Monday, June 19, 2006

Yesterday was Father´s Day.

Yesterday was Father’s Day. I have a phobia of anger. I am scared of making people angry and am scared of myself whenever I am angry. Anger scares me because it brings out the part of me that is even unfamiliar to myself. That is why I always try to forget the fact that I am extremely angry at those who sent my mother to prison, who kidnapped my father, tortured him with their creative methods and crushed his pride under their feet. I avoid remembering that I am angry at them.
However, a day like Father’s Day is like a trap in my way of escaping from the feeling of anger. Yesterday, I felt trapped. I was angry. I did not want to see my angry face in the mirror. The anger had conquered my body. To make myself feel better, I decided to walk around the streets of Buenos Aires. Every single movie theater, restaurant, cultural center and etc. would remind me of my beloved father, Siamak Pourzand. I kept on remembering the days that we would go from one store to another, one toy store to another. I remembered my father’s attempts to find barbies for me that resembled me, that had curly hair and dark skin. We would explore the toy stores for hours to find a Barbie that looked like me. He would seek children’s book from famous authors for me. He would drive around the city to find my favorite kind of bread. He would help me read the newspaper. And sometimes we would get into arguments just like two friends.
Yesterday was Father’s Day. I was angry. I was terrified of my own anger.

Dear Islamic Republic of Iran, “Happy belated Father’s Day! Give my father back to me!”

My Father Siamak Pourzand is now 75 years old. He was temporarily released from prison after a couple of years of cruelty and torture. When they released him, he was already in coma. He was taken to the intensive care of a public hospital in Tehran, chained to bed with two guards watching him all the times. Only when the international human rights organizations sent their representatives to the hospital, he was unchained. Since then, my beloved father has gone under multiple surgeries for his heart, bone problems due to the physical violations that took place during the time that he was disappeared and other health problems. He has no documents in hand which technically means that he is still a prisoner and that his conditional freedom could be taken away any time. Once in a while suspicious individuals call him or come to visit him while he is alone in his apartment. Except for my lovely aunt who is old and very sick, there is no other family member left in Iran. My father does not have his passport. He is reasonably terrified of going to the authorities and asking for his passport or other forms of travel documents. The government does not give his wife , my mother, Mehrangiz Kar any guarantee for safety to go back to Iran and see her sick husband after all of these years of hardship and separation. As the youngest member of the family I took the risk and went to visit him for 10 days last year. My trip to Iran was not a pleasant trip and due to cautionary reasons I still do not want to talk in details about that trip.
Yesterday was Father’s Day and I was angry. I want my father back.
Dear Islamic Republic of Iran, “Give my father back to me!”
Anger is a dangerous feeling. It reminds me of revenge. It reminds me of more violation which is something that my beloved parents have taught me to avoid.
Give my father back to me!
babaye man.jpg
Azadeh and Siamak Pourzand

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