Japanese Adler

 A few months ago, a small and simple book somehow made its way into my bedroom, almost by accident and without being sought out. I began reading it half-heartedly, certain I wouldn’t finish it, yet within days it became the centerpiece of every conversation I had with friends and colleagues. You may never read this book, and honestly, since I don’t even like its title, I won’t mention it here—just so you won’t form any preconceived notions about its content.

What follows is the perspective of an Iranian mind on a Japanese author’s interpretation of the philosophy and psychology of Alfred Adler, the Austrian thinker. Even if you never read the book, I hope you’ll at least follow me to the end of this piece and think with me about its ideas and this lifestyle-change philosophy that Adler promotes.

The book opens with a startling line: “You are unhappy because you chose to be unhappy. At some point, you decided that this bad feeling was actually good for you.” It then argues that each of us, through our worldview and the lifestyle shaped by it, has consciously or unconsciously designed our own personality and behavior. Our worldview is like a pair of glasses glued to our eyes—it colors our emotions and reactions to life’s challenges so completely that we don’t even realize we can take them off just as easily as removing a broken pair of glasses.

Our lifestyle reveals much about our worldview, and vice versa. If we want vitality, we must change our lifestyle—which follows from our worldview. The book also frees us from another heavy chain: the belief that childhood experiences, our parents’ actions, painful memories, or past toxic environments are the reason for our current misery. According to Adler, what makes us unhappy is not the past, but our lack of courage to face today’s challenges—our lack of courage to be happy.

This cowardice grows out of irresponsibility and infects our relationships. We avoid pursuing happiness because we fear emotional harm. We don’t trust people because we dread betrayal, so we see the world as a dangerous place and others as greedy, deceitful beings who might pull the rug from under us at any moment.

Adler’s answer to such fear is to accept the possibility of being hurt and to find the courage to face the pain that comes with human relationships. A friend might be offended, we might get fired, or a toxic relationship might collapse. Yet with courage, we believe we can survive all of these. As a result, we open ourselves to deeper friendships, better jobs, or the warmth of a loving relationship after the autumn of a cold one.

Another fear is the fear of loss—the tendency to cling to an unsatisfying life simply because we’re afraid to change it. Over time, this leads us to lose faith in ourselves, to believe we’re unlovable, and to justify the mistreatment we receive from others because we see no value in ourselves.

Adlerian therapy suggests that instead of sitting in a capsule of loneliness and watching others’ relationships and successes from afar, we should step into the arena, show ourselves, and be optimistic about humanity. Even if we’ve been taken advantage of many times, we should still believe that people are worth our time and friendship. We must not give up believing in human goodness.

Beyond all this, Adler offers two more principles to transform a lonely, troubled person into a dynamic, proud individual: self-reliance and usefulness. We must trust in our own constructive abilities and be in harmony with others, serving and benefiting them. The people we once saw through the lens of suspicion now become our comrades. Imagine walking down the street and seeing everyone as a friend, not a potential threat.

The hardest lesson, however, is perseverance—and accepting that others may resist our new lifestyle. They may think we’re naïve or even push us out of their circle. Adler insists that we should never seek others’ approval. We shouldn’t show off to gain attention or set ourselves on fire to please a boss. Anything beyond our sphere of control—including changing someone else’s mind—is useless. We have authority only over our own choices and responsibilities. Even if we force someone into action, their mind will remain beyond our grasp.

We must, therefore, learn to maintain a healthy distance from the freedoms and choices of those around us—even in our closest relationships. Here the author introduces Adler’s idea of separating responsibilities: everyone has their own tasks, and we should be aware of and respect the boundaries between ours and others’. The greatest difficulties in human relationships, he claims, arise from mixing these tasks or interfering due to lack of trust.

The book advises that we always know our responsibilities and those of others, and trust them to handle theirs while we fulfill ours as best we can. For example, if our child’s task is to study, we shouldn’t hover over them like a guard, constantly reminding them. The child is responsible for their own homework; our trust will create a better relationship. This trust is a long-term investment, which—if it works—results in a deep and warm bond.

Adler also emphasizes that we should never expect a reward for fulfilling our own responsibilities. Everyone follows their own path to growth, and if they fulfill their duties, they will preserve their sense of independence and usefulness. Of course, paying attention to our personal goals should not be confused with surrendering to fleeting desires. In Adler’s terms, freedom means resisting life’s temptations and obstacles in pursuit of our aims.

