Iranian Story Chapter 1: Tehran, the capital of pain

A Story by Cyrus

A day of struggle in the streets of Tehran.

This city has turned to a war zone. you can sense the fear in every street. the rotten smell of flesh. the mixture of colorful anti government graffitis and blood that is hard to distinguish, all screaming the word azadi (freedom) in them. The city workers are cleaning a new one, its a portrait of a young woman, with a green bandanna, looking at sky while blood is dripping down from her headscarf. if you look more closely thought, you see she is actually looking out for the baton coming down to hit her.

I am in Enghelab Square* waiting for Elnaz to come and get her book (Enghelab = Revolution, This square originally was called the Esfand or Espand Square after the 12th Persian month, but after the late Shah departure, the Islamic republic changed it to Enghelab, as a middle finger to all his supporters and anti-revolutionaries). This is were everything starts. every intellectual social movement in Iran starts here. In this square you can recognize and understand the Iranian identity in each and every form of existence.

I am trying to send a text to elnaz, telling her that I am late for class. A woman with her over the top black chador, dragging her kid on the asphelat like a bag of potatoes, the kid is crying and screaming his guts, demanding some food. she sees me and gives me the look, a familiar look that i get every 5 minutes in this town since I pierced my left earlobe. I see elnaz. fashionable as always.

- Hey, you late

- Traffic, you know there is traffic, so why the look

- what look, i am not giving you a look

- you have my book?

- yeah, its in my bag.

I open my bag and look for the book. in my mind I trying hard to save this moment and her image over and over, how I wanna just grab her, feel her pale skin, tell her how much I miss her laugh, her touch, she whispering her complex words in my ear. I find the book, I try to raise my head as slowly as possible to check her out. she is beautiful, high heel shoes, short skinny black jeans , dark blue manto, and purple hair covered in half in a carefully tied rousari with design similar to a persian carpet.

- she is looking away, looks kinda pissed off.

- here you go, you feeling ok?

- Since when do you care?

- Why you have to be like this, I am trying to be nice

- you are late

- okay then, I am going to class.

- me too

- what do you have.

- Dr Zamani, C++, hard as f**k and I havent done s**t

- and why is that? hanging out with Microb and her crew trying to overthrow the government?

- F**k you cyrus, f**k u, this is why i dont say a word to you anymore. you are one close minded jerk.

- Okay

Microb, thats the nickname we gave to a very good girl turned dangerous, a former friend that now is a leading member of the Anjomane daneshjooii (Student association, usually linked to student protests against the government) in Poly Technic. the thing is she is not dangerous for the government, she is only dangerous to herself and everybody around her including elnaz, spreading over the top idealogies of freedom fighting that a stable mind would not care very much for. The worse thing I introduced microb to my best friend mahmood.

- Okay sorry, you know I care, I just dont want you to get hurt.

- caring is to care for what I care for, I want you to do that.

- Okay, you wanna a Sambusa? we got like 10 minutes

at the east section of the square there is a Mall, with a small sambusa shop in front. This is were the hungry, the poor, the university student, the government workers and the beggars and thugs all gather for a quick meal. a perfect spot for the miserable and poor to gather and beg for mercy of the rest of city. a distinct and old Persian form of child abuse can be seen at this location, children carrying small cages withholding a canary and boxes full of Hafez poem to be used as a faal (Hafez = legendary Persian poet, famous for his devotion to love and spirituality). Faal is a Persian version of fortune cookie. simply they are poems in envelopes. you pay the kids and they take the canary out of the cage to pick an envelope for you. your faith is bond to what the canary picks up. it may be good or bad and if you are Iranian you will believe the result.

i don't pay beggars, its a principle to follow, specially in Tehran, where it will go nowhere but the pockets of heroin dealers. but the kid on the corner looks hungry, staring at the overpriced s****y sambusas made out of pita and potatos, so I pay him 200 and get my faith package.

- hey Elnaz, pick one

- I dont believe in it

- me either, Just pick one

- okay

we open it up, even if we don't believe, we still are curious what hafez has in mind for us. I try to read it.

- You suck

- well you go ahead miss poetry

she recites it, with her mesmerzing voice, slow, and unlike me it seems she knows each and every word and their meaning.

- okay, that didn't sound very optimistic!

- no in fact its not that bad, a change of path in a long journey ahead.

- for me or you

- who cares, its bs anyways, lets go to class