The Day that I Hit the Universal Declaration of Human Rights

The other day I went to the laundry room of my graduate school building early in the morning where I encountered an Iranian student who, like me, lives in this building. His face was covered with tears. As I did not know him well enough I pretended that I had not seen him; I did not want him to feel uncomfortable around a stranger while crying. I wondered about the reasons for these tears on his face. As I was lost in my thoughts, he walked up to me and said in Persian, “They killed them. They hung them both this morning. It’s my birthday, too. I hate myself right now.” Clueless and shocked, I looked at him and said, “Happy birthday! Who killed whom?” He said, “They hung the two Iranian prisoners who had participated in the pre-elections demonstrations in the summer. They hung them this dawn in Iran.”

As soon as I heard this piece of news, I felt that my entire body began to freeze from head to toe. I did not cry like he was. Instead, I felt filled with anger and grudge. Instead of sadness, I felt the desire to avenge. I felt that there is simply no reason for being “peaceful” when they hang us for having peacefully expressed our objections. I grew up in a family whose religion is fighting a peaceful fight against injustice. But, in that laundry room and while standing in front of a crying young Iranian man, I felt that being peaceful is sometimes overrated. I was angry. I was not sad. I was enraged.

That whole day, I tried to calm down and to think less emotionally about this devastating piece of news. That night, when I slept, I had a rather insane dream.

In my dream, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights had turned into a person. It had turned into a shy, nerdy and clumsy man. For some reason, I knew this man and when I saw him walking out of the Kennedy School, I began to scream at him in public. I told him, “shame on you and your useless existence in the world.” I told him that he might as well die as his presence and rhetoric, more often than not, have no impact on our lives. I told him that whoever and whichever government that wants to violate his so-called thirty articles, goes ahead and freely violates them all and kills those who oppose the ruling power. I grabbed the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and began to hit him in tears. He was standing still and watching me hit him hard. I said to him, “you tell the world that everyone has the right to liberty, life and security of a person and that no one shall be subjected to torture, or to cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment or punishment. Well, tell me, who exactly is listening to you? Can’t you see how awfully useless of a document you are. I am sick of you. All of the scholars and activists in the world refer to you and recognize you as the standard for human rights and yet you just have no power over those who are killing the innocent. Stop being so unbelievably vague and useless! Wake up Mr. Universal Declaration of Human Rights, walk around the world and see how most of the powerful governments and individuals in this world are violating every single one of your principles and are laughing at you.”

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights was looking at me all terrified and was not speaking. He told me that he had to run and that we could talk at a more appropriate time. He embraced me and asked me to calm down. But I was not calm. These men and women(including myself) walk around in nice clothes, refer to this and that international document, human rights organizations release urgent actions and press releases and yet they still wake up one morning and hang the innocent and proudly release the news of these executions to the world’s media.

I woke up that morning thinking that I had a funny and yet miserable dream. It was funny that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights had turned into a man that I yelled at for a while right outside the Kennedy School. It was funny that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights had to run and wanted to have coffee with me and discuss the world affairs over coffee. But, it was utterly sad that I felt he was the least powerful man I had ever met in my life. He was just as clueless as I am about all of these violations of human rights. His voice was just as low as mine when it came to talking about these leaders who wake up and eliminate whatever and whoever that stands up against them and makes them feel threatened.

They punish our brothers and sisters for speaking the truth, but who in this unbelievably insane world is responsible for their punishment. I sometimes hate this phrase of “Forgive, but don’t forget!” I have become convinced that sometimes you ought not to forgive. Forgiving and healing are maybe for the end of a fight, but not for when they have taken up ropes and guns to ruthlessly kill your kind for their opinions and simple demands that are contradictory to theirs. If we think that we have come a long way in establishing human rights norms in the world, we are utterly mistaken. This road is a long one and we are only in the beginning of this road…

