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As prepared for delivery 

Good morning, Patriots! 

Two things I want to get out of the way:  

Hi mom! You see, “C” students can stand here on stage; and Meila, happy 15th birthday. I love you and can’t wait to see how you change the world.  

I want to thank the distinguished faculty and staff of ��������, the parents, guardians, families, and friends, our amazing President Washington, and Board of Visitors who made today possible and, of course, the most important people in the “Arena,” the graduating class of 2025! 

Today is about more than what you’ve achieved, it’s about how you got here. 

I want to talk to you about the power of curiosity—that thing that sparks you to ask why?, what if?, and what’s next? 

And today, I want to share a few personal stories, moments from my own journey where curiosity shaped who I became and the lessons I hope you’ll carry into your own stories ahead. 

We often wonder—why me?  

For me it was about why do my parents keep moving across revolutions, wars, liberties, and continents? 

Why did I survive a horrific accident? 

And I’ve realized—maybe it was so that I could share a few stories, with you, today. 

To tell you this: 

Curiosity creates change. Boldness inspires action. Transformation changes the world. 

That’s been the rhythm of my life—sometimes my shield, sometimes my compass – but always my light. 

I was born into a revolution. 

My grandmother came to the United States in 1976 when the Eagle and the Lion—America and Iran—were best friends. My parents later returned to Iran for my birth. By the age of 4, the Shah had fallen, the dream of democracy had been stolen by Islamist revolutionaries, and the country was plunged into war. 

As a little boy, I remember car rides with my mom in her 1979 Land Cruiser truck delivering first aid kits, taping windows, learning why we had to store water and food, and taking shelter when the sirens went off. 

My mother taught me at an early age not to fear and to be prepared. At the age of 5, I was contributing and learning to survive. 

I wasn’t just watching; I was doing. And that gave me something powerful at an early age—independence and curiosity. 

My mother was a concert pianist. My father was an entrepreneur, a third-generation textile industrialist and a man who prayed and sipped his whiskey. (Not exactly the combination the regime encouraged!) 

Every morning before school, my mom would sit me down and try to explain (it was more like interrogation) that the world around us had changed overnight. She would say, “At school, don’t mention the piano or the whiskey.” 

It wasn’t about shame—it was about survival. 

But to a curious child, those warnings became questions: 

Why…Who are these people? Why do they hate and use fear to control? Why do I have to hide who we are?  

That curiosity became a quiet rebellion. Instead of fearing people, I wanted to understand them. I grew up in a community of Armenian Christians, Persian Jews, my Muslim classmates, teachers, and agents of the revolution. I learned that even in chaos, connection was possible if you stayed curious long enough to listen and learn. 

That lesson shaped me—not just as a child, but as a leader later in life. 

Because I realized something: 

Curiosity isn’t just about asking questions. It’s about learning to blend, to see, and to lead in a very complex world. 

It taught me that curiosity is not passive—it’s ACTIVE. It’s what helps you observe before reacting, understand before judging, and connect before dividing. 

So, lesson ONE for you: 

Be curious about people, even those who seem different or opposed to you. Curiosity helps you connect where fear divides. 

Years later, my parents decided to come back to the United States—to Virginia, where my grandmother had moved from Pennsylvania. We settled in Falls Church, Virginia. 

Once again, I had to blend in—this time as a kid from Iran in a post-hostage-crisis America. The language, friends, and culture—everything felt new again. 

I went through three different elementary schools, shifting from Persian to French to English, each one a crash course in starting over. But in the middle of all that change, I found an escape: Sketching. I’d sit for hours drawing bunkers, gadgets, inventions—things that existed only in my imagination. I didn’t know it then, but I was designing the future I wanted to build. 

And then came Mr. Clark, my middle school science teacher at Glasgow. 

He was eccentric, brilliant, and mysterious, and he had lived in Iran. He never said exactly what he did there, but his stories sounded like something out of a spy novel. 

He saw something in me. He took my curiosity and gave it direction. He used to tell me, “You should sell that idea to DARPA!” 

At the time, I had no idea what that meant—but looking back now, I smile.  

Today, MetroStar sells over a quarter-billion dollars’ worth of innovations, solutions, and services to the Department of War and intelligence community. 

Mr. Clark planted a seed—one that took decades to bloom. 

I still remember watching MacGyver on Monday nights and the next day, Mr. Clark would say, “All right, let’s test it. Could MacGyver really make that work?” 

He’d turn a TV show into an experiment. He made us curious about what we watched and to think critically and try it ourselves.  

Curiosity asks “What if?” 

Experimentation says “Let’s find out.” 

