No Products in the Cart
Yalda: A Celebration of Light in the Longest Night
"And still, after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, 'You owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that, it lights the whole sky."
~ Hafez
There’s something comforting about rituals that teach us to pause. Yalda is one of those rituals. It arrives quietly, demanding little more than presence and intention. The longest night of the year in the northern hemisphere becomes a time to sit with loved ones, share food imbued with meaning, and remember that darkness is never-ending.
For my family, Yalda was an act of preservation. We lived far from Iran, but my mother carried Yalda in her hands and heart, refusing to let it slip into the past. Days before the solstice, she would transform our home into a space ready to welcome the night. The table became an offering—pomegranates, watermelon, dried fruits, and nuts. Candles flickered against the quiet walls. Each item spoke a language of survival, of holding onto light even when the world felt heavy.
My father would bring the Divan of Hafez and a bowl of water, a ritual that always felt both simple and profound. We would place small objects—jewelry, stones, talismans—into the bowl, each a token of intention for the coming year. My father’s voice would fill the room as he recited Hafez’s poetry, words that had traveled centuries to meet us there. I remember the way the verses seemed to answer questions we didn’t even know we were asking. It was magic disguised as tradition.
Yalda belongs to a world much older than ours. Its roots stretch back to Zoroastrian beliefs about the cycles of nature and the cosmic battle between light and dark. In ancient Persia, the winter solstice was more than a celestial event—it was a moment of collective endurance. Families stayed awake through the longest night, lighting fires to help the sun reclaim its strength.
The word Yalda comes from Syriac, meaning “birth.” It is both literal and symbolic, marking the rebirth of Mithra, the deity of light. Over centuries, the religious ties softened, but the essence of Yalda remained: the belief in resilience and the inevitability of light’s return.
Even now, Yalda feels like an act of resistance against despair. It reminds us that darkness is part of the cycle, not its conclusion.
If you’ve ever opened a pomegranate, you know it’s not a hurried task. The seeds demand patience, a slow unraveling that mirrors the process of understanding Yalda itself. These ruby seeds represent life, fertility, and the promise of renewal.
Watermelon, a fruit saved from summer’s abundance, sits on the Yalda table as a symbol of health and continuity. Its sweetness is a reminder of the warmth that still exists even in winter’s grip. Nuts and dried fruits speak to preparation and abundance, a quiet acknowledgment that foresight and care carry us through leaner times.
Food on Yalda is a way of remembering the past while anchoring ourselves in the present.
For Iranians, Yalda is incomplete without Hafez. His poetry transforms the night into a space for reflection and connection. Opening his divan isn’t about prediction; it’s about interpretation. The verses seem to stretch across time, offering guidance without instruction, wisdom without certainty.
In my family, Hafez became the voice of Yalda. After setting our intentions, my father would read aloud from the book, his voice carrying both reverence and ease. There was something grounding in hearing those words, knowing that generations before us had done the same. It wasn’t about finding answers—it was about embracing the act of asking, of staying curious and open.
In the noise of modern life, Yalda offers something rare—a chance to reconnect with what binds us. It’s a tradition built on the simplest of acts: gathering, sharing, and listening. The rituals—cutting open a pomegranate, reading a line of poetry, passing a bowl of nuts—are small but deeply meaningful gestures that remind us of our shared humanity.
Yalda also holds the power to heal. In a world where differences often seem to divide us, traditions like this encourage curiosity. They invite us to ask questions: Why do we gather? Why do we light candles? What does this fruit, this poem, this night represent? Through these questions, we move beyond surface differences and discover universal truths—our need for connection, our capacity for resilience, and our shared hope for renewal.
The act of sitting together, even on the darkest night, becomes an act of trust. It’s a moment to reflect on the cycles of nature and life, to acknowledge that darkness is not an ending but part of something larger. Yalda is a reminder that healing comes not from erasing differences but from understanding them. It teaches us that in honoring traditions—our own or others’—we find common ground, and in doing so, we move closer to each other.
This is why Yalda feels urgent today. It calls us to pause, to gather across divides, and to remember what endures: the promise of light, the strength of connection, and the quiet power of curiosity.
Yalda reminds me that tradition doesn’t need to be static to matter. For me, it’s not about recreating the exact celebrations of my ancestors. It’s about taking what they’ve passed down and allowing it to live in the present.
When I think of Yalda, I think of my mother arranging pomegranates with quiet determination. I think of my father’s steady voice, reading Hafez as if those words belonged to him. I think of the candles, the watermelon, the bowl of water filled with small treasures.
This year, as the longest night approaches, I’ll carry Yalda forward. I’ll light a candle, open a pomegranate, and sit with the lessons it holds: that darkness is temporary, that light always returns, and that connection—across time, space, and generations—is what sustains us.
To read more stories visit DLISH.