When Towers Speak…

Last night I returned home from a trip to Dubai.It was an unexpectedly lovely trip. I never thought I would actually like Dubai. I always thought of Dubai as a superficial place in which migrant workers live a seriously miserable life. Looking at photos from this so called Las Vegas of the Middle East, I never found all of those towers and lights impressive or fascinating. However, to my surprise during my trip to Dubai, I started to both like Dubai and to become curious about this emirate. During the ten days that I was there I made great new friends and spoke with many individuals and professionals. I still do not know what it is that makes me rather attracted to Dubai. All I know is that I enjoyed hearing people’s stories about Dubai and the reasons for which they have resided in this town. Looking at the towers in Dubai, I feel that they all have a story to tell. From the hardworking migrant workers who carefully planted their first bricks to the CEOs, lawyers, businessmen and businesswomen and employees who work in these towers, people have stories to tell about their life before Dubai, their time in Dubai and their plans after Dubai. Dubai seems to be a transitory place for most of its residents. What I loved the most about Dubai was these stories. Everybody that I would meet wanted to share with me their story and I would eagerly listen.

The only story that I did not get to hear was the story of migrant workers. I would go for a walk in the evening just so that I could see the buses that were full of South Asian migrant workers pass by. Many of them would run towards the bus as they seemed to be fearful of missing these buses that would take them to their collective homes in the suburbs of Dubai. As the busses would pass by me, I would look up at tip of the towers and hear the voices of many migrant workers getting echoed in my head. They all wanted to share their stories. They were talking all at once.I never got a chance to speak with them. But, I saw exhaustion and hope in their eyes. I think, in a way, these towers belong to them. If not the towers, at least the heart of these towers do. After all, migrant workers have spent hours, days, months and years to build these towers under difficult circumstances and with the hope of bringing money to their families back home. I am certain that one day the towers of Dubai will begin to speak and share those quietly forgotten stories that have remained unheard for some time with the world...

A Beautiful Angel in a Dark Prison

I go to sleep determined to dream about Mansoureh Shojaei. I resist all the nightmares of her in Evin Prison. Instead, I try to remember her beautiful smile…

Growing up, I did not really know her. But as I was reaching those tough teenage years, she somehow magically appeared in my life just in time to remind me of the excitement of adventures and of being courageous. I vividly remember the first time I met her. She was sitting in our apartment’s lounge when I walked in, looked at my mother and shyly said hello to our guest. “Hello, welcome!” I said. I was a moody teenager and was really not interested in meeting my parents’ guests. This time, I simply wanted some pocket money from my mother to go out which is why I walked into the lounge to say hello and ask for money. Mansoureh looked at me kindly. She looked like a nice lady, but I really just wanted to get the money, get a cab and go to Tootfarangi(Strawberry); a café in Tehran that was trendy for its time. Mansoureh looked at me and said, “Do you want a new friend or are you too busy with your own friends?” I gave her an annoyed—but polite—look and said, “sure!” Without any pause, she said, “Well, then, let’s hang out next weekend. Thoughts?” She was speaking with me like an adult and I liked her tone. She was probably the first family friend who did not pull my cheeks hard and who did not obnoxiously ask me, “What is your favorite subject in school?”. I responded to her invitation positively and she promised to pick me up on Friday to take me hiking.

Mansoureh became more than my friend. She became the aunt and an older friend that I never had. Her small family became almost like my own family. Mansoureh once criticized me for being a bit too spoiled or cautious and told me, “Go for whatever there is that you want, girl! Even if there is a huge wall on your way, get on the road and think about the wall when you hit it. The wall will have to surrender. It might get your head broken at first. But who cares? You will somehow go beyond that wall.” She used to make fun of Bamdad, her son, and I for being lazy and slow in hiking. She would say, “when I was your age…” As soon as she would say this, Bamdad and I would pretend that we were not tired and start walking faster.