That’s when curiosity took on a new meaning for me. 

It wasn’t just about wondering why—it was about testing how. 

Mr. Clark made me curious about science, physics, and technology, but also about people and possibilities. Here was an American who made me feel proud of my Persian heritage. 

His stories connected two worlds I thought could never meet. 

And he taught me a lesson that feels even more important today—in a world overflowing with information, opinions, politics, and technology, don’t just consume what you see. Explore it for yourself. Research it. Understand it.  

Because the truth isn’t always what’s the loudest or highest likes on social, it’s in what you take the time to discover. 

So, lesson two for you: 

Be curious enough to question. Don’t just react—explore. Curiosity and experimentation are like mind and motion—one is the spark, the other is the flame.  

Just as I had finally found my place again in America, my parents decided to return to Iran. It was 1991. My father needed to care for my ill grandfather, and my mother wanted to return to teaching music and supporting the youth within her community. 

When we arrived, I was stepping into a world that felt both familiar and foreign, a home filled with the echoes of family stories and the rhythm of rebuilding. 

The stories of my family’s hardship, resilience, and curiosity were always around me. 

My great-great-grandfather was a merchant along the silk routes, then my great-grandfather’s curiosity led him to open a shop to sell the textiles. My grandfather’s curiosity took it further—he built and operated the factory that produced it. My father modernized it, introducing new machinery and processes to bring the family business into a new era. 

And for me? 

My curiosity pushed me to define a new identity, one that began not with textiles, but with technology. 

Each generation faced uncertainty—wars, revolutions, and reinventions. But what connected them all wasn’t just survival. It was curiosity, the same curiosity that asks: What’s next? How do we rebuild? What can we create from the ashes? 

My father used to tell me stories at night about how our family kept moving forward, even when logic said stop, how my great-great-grandfather died young, but his son, just 15 years old, kept the family alive through sheer grit and curiosity. 

And that’s when I learned: 

Resilience isn’t inherited—it’s practiced. And curiosity is always at its heart. 

Because curiosity keeps you moving when the world stands still. It lets you imagine new beginnings when others only see endings. 

So, lesson three for you: 

Be curious about your own journey. Ask “Why me?” not with doubt, but with purpose. 

Every challenge is a chance to redefine yourself. Curiosity isn’t just about discovery—it’s about reinvention. 

By 1995, curiosity brought me back to the United States again—this time to continue my education. 

The plan was to study polymer technology to honor my family’s legacy in textiles.  

But life, as it often does, had other plans. 

After missing application deadlines for both George Mason and Clemson, I was about to enroll at Northern Virginia Community College to stay on track. I told myself, “Study hard this semester, and wait and see.” 

But a friend said, “Don’t rush. Wait until next semester, something better might happen.” 

He was right. 

On January 6, 1995, I opened a letter that changed my life: I had been accepted to ��������. 

Clemson went on hold, and suddenly the plan I thought I was following shifted completely. 

When I arrived at Mason, I told myself, “Just one semester. Then I’ll transfer.” 
But that one semester became a lifelong connection. 

At Mason, my curiosity finally found its home. 

I met friends from all over the world — people with different backgrounds, perspectives, and dreams.  

At the same time, the dot-com revolution was happening. Curiosity about this new thing called the Internet became an obsession. I met my future business partners and started building our first company right here at George Mason. 

Looking back, I realize I was simply manifesting the sketches of a curious child—the bunkers, the gadgets, the inventions, now coming to life through code, creativity, and innovation. 

And like other entrepreneurs, I lived that delusional optimism, believing that failure wasn’t final; it was just feedback. 

But here’s the part that matters most: 

Curiosity didn’t just shape my career, it shaped my purpose. 

Because as MetroStar was being founded, I was also discovering the greatest role of my life: becoming a husband, a father, and a man grounded in something bigger than business. 

I want to take a moment to acknowledge the people who are here with me today: My incredible wife, Kat, and our four amazing children—Michael, Meila, Max, and Melody. 

You are the reason I chase meaning, not titles. 

You are the reason I stay curious. About love, about family, about the kind of man I want to be. 

To my dad, mom, friends, and family here today, thank you for giving my life depth, joy, new family, and direction. 

And that brings me to the heart of this final story: 

Never let go of the curious kid in you. 

Because that kid, the one who draws, dreams, questions, and believes  
is the one who will build your future. 

So, the final lesson for you: 

Be curious enough to build. 

Be curious enough to love. 

Be curious enough to grow beyond who you are today. 

Because curiosity doesn’t just shape your journey. 

It shapes your destiny. 

Congratulations, Patriots. Now go make the world wonder.