They’re selling our house in Iran. They’re selling our house, our room, our kitchen, our memories. They’re selling it. I don’t believe it; I can’t. That was my safety, my home, my comfort zone. I built memories, I hid stories, I played in those rooms, I laughed, I cried, I lived. I lived in that house.
I feel like I’m losing something big, too big to comprehend, too big to define. I’m losing a home. I feel homeless. I’m sitting in a home miles and miles away, and I feel homeless…
Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me I’d never see my home again?
Someone else is going to live there now. Someone else is going to make memories there. Someone else is going to sleep under that roof, the roof that protected me, that secured me, that told me I lived there, that I belonged there…
I want to go back now. I want to see it one last time before they put a price tag on it, before they hand over the keys, before they shut that door…I want to go back…
Why didn’t anyone tell me?!
A home is priceless. The memories are priceless. You can’t put a price tag on a house that kept your secrets, that kept your lies, that let you in and out, that held you when there was a storm or thunder or rain…it’s priceless…
So does this mean I have to say good-bye to home now? Goodbye Tehran? Goodbye home? What does this mean?
Sold. It is gone. It was gone. And I knew this the very first time I walked out of that door…