About a year after the first time I met Mansoureh, my mother was imprisoned. During this time, Mansoureh’s embrace became one of my only refuges. Her embrace was one of the only places where I would feel safe to cry or to freely be a scared fifteen-year old who wanted her mother back. The rest of the time I had to show strength. But, in her arms I would melt into tears and worries of a teenager who was simply scared.

One day, a few months after my mother was released on bail from jail, I left Iran on very short notice. I called Mansoureh, asked to talk with Bamdad and said goodbye to Bamdad. We all knew what it meant. It meant that I was leaving Iran for good. It meant that I had to go. It meant that I was losing my home maybe for the better or the worse. Bamdad and I were and still are the masters of distracting ourselves from talking about things that bother us. So, that night, we only joked around about this and that and exchanged one funny and a rather stiff farewell. He was the last person that I called. Mansoureh said, “Joojoo, be strong. We love you. Don’t forget our days together. And don’t come back with an American accent.” Joojoo was the nickname Mansoureh and her husband had given me (it means something like a little chicken). Her voice was the last voice that I ever heard from the home to which I never returned.

Five years later, I returned to Iran to see my father who was under house arrest. He was kidnapped and disappeared only a few months after I left Iran for good. Now, the bitter and experienced twenty-year-old that I was, I had come to Iran to see my father who had suffered for long. I felt rather nervous to be back in Iran. After all, this was the same country that had tortured my father and had put my mother in exile. I loved being back, but felt betrayed at the same time. My fear would especially escalate when I had to go to question and answer sessions with some of the members of the intelligence service. We kept those a secret from my father. Going to those sessions, my only hope was to leave and go to Mansoureh’s apartment where I could release all of this stress.

Mansoureh and her family really made me fall in love with Iran once again. They helped me remember how much I loved Iran and my memories of this land.They made me realize that I still belonged to Iran even though, despite Mansoureh’s advice, I had returned to my lost home with an American accent. Somewhere in the depth of their smiles and their love, I could vividly see myself. I could see the self that I had lost in the difficult and detached years of immigration. Somewhere in the corner of their small apartment I could feel the warmth of home for which I had longed for many years. Before departing Iran, I curled up in Mansoureh’s embrace and like a little child I fell asleep for a few minutes. In her arms, I dreamed of the day that we will all be back in Tehran and live a beautiful and free life. She only patted me and kept saying, “Our Joojoo is leaving us again.”

Mansoureh who is a passionate educator and a women’s rights advocate is now sitting in a dark and small cell in Evin Prison. Mansoureh was arrested on December 28th, 2009. Her family did not know where she was for a few days until she finally made a very short phone call and told them she is in Evin Prison. Her family was not able to visit her until a few days ago when they were finally granted a twenty-minute visit from behind the glass at Evin Prison.

Mansoureh is ill. She is currently suffering from Urinary Tract Infection and is not given sufficient antibiotics while imprisoned. She also has severe migraine and has had at least one major migraine attack in prison.

I close my eyes and try to imagine her smile. I hear that even in prison, she tries to smile and to remain strong. However, I am worried for my amazing friend and aunt. I am worried for this loving and beautiful angel.She is too physically fragile to undergo all of this pressure. Mansoureh does not deserve any of this. She has done nothing wrong. She has only tried to educate women about their rights throughout Iran. She has only tried to tell them what she told me when we went hiking ten years ago. She has only tried to remind women to be strong, fearless and aware of their rights. I know Mansoureh is not the only innocent prisoner in Iran. Mansoureh and many other Mansourehs who are currently suffering in the dark prisons of Iran are being treated unjustly. They are the treasures of Iran. They are the fearless men and women of our land.

Free Mansoureh! Free all of those Mansourehs that you have so unjustly imprisoned.

I keep my tears to myself and wish Bamdad, her son, strength. Bamdad must see her mother happy and healthy. Until that day, we must not remain silent!

