I worry about him. I worry that he is lost in the chaos, that he has given up hope, that he is alone. I worry that his wife is caught in the same turmoil his mother was twenty some years ago. He works outside of Tehran, away from the immediate conflict. But his mind remains tormented. He has too many memories. His mother left him at a very young age and he is sensitive to this kind of trauma.
I worry for him as mother tries to dial his cell. He has been broken too many times and it is as though the revolution continues, after more than twenty years, it still goes on.

I am running in the woods, towards a clear blue sky, surrounded by trees. I am running, my friend following beside me. Today could be a good day. It could be a calm Monday morning, full of vibe, life, and sweetness. But as I run, my thoughts divert to the bloodshed that happened over the weekend in the streets of Tehran, the blood that continues to boil, the faces that continue to scream for freedom. Neda’s face haunts me, her shocked eyes, her open red mouth. Her eyes haunt me, and I am unable to comprehend the terror, the disbelief over what has happened to my people.
If I were there, if I were home, I would be in the streets with them. If I were there, I would be asking for my rights, for my freedom, for the rights of my people, for the rights of women.
I am screaming. I am hopelessly running towards a clear blue sky, unable to believe in what little power these words hold.

The night is hot and we have gathered on the porch, sipping red wine and talking about Iran. We are unable to divert the conversation. All we can think of, all we can say is of a country we’ve left behind. The uncertainty of tomorrow is what troubles us. The uncertainty of our people’s future, of the youth whose destiny is tarnished is frightening.
The night is hot and in a corner on Branch road, we talk about our anger, a kind of anger that has long been embedded in our veins. The anger over what we are unable to do, now that we sit here, miles away, freely sipping wine and wearing little on a summer night. The anger over what has been done to our people, what has been taken from them. It is our powerlessness that weighs heavy on our shoulders. It is an inexplicable kind of shame that entangles us, the shame that we are here, safe, though our souls are weary. We are safe and untied. They are beaten, pushed, shot, dying on the streets in pools of blood. We are sitting outside, wondering, praying, hoping, and still our hopes fade by the end of the night.
I look up at the black sky, and there is nothing but a curtain of hopelessness, a dark void that I am unable to fill. The night does not end for us and in the streets of Tehran, riots continue, shots are fired, and men and women scream on rooftops.
We hold our breaths, mutter goodbyes and…
We move on.

They walk, shout, scream for freedom, for equality, for justice, for an end to dictatorship, brutality.
I walk, with a pen in my hand, wondering how 11 years of life with them changed me.
They run for their lives. They run to be heard, to be given the right to speak, to vote.
I run, for dreams that I am still trying to define.
They vote, hoping for change and are cheated in return.
I vote and there is hope; there is change.
They are torn, burnt, broken and fatigued from decades of hardship and injustice.
I am torn in my thoughts, as I write, as I try to grasp what is happening to them, what is happening to us.
I am with them, in heart, in mind. I am broken, unable to raise my hand, unable to yell and fight with them.
I voted because it was my only weapon, my only way of giving them hope.
As we read the news and await an unknown future, they continue to scream.
I hope freedom comes. I hope that someone hears them. I hope we give them the hope, support and strength that they need. We are together with them, with their hardships.
But I have no power,
even my pen is dying as I have forgotten what it’s like to write from the heart.