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.

I don’t know why they look or smile, but I am encouraged by these strangers to run faster. It’s cloudy on the bridge and yet no one is afraid of the possibility of rain. They are all prepared with their cameras, holding hands, sitting on benches, watching the water, walking the bridge, running, biking. It’s all the same. Everyone’s got a plan and maybe they are all happy. I know I am happy. I’ve never been happier. I owe it to myself to be happy. I’ve been running for a long time in this city and today I’m really happy and I like these happy strangers that want to make the best out of a cloudy, but warm day. I owe it to them to be happy, to be alive and running and smiling and loving life. I owe it to my father and my mother who do everything to make me happy. I owe it to my friends to be happy because they are there for me, when I cry, when I am sad, when I am breaking apart and afraid. I owe it to my fellow writers who support me and tell me to keep writing. I owe it to the god I’ve created for myself to be happy.
I run across the bridge and walk a bit when my sides ache. I run a second time, slower, and stopping half-way. I lean against the edge and watch the cars below and the water in front of me and the Statue of Liberty and the people who are below. It’s so beautiful, being here, and breathing the air and the wind and the seeing everything. It’s so beautiful I might cry.

And now it’s my mother saying goodbye, her voice cracking through the phone, or maybe I exaggerate to stress the kind of sadness I imagine her feel. But even more clearly, I can see my father, who will be more sad. I don’t know why the two of them are so different at expressing their emotions, not that they really express with words, but their mannerisms are at odds with each other.
My mother will make fun of a sad thing. She will try to humor you. She will hug you and as you are holding her, she will slip, and she will say something that will unintentionally hurt. She might say, so you are leaving us and going about your own life, and she’ll say it softly and with good humor and you might not even hear it. But once you do, you don’t want to let go. She is small and a few inches shorter and holding her is so easy, yet she is so powerful, even as you seem to be in control of her. You finally let go and you look into her light brown eyes and you wonder where she’s got all that strength from.
My father will not say a word. He will watch you in his own, subtle ways like when you are reading on the couch and he is sitting across from you, his hands resting on his lap, his eyes drifting from the newspaper to you. When he looks at you, it will be tender and sad. When he walks slowly across the room, you wait to hear him say something, and when he doesn’t, you feel sadder. When you hug him he hugs back and says something sweet like, oh, my daughter, and he’ll leave it at that. And this moment is so tense and so tender that you feel yourself falling on your knees.
The two of them are not good with goodbyes so it’s hard for us to learn from them. We are all terrible at goodbyes. We avoid them. We silence ourselves. We give hugs and we kiss each others’ cheeks, but we never say what we really meant to say. And if we do, on an especially expressive day, we say it so awkwardly or so humorously that we forget that it is goodbye we are talking about.
I hang up the phone and my mother’s words crack, and I feel heavy with guilt. I sit on the couch, alone, and try to understand when it was that I first felt the need to break away.

She cut her hair. She got short bangs chopped her long hair. She lost her charm and grace and men noticed her less. She wanted change and no else understood, and it really didn’t matter to her. She wanted change. She got change. She chopped off her jet black hair and her friends said it would grow soon to comfort her, their voices filled with pity and their faces drenched with sorrowful smiles. And she laughed and said she didn’t care if her her hair ever grew back and they thought she was just saying it to make herself feel better. The fact was even with chopped her, the girls were jealous because she was still carrying herself really well. She never slouched and her hips moved gracefully even when she was tired and her legs cramped. She walked with sensuality and men watched her with lust pouring out of their eyes and mouths even without the long locks of hair. She had lost the special grace that comes with long hair, but she knew how to walk and smile and girls were jealous. She knew they were, but never put herself above anyone else. She worked hard and didn’t draw attention to herself by flaunting or wearing tight skirts. And one day, when it was hot and her bangs had curled up, she took out a mirror and fixed them, and then got up to get off at her stop.