Hallucinations of a Decade

Sitting at the window of my sister’s apartment on the twenty sixth floor of a building in Toronto, I look at the city of Toronto and its many apartment buildings that resemble matchboxes .It is going to be 2010 tomorrow. The insomniac ghost that I am, I sit here at four in the morning and let my mind loose. Looking at the sea of these little windows and apartments in the city calms me down. Having watched the YouTube clips that come from Iran, I am emotionally disturbed. I do not know what to say anymore. I feel numb. Many dear friends of mine are in prison in Tehran…Who knows where…I imagine them sitting down in a solitary confinement. I imagine them terrified, strong or maybe senseless. I imagine them and try to remember their faces. I imagine them being humiliated. I imagine them wanting to survive. This is how we are starting a new year; a new decade.This is how we are welcoming another three hundred sixty five days and nights.

My friend calls me in the middle of the night and asks me, “How are you?” I wonder how I am or rather I wonder how I should be. I wonder if I matter. I say, “I’m ok. Everybody is ok here” and I chuckle. He asks me again (this time authoritatively), “Azadeh, I mean YOU. How are YOU, my dear?” It is funny how you sometimes don’t want to know how you are. You just don’t want to know. You want to disappear in your dear ones’ sorrow. You want to disappear and not know how you are doing, because you can’t do anything about the things that bother you to death. You just could sit, relax and watch Youtube clips of the people of your country dying and getting hit with huge bricks, getting run over, bleeding, screaming, and burning a police station. You just watch and watch. You watch until you go from being shocked to crying to being angry to be disgusted and to being numb. You get so numb that you could watch those awful clips over and over again without any emotional turmoil. You watch until you die from within. You watch and comb your hair while watching obsessively.

In this emotional afterlife, you begin life once again. This time you live in a labyrinth with shattered glasses and mirrors. You see yourself in a thousand different ways. You see yourself sandwiched between a calm North American city and many people your age chanting out slogans while bleeding. You see yourself in a million different pieces. One piece is a little happy child with curly hair running around a garden in Shomal(northern Iran),playing in the Caspian sea, getting hit by little waves and laughing and laughing and laughing. Another piece is a teenage veiled and extremely fashionable girl who is running and escaping from the moral police who are chasing after her in the streets of Tehran to punish her for her not being sufficiently veiled. Another piece is a mute high school student in the United States who does not know English enough to even make friends. Another piece is…Another piece is you voting for the first time to President Khatami and dying of joy of having become an adult. Another piece is years later watching your friends in graduate school cheering for President Obama. Another is the image of an awfully unfamiliar man named Ahmadinejad whose grin scares you. Another piece is you sitting at the library in the middle of the night, taking a break from writing a paper that is due in a few hours and watching YouTube links all the way from Khomeini’s first speech in Tehran till now when your friends chant out slogans and get hit on the street. Time stops. Time runs. Places become compressed into one and that one place loses its space. You become compressed in this spaceless labyrinth. You sort of exist in short intervals and the longer intervals are when you become nonexistent. You begin to exist only to realize that you don’t have enough space to breathe and the cycle repeats itself.

2010? Tomorrow is a new year and a new decade. What is my new year’s resolution? What is my biggest wish? MY wish or a whole nation’s wish? My wish, I guess, is a small one. I just want to be able to wipe off blood from my friends’ faces, embrace them and tell them that they are making history. Even though history is a hilarious word when you are in pain, maybe only the thought of history could kill your pain momentarily. My wish is for my friends in prison to know that they are not forgotten. My wish is that they don’t lose their pride. My wish is to remain nonviolent,strong and proud. My wish is love. My wish is for this labyrinth to regain its space for all of us Iranians and all others who live in fear. My wish is for us to breathe and to at least dream about freedom for our country freely. One of the dearest friends of mine told me recently, “You have to either choose me or politics. Either peace or politics.” I remained silent in response. I only wish I could explain how terribly intertwined our lives have become with this so-called “politics”. I wish I knew which is which. I wish I knew the difference between ME and politics.Who knows?Maybe this new decade is a good time to discover this difference; if there is any.

