22

I’m in Tehran, and everyone I can see is of my flesh and blood. I am them and they are me. We are all — genetically, at least — the same.

Of course, our lives are not. I don’t know how I was chosen to be born in the United States. Why do I get to be free when they are not? Why does my sister get to walk outside without a hijab? Why can I love who I love without fear of death? Why can I sleep peacefully, every night, under a sky free of missiles? I didn’t earn it. It just kind of happened that way.

I do wonder if those I see in Iran have similar thoughts. Do they ask themselves how lucky they are to still live in Iran, land of our ancestors, of Cyrus the Great? To have their grandparents, khoresht, and chai around the corner, not 7,000 miles away? To never feel like an outsider in their own country — to never be seen as a threat, as a terrorist? I wonder if they feel proud to, every day, resist, endure, and fight for freedom in our Iran.

I’m in Tehran, I am them, and they are me. I’m confident I got the better end of the deal — but I’ll never get to know for sure.

Tehran, September 2024
Ashkan R.