all the pauses in between.
Only now, I think it may be time to introduce it to more people.
Here, when I meet new people, I repeatedly hear a sentence that feels very familiar to me:
“I always wanted to learn an instrument, but somehow it never happened.”
Some say they never had the time. Some talk about the pressure of study and work, others about family and responsibility, and many come from a generation in which there always seemed to be something more urgent than their own personal interests.
None of that feels unfamiliar to me.
My own musical journey has never been a straight, uninterrupted line either. Music has always had to find a place somewhere among education, work, marriage, motherhood and the responsibilities of everyday life.
For years, perhaps I thought that this lack of continuity was a weakness in my journey.
I no longer see it that way.
In fact, it was precisely this path that taught me how a skill can be built gradually, without hours of uninterrupted free time, without expecting miraculous progress and without the pressure to be perfect.
My own education has been both traditional and academic, but my teaching has to work for life as it is lived today.
For someone who has a job.
A family.
Limited time.
Someone who may not have been in any kind of learning environment for years.
And who still hears an instrument and thinks:
“I wish I could learn one day.”
I didn’t learn setar in one straight line. I stepped away and returned, many times.
Perhaps that is why I want to help people like me make space for something they have been putting off for years.
Not when everything finally becomes calm.
Not when they suddenly have plenty of free time.
Not one day.
One day. Make it today.
From My Story to Your Lessons
That is why my lessons are private, online, taught in Persian and designed for adult beginners who want to start learning the setar from the beginning. No previous musical experience is needed, and the practice is designed to be short and consistent enough to fit around work, family and a busy life.
If you feel ready to start, or if you simply have a question, feel free to get in touch. We can easily arrange a free 20-minute online conversation to talk about what you are looking for and see if these lessons are right for you.