These are perhaps my final hallucinations of 2009. Even if nothing changes tomorrow as time grows one year older, I will remain hopeful and wish strength for those who are bravely standing up against injustice in the absence of thousands of Iranians like me who are not there to hold their hands.

I am starting 2010 with a world of fears and with particles of hope. Happy New Year!

Please accept the following song as my new year's gift to you.This piece was performed by one of Iran's great contemporary artists, Lily Afshar, who is sadly currently imprisoned. Click Here.

The Snowman and You

My Dear Dad;

I know you can’t talk anymore. I tried to speak with you today on the phone. Your nurse gave the phone to you. You made some sounds. But, nothing that you said made sense. I miss talking with you, Dad. I miss hearing your voice and listening to all the nice things that you used to say about me. I miss hearing you say “I love you!” over and over again.

I guess this is simply how life works. One day you die even if you are still alive. You might feel that you are dead, but you are not. You are still breathing. I could hear your breath on the phone. I know you will become healthy once again. I know that somehow magically the authorities of the Islamic Republic will let you leave Iran and reunite with us. I could already imagine how it would feel to embrace you for hours. At first it might be a bit strange when we see each other. But I promise you that in a short while we will begin to talk about all these years for hours.

Remember how when I traveled to Iran in 2005 for ten days to see you, we felt very strangely about each other’s presence at first. We had not seen each other since 2001 and too much had happened during those years. One summer day in 2001, you drove me to the airport, hugged me in tears and kissed me goodbye while keeping my hands in your strong hands. You said to me, “You will only make me proud. I know it!”

We never thought that you will be taken away from us in this surreal way; kidnapped and disappeared in clandestine prisons of Iran. That day when I left Iran for the first time in 2001, the last thing that you quietly said in my ear was: “You will be back in Tehran just in time for us to make our snowman of the year.” It was a promise that neither one of us could keep. Our life was going to get shattered into pieces and we just didn't know it. Eight years later, I am still waiting to make another snowman with you.

When I came to Iran in 2005, I felt alienated from you. Strangely, I blamed you for having grown old. I did not like all the wrinkles on your face. I remember that first night in your apartment when I felt uncomfortable in your arms. But as soon as you began to pat my hair like the old days, I found my lost home in your arms. Remember? I fell asleep on your lap that night. I know how much you wanted to tell me about all those unimaginable ways in which you might have been tortured in prison. Thankfully, you never told me anything. I didn’t want to know. I still don’t want to know. We only talked about your painful memories of prison in silence. Sitting in the lounge of your apartment, we would drink our hot tea in absolute silence. All we could hear was the sound of our spoon with which we were stirring small sugar cubes in our tea. This fragile silence was crowded with terrifying stories of torture, terror, separation and loneliness. Despite the life and dignity that we had lost, we were still hopeful. I could feel hope in your words and gestures.

Now you can’t walk, talk or maybe even remember us anymore. Who knows what goes on in your thoughts? I hope to God that you remember how much I love you. It has been lonely without you calling me every night and asking me about all the details of my daily life. I keep dialing your home number and cell phone and no one responds. I sometimes even pretend that I am talking with you. Too many days are passing by in despair without you in my life.

Last night it snowed here. I went to my friend’s house to celebrate the longest night of the year (Yalda). By the end of the night snow had covered everywhere. We all stayed at my friend’s house for the night as it was impossible to drive. In the morning we stepped outside to play in the snow and make a snowman. We built a nice snowman; not as good as the ones that you and I used to make together in Tehran. We used to spend the entire day outside making our snowman. We always wanted to make the best snowman in the neighborhood. Remember? I remember how we disagreed about the nose of our snowman. I preferred putting a carrot for the snowman's nose and you preferred to put a cucumber instead.

