Nick Berg’s Shadows of Tehran is a poignant, sprawling novel that captures the tension of dual identity with lyrical prose and unflinching honesty. Berg crafts an evocative narrative that moves from the fragrant courtyards of Tehran to the restless suburbs of America, mapping not just a journey of physical migration but one of spiritual reckoning and personal transformation.

What distinguishes this novel is its ability to marry historical complexity with deeply personal stakes. Ricardo, born to an Iranian mother and American father, embodies the fractured self of the modern exile. From the beginning, he is a child “from two different worlds,” straddling cultural chasms and emotional divides that few can navigate without scars. The author’s preface warns us that “this is not just a recounting of events,” and indeed, what unfolds is a richly textured exploration of family, abandonment, resilience, and ultimately, identity.

The early chapters are particularly vivid. I was moved by the descriptions of the family’s Tehran home—a place “built in the mid-1800s…with colorful pomegranate trees and lemon and orange trees with fragrant blooms.” Berg’s ability to describe the setting with such sensory immersion is one of the book’s great strengths. His Tehran is not just a city; it is a character in its own right, both nurturing and oppressive.

Yet it is in the depiction of betrayal and estrangement that Berg’s storytelling truly soars. David, Ricardo’s American father, gradually disappears from their lives—first emotionally, then physically. The scenes of Ricardo trying to understand this abandonment, particularly when the private investigator says David has fled again, are heart-wrenching. “Who was this man?” Ricardo asks. “What were his motives?” These are the questions that echo through the novel like a drumbeat.

Equally powerful is the figure of Samira, Ricardo’s mother, who clings to her dignity and intelligence despite mounting obstacles. Her attempt to learn English, thwarted by her husband’s cryptic insistence on Spanish, is symbolic of how women’s agency is often redirected or denied in patriarchal systems. One of the book’s most chilling lines is a whispered nighttime call: “Hello, Reza… it’s me.” In that moment, we realize that love and survival do not always follow the same path.

As someone who has raised children and faced the complexities of reinvention later in life, I was especially touched by Ricardo’s growth from confused child to a young man shaped by loss, literature, and history. His time in his Uncle Masood’s bookstore—portrayed with almost sacred reverence—offers the balm of intellectual sanctuary and moral clarity.

Shadows of Tehran is not an easy read, but it is a necessary one. It reminds us that the wounds of exile are carried for generations, and that in the search for home, sometimes the shadows show us where the light still burns.