I hang in the kitchen. The view is disappearing from outside, the view I created for myself when I first walked into the apartment, the view that belongs to a stranger. The sun is setting and I am crying on the couch. I am lying there, still, tired. My tears wet the red sheet on the couch. I’ve thrown the empty grocery bags off the couch. I’ve nestled in, so tired that I cry because of it. The view is gone as I look toward the window, the glass dirty with winter stains. I am lying on the couch, and it doesn’t belong to me, but I lie there because I am too tired to go back into my room. Moving makes your legs weak, even before the day. You feel it in the back of your neck, the pain of moving and locking doors, the pain of packing boxes of everything that made your stay memorable. Moving makes your heart sick. It makes you vomit with nervousness and joy, with longing and acceptance.
I would lie still anywhere that has stained my mind with memories of the city, all of which I long to keep within reach. Today, the day is hot and the night is hotter. My room mates and I talk of moving. We know we have little time. We make the best of it. Today, we don’t lie about our pain. Today, we are talking about moving and what it takes, all the energy, all the vigor, all the pain, all the longing to keep staying.
I hang in the kitchen and the view is not the same.

Leaving a place comes with a great tidal wave. It’s like standing on shore, getting hit by multiple angry waves, submerging underneath unwillingly, your lungs filled with polluted water and blood, your eyes gushing with pebbles and small sea shells. Nostalgia is a constant phase for people who always leave a place, who always long to return, and move on, and return. Nostalgia is a tidal wave of memories, sour, sweet, salty.
Above ground, standing still on shore, looking towards the waves is the initial feeling of longing. It is looking forward and not being able to capture the waves and the sky and the water. It is an inability so grand that is better to leave unmentioned.
In my head there is a tidal wave, strong, destructive, frightening, loud and angry. I am constantly submerged under water, my feet stuck in wet sand, my head exploding with particles of fear, uncertainty, doubt, and vulnerability. I cannot run away. I cannot yell for help. I cannot breathe because my lungs are wrapped in a coat of sea creatures. I cannot swim for I am tied down with nostalgia, with longing and the fear of letting go.
This is my state of being. It happens often, for I am often changing homes. And when I am home, wherever that is, I am longing for the tidal wave because I like the excitement and the change of waves. It is a longing, a sick, enticing longing that cannot be explained.
Today the waves are weak. I am above water, breathing spring air without difficulty. I made coffee and washed a pile of dirty dishes that were stained with pasta sauce and ketchup. I did not listen to the voices in my head. I did not long for anything. I walked away from the tidal waves, far out, until I could no longer hear the ocean.

I didn’t call Mom today. I called no one. No one called me either. I just went about my day, wondering if my mother would call me. Maybe she thinks I am busy and not thinking about calling.
I wasn’t busy.

I ride the subway a lot. Everyday. And it is soothing in a way. Your mind travels and goes beyond yourself. Sometimes we pass another train and we get really close, almost hitting it. And I wonder what it would be like if we did clash. If we collided and traded spots with the other passengers or flew through windows. The closeness is intense. I see their faces on the opposite side. Sometimes I will lock eyes with someone.
On lonely days, the subway is an escape. I am connected. It’s a distant connection, and maybe not entirely satisfying, but it is still a connection I appreciate and do not take for granted. There are a lot of lonely days in the city. But people are nice. They smile at me. They say hello with their eyes. And the loneliness is good for me. It forces me to reflect and think of how I can improve.
But then there are times that I don’t want to get off at my stop. I want to sit with the strangers and go until the end of the line…until there is no turning back.

In front of me is sitting a boy of about eight. He has soft, straight blond hair. He has his arms clasped together, his eyes intense and deep, seriously contemplating something. Sometimes our eyes meet. He keeps a stern look. I do too, though internally I am smiling at him. I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty. He has a navy North Face jacket on and a pair of sneakers. The two little boys next to him are loud, playing some video game. He looks at them sternly, annoyed. He fidgets and the two little boys jump up and down in their seats, laughing. The boy watches over their shoulder, curious to see what they’re playing, but he maintains his distance and serious posture. He is a good boy.
I stand to get off at 28th street. I look at him one last time. He is looking at someone else.