The book repeats that most of the emotional weight we feel each morning comes from unhealthy relationships. If we set our goals based on others—wanting a certain social status or appearance only to impress them—without those goals truly belonging to us, they will ultimately be meaningless. But if our main effort is to have the courage to be ourselves, to develop skills that bring us self-sufficiency, to know our responsibilities, and to feel that we are useful to others and to something larger than ourselves, then we are walking the path of personal growth.

By walking such a path, we gain enough inner confidence not to seek rewards for “being ourselves.” We become self-reliant, and the opinions of others lose their power over us. We must step away from worrying about what others think and rely on ourselves: “I am the only one who can change.” Freedom is where we act actively in relationships instead of waiting for others’ permission. With the courage of independence and self-sufficiency, we avoid power struggles—because such games place the cards of our life in someone else’s hands, making them—knowingly or unknowingly—responsible for our happiness and life’s meaning. Why should we hand over that authority?

To build a healthy lifestyle and grow as individuals, we must distinguish self-reliance from narcissism. We are not the center of the world; we are a dynamic part of a much larger whole, with duties and responsibilities toward it. Others are our companions, not servants for our selfish desires. Everyone must willingly and actively commit to the community. But mere membership means nothing—true belonging comes from genuine participation. When we are in a group, we should ask: “What benefit do I bring to these people?” rather than “What have they done for me?” This commitment and contribution create a sense of usefulness, and from it, a sense of belonging begins to grow.

Why is belonging to groups, big or small, so essential for our mental health? If, beyond school, university, or work, we have no other group we belong to, and we immerse ourselves only in study or career—seeking the approval of professors, colleagues, or bosses—we are placing our happiness in someone else’s hands. This builds a fragile home for the bird of happiness. University ends; companies downsize in the first economic crisis—and then, despite degrees or prestigious positions, we find ourselves suddenly alone.

If, however, alongside work and study we engage in other activities and move in multiple circles, life’s ups and downs won’t shake us so completely. The book recommends building several social bases throughout life so that when one is lost, our emotional and social capital isn’t entirely destroyed.

Finally, the book reminds us that life is not a prelude or a rehearsal; this moment is the main stage. It says life is more like a dance than a race—the goal is not to win or to defeat others, but to enjoy the party of the present.

In the end, this little book respects the reader’s freedom and says: “One can point to the spring of life, but no one can force another to drink.” Its core message is: “If I change, the world will change.” In other words, only I can change the world for myself; no one else will do it for me. After reading the book, I sent it to many friends and listened to a several-hour seminar on Adler. Months later, and after exploring other psychological theories, I still believe that Adler’s simple and straightforward framework is one of the most practical ways to escape loneliness, cynicism, selfishness, and envy—and to move toward progress.

I’ll end with a sentence I heard in that seminar: “Adler would tell depressed people: go make someone else feel better. When you make someone else feel better, you automatically feel better yourself.”

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On My Language and Its Many Names

 In these years of living abroad, I’ve often been asked: Is your language “Farsi” or “Persian”? Which word is correct?

This question usually comes from Americans who, thankfully, know that Iran is not an Arabic-speaking country, and who realize that even though “Iran” and “Iraq” look similar in English, they are not the same place. But even this simple choice between “Farsi” and “Persian” reopens the old chest of pain I inherited from my father — an old wound that ties the name of my language, and my identity, to history and politics.

How can one speak of the language of Iran without naming Khorasan?

How can we call Khorasan the heart of Iran, yet say nothing of Balkh, Khujand, Bukhara, and Tus? Each of these cities has a brilliant place in the history of our literature, but today only Tous remains within the political borders of modern Iran.

Balkh is in Afghanistan (separated from the Iranian cultural sphere in 1857 with the Treaty of Paris), Khujand is in Tajikistan (which, in 1868, came under the control of the Russian Empire), and Bukhara is in Uzbekistan (also annexed by Russia in 1868).

A friend’s simple question about the correct name for my unfamiliar language pours salt on a centuries-old wound — a reminder of how people of the same culture and language were split apart, each placed under the flag of a new country where schoolchildren are taught that their ancestral language is “foreign” and that Iran is an outsider.