As soon as my friends and I left two small pieces of wood for the eyes of the snowman, the snowman began to look at me kindly. I felt as though he was trying to communicate some things to me. I think he was trying to tell me that you dream about me when you fall asleep in the hospital. I think the snowman was trying to tell me that you still love me. I think the snowman wanted me to know that you are still hopeful that we will one day see each other again. I put a curved slice of watermelon for his mouth. He began to smile. It was such a natural smile. His smile resembled the smile that you and I would try and create for our snowman.

It was a bittersweet time out in the snow with my friends. Looking at the infinite whitenss of snow made me miss you even more. As soon as I felt the painfully familiar nostalgia and anxiety, I bent and reached for a handful of snow. I squeezed it in my hand and put some in my mouth. It felt cool. It melted in my mouth.


I vividly remember the first time you took me out in the snow. You reached out for some snow and asked me to taste it. I was scared. I had never seen anyone eat snow before. I was hesitantly curious to taste it. You grabbed my hand, put some snow in my hand and said, “Azadeh, you should sometimes try the things that people tell you not to try. Come on, taste it! Go for it! Look how pretty it is!” I put some in my mouth, smiled and said, “It doesn’t taste like anything, Dad.” You laughed and said, “Well, you could give it your own taste. How about the taste of chocolate?” Then, you put some more snow in your mouth and said, “Man, this totally tastes like chocolate. Try some more!” That day, you knowingly broadened the tiny world of a five-year-old girl.

Twenty years later in a viciously different time and space, I put some snow in my mouth, tasted it and let it melt for a few seconds. I turned around to look at the snowman. My friends were throwing snowballs at each other. The snowman smiled at me with a striking glow in his eyes. The snowman told me, “Talk to your dad even if he can’t talk with you anymore. Keep talking to him. He will hear you.” The snowman said, “You are his most beautiful dream. Never let him down!” The snowman kept smiling at me until one of my friends threw a huge snowball at his head and the snowman lost his head in front of my eyes.

Oddly, I am used to losing friends in this comically tragic way. I watched the snowman die while he was still smiling. I took the smashed slice of watermelon that was the snowman’s smiley mouth from the ground and patted it a bit. His smile felt soft and alive. I think I am going to continue to smile for as long as you remain deeply depressed and silent. I will continue to smile until you join me in smiling. I will smile and tiptoe into all of the dreams that you will have of me in that small and quiet hospital room in Tehran. Your nurse says that sometimes you grin just a tiny bit when she mentions my name.

Love;
Azadeh

P.S. The snowman says hello.

The Woman in the Mirror

Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw a strangely unfamiliar face. It was her. This was her face and body. How could she not recognize herself? She touched her cheeks and made a funny and a sad face.

She wiped off her tears, closed her eyes for one second and tried to think about nothing. It was probably the longest one second of her life. It felt as though she was stuck in a dark tunnel with many trucks, cars, buses and motorcycles that were fast approaching her. She even got hit by a few. Every time she got hit, she felt dead, but she was still alive. In this darkness, many familiar voices were talking at her. They were all talking and screaming together. She covered her ears and with her eyes watched another truck hit her. The driver of the truck looked outside the window and laughed at her while driving away.

She opened her eyes. Everything was still the same. There was a room confined in the frame of a mirror. And there was her. She still did not recognize herself. The mirror only triggered her memories of others, but not of herself. She closely examined her smile in the mirror. She vaguely remembered the smile; but not as her own smile. It felt as though it was someone else’s smile. Her skin was burning under her sour tears.

There she was again: this woman...this stranger...this butterfly...this woman that was stuck somewhere between a dense past and an indefinite future. She shivered. The stranger woman shivered with her.

She did not know or recognize her. She touched her cheeks again and blew herself a kiss. She, then, smiled. Perhaps it did not matter that she did not remember, recognize or know herself. Perhaps what mattered was that she could refer to this strangely unfamiliar woman that was staring at her from within as "herself ".

She looked in the mirror again. There she was. Herself. She was not alone.

The woman in the mirror winked at her. Then, a voice whispered in her ear, “Don’t you worry. I’ve got your back!”

