Today I went to the park that I used to go with my brother when I was little. We sat on a bench and ate ice-cream. I watched the kids play in the play ground. Some were on the swings and some were on the slide. I looked at their small faces and noticed that they were happy.

Even though there wasn’t much to play with, even though it was hot, even though there was not much space, they were still laughing and were happy. I tried to imagine myself back when I had been that age. I used to love going on the swings. I had a happy childhood just as I imagined these kids were having. It seemed just yesterday that I had been in their place. Thinking of nothing but having fun. Life had been so easy, almost too easy compared to now.
As I walked down the familiar streets I felt like a stranger in a foreign country. I didn’t feel like a true Iranian. I watched the people pass me by and didn’t feel like them. They had a different pain than I did. They live somewhere where they can’t speak their mind. If they do, their life might be in danger. I realized that no matter how hard I try, I could not possibly feel what they felt. I didn’t like the feeling of not belonging in my own country. I didn’t like the feeling of having more than they did, or living a better life than them. I tried to forget those feelings and continued walking with my brother.