I’ve often tried to show people a map, to rush my words forward in hopes of finding someone who shares this old pain. But so far, not one person — Iranian or non-Iranian — has cared about the Stalinist and British scribbles that carved up the map of Asia. Iranians still call Afghans “foreigners,” and in Afghanistan one still hears the slogan “Death to Iran.” When I meet an Uzbek man named Rostam, he often has no idea about the Shahnameh or the origin of his own name.

Since childhood, the borders of “Greater Khorasan” have been much larger in my mind than those of Iran and its neighbors. Ancient books found in all these lands are written in Persian (or Farsi, or Dari, or Tajik).

Take Nizami Ganjavi, one of the towering pillars of our culture and language: we learn his poetry in school, yet when we locate his home on today’s map, we must accept that modern Azerbaijan is a Turkic-speaking country and no longer part of Iran. Or consider Hafez, who in a love poem offers “Samarkand and Bukhara” for the mole on his beloved’s cheek — an image showing that a poet in southern Iran saw his homeland stretching deep into Central Asia. Today, that land is called Uzbekistan, and I’ve heard that in Samarkand, Persian is now spoken in only a few homes.

The people of these broken-apart countries are scattered and focused on survival; few still worry about their language or history. Tajikistan, locked among mountains, has been bound by the 1989 Soviet law that made the Cyrillic alphabet mandatory, weakening its link to the classical Persian texts. Afghanistan has burned in decades of civil war, while Pashtun politicians — whether calling the language Persian or Dari — have worked to limit or erase it. Uzbekistan, under the banner of development, quietly erases the Persian-speaking past.

In this essay, I mainly want to ask: should my language be called “Farsi” or “Persian”?

The answer is not simple — it depends on where you’re from and how you read history. First of all, Persian is originally the language of the people of Khorasan. That may surprise an Iranian reader, since today Khorasan is just a border region in eastern Iran. But to me, Khorasan has always been the beating heart of this culture.

Look at a map of modern Iran: Isfahan and Yazd lie almost in the center of the country. If Persian truly belonged only to “Iranians” — or to what separatists call the “Fars ethnic group” — then the villages and small towns in this central heart should speak standard Persian. But they don’t. Visit the towns around Isfahan, or even my grandfather’s birthplace, Naein, and you’ll find that neither locals nor government clerks speak modern standard Persian. Understanding a single sentence in the Na’ini dialect — likely a relic of an older, now-forgotten language — is almost impossible for someone like me, who learned only Iran’s official standard language.

By contrast, in old villages of Khorasan, the people speak exactly that standard Persian. This shows that the Persian we know today developed somewhere in Central Asia — a place that is no longer even politically part of Iran — and moved westward, becoming the official and literary language.

Today, an Iranian can claim ownership of this language no more than someone from Afghanistan, Tajikistan, or Uzbekistan can. But as I said earlier, in the last century most of these countries have chosen not the highway of shared language and culture, but a different, narrow road — one where new nation-states grow apart, perhaps for more control, perhaps following the old rule: “Divide and rule.”

If someone in Afghanistan or Uzbekistan says this language should not be called “Persian,” and accuses Iran of “rewriting” its history and literature, such a statement only makes sense if we accept the modern borders of the last century as eternal truth. Otherwise, the history of the language is far older — and far wider — than these borders.

So let us, for a moment, forget the names of these countries and look at Greater Khorasan as a single cultural region — the birthplace of a language that we, from Tehran to Dushanbe, from Herat to Samarkand, have all inherited. But should we call it “Persian”? “Pars” is the name of a province in Iran, and yet my father, grandfather, and I have always called our language “Parsi” or “Farsi.” In Afghanistan, it is called “Dari,” and in Tajikistan “Tajik.” All three names point to the same root, even if each carries its own political and historical weight.

Perhaps we can say that Persian — or Dari — today is a shared creation of the eastern and western halves of the Iranian cultural world, and it belongs to no single country, because its influence on the history and lives of all those who have forgotten it — or wish to forget it — still remains.

Long before today’s political borders, this language traveled freely between the Ghaznavid and Seljuk courts in the east and the poets of Fars and Isfahan in the west. That an Iranian, Afghan, Tajik, or even Uzbek might see it as part of their identity is a historical fact — just as forgetting it anywhere is a shared loss for all of us.

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