And the world resumed to silence. The world turned into an infinite vacuum of people and places.

The woman in the mirror blew her a kiss and walked away to stand in the middle of that dark tunnel, ready for all those belligerent cars and voices of the past to hit her hard and watch her not die.

My Language is the Language of Love and Passion...Not of Terrorism

The other night I went to watch “Brothers” by Jim Sheridan with a friend. It was a terrific movie in many ways. However, it freshened a few of my wounds.

The movie theatre was full of high school students and young college students. I had decided to watch a movie with my friend in order to take a break from the paper that I was writing about the security situation in Afghanistan. Coincidently, this movie was aslo,in a way, about Afghanistan and the war. It was a sad story of two American marines who get kidnapped by the militants in Afghanistan. While the movie was a love story mostly focused on the marine officer who made it back home, his wife,his brother and children, it had a few intense scenes from the Taliban militants, who kidnapped the two American marines and after torturing them for months had one of them stab the other one to death.

The scenes that captured the militants' violence were the only scenes that were in Persian(Dari, the Afghan dialect). The only part of the movie that was in Persian was, indeed, portraying extremism and violence in truly graphic ways. While watching this violence, we would also hear the words of the main militant guy in Persian about how the United States needs to leave Afghanistan and how the militants will fight until the defeat of Americans. They talked about their anti-American sentiments in Dari Persian. In sum, the parts in Dari Persian were about terror,hatred of the United States, murder and extremist jihadists.

While watching those scenes, tears had covered my face. I was humiliated. I kept looking at the rest of the audience in the dark: all these young Americans with their popcorns and soda drinks. What were they thinking? That only terrorists speak the language that they could now hear in this movie theatre? This is the language through which I learned how to love and to care. This is the language of my dream-like childhood. This is the language of my future dreams for this world. Persian is the language through which I define myself. This language does not belong to terrorists. It belongs to us, too! While watching these scenes, I kept wondering: Does the young generation of Americans find entertainment in such snapshots of the odious culture in Afghanistan, Iraq, Palestine, Pakistan or Iran? Will they ever learn that even if we are disconent about the Americans in that part of the world, we are still not terrorists?

I cannot even describe the depth of this cultural tragedy that I felt in my surroundings in this movie theatre. I wanted to run towards the movie screen and block them from watching these scenes or maybe finding a way of putting this movie on mute so that my beautiful language does not get portrayed only in this inhumane and biased way.

Persian has long been recognized as the language of love, passion and poetry. And now...

That night in the movie theatre I cried for my language. Our Rumi, Sa’di and Hafiz wrote of nothing but of passionate love and peace. I cry for the fate of my language. I cry for the people who are confined in this language and have the world judge all of them for this phenomenon of extremism that has also brought them misery for years.

I wanted to get up in the movie theatre and scream, “Listen up young Americans: Not all of the Persian speakers would put you in a cave, torture you and then have you stab your best friend to death! Please, I beg you to not leave this movie theatre with these images and sounds as your only images of this culture. We are better than this! We really are!”

Will this young generation ever know or learn this about us? Or will it grow up thinking that we are all cavemen and cavewomen who are holding on to “barbarism” and “terrorism”? Will they ever learn that Muslims, Arabs, Persians, Pashtuns and all these ethnicities and cultures of our region understood the beauty of love and peace centuries before any of these young Americans were born? Will they ever learn that we have more than just rifles, extremism and grudge to offer? Or will they continue to be entertained by “terrorism” in their movie theatres while eating popcorn and giggling at the men with turbans in the movie?

I hope they,one day, get to know the real people of our lands. We are better than just terrorists. We, I believe, have the responsibility to expose the younger generation to many other beautiful aspects of our cultures. Terrorism is just an anomaly and not the norm in these cultures! We must tirelessly communicate this to the rest of the world. We owe this responsibility to ourselves, our beautiful languages,our heritage,our cultures,our lands and our future generations.

Our languages and cultures are burning in fire just as our people are!