"Remember the fly, bird is mortal.”
Being Iranian I was born in to a poetry culture, hearing my father always whispering
I’m a bird from the heavenly Gardens of Paradise, I’m not from this dusty earth.
Where have I come from?
Where do I go from here?
All day I think about it, then at night I say it
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
And I intend to end up there.
I still remember the night when our neighborhood was rocket rained by Iraqi Air Forces.
We were living in a green neighborhood in northern Tehran on top of the hills, 37 th street where you could always see snow on Alborz mountain. I remember the winter in our house, when the snow stretches its whiteness from the border of my childhood bed along my room and entire southern window of our dining room and finally runs in to the kitchen and merges itself into the ceiling in the northern parts of the house.
I still remember the sound of my childhood by Islamic republic public television every 2 hours loud and clear.
Attention, Attention the sign hearing declares danger or red status meaning
That the air strike will be done! Leave your office and go to the shelter!
Then the alarm was becoming the Azan in the blue sky of my childhood Tehran.
My father was always quite sure for we were living in a safe neighborhood, despite his optimism my mom never trusted him. That night she grabbed me with one hand and my brother with second hand like a tiger trying to save her children from wild jungle dogs running in her full speed to the basement, we were still on the stairs in between of our back garden and the basement, I remember the instant bright day that happened throughout the night for 2 seconds my life got paused in my mom’s hands, I was lost in my mind still safe within my moms cold body, her legs were frozen unable to take the next steps, her lips were turning blue forcing me and my little brother into her womb again for her womb was the safest place for 2 seconds in Tehran.