I am pleased to share with you that my book “Unpaved Road” was
the winner (The winner of the Autobiography Category) of the 2011-2012 DIY Book
& Film Festival. The annual award reception took place last night Sat, March
3, at the “Roosevelt Hotel” in Hollywood.

The door to the Academy Room opened at 7 and cocktail was
served. There were about hundred participants at the ceremony, (my husband, my
daughter and I, together with the winners of the other categories with their friends
and families, and other audiences).

At 8 O’clock, the award ceremony began. After a short presentation,
the name of the winners was called and we were asked to go to the podium and
talk to the audience about ourselves and our book. Then we were awarded with a
framed certificate.

After the book awards, the winners of the films were
honored.

At the end of the ceremony we took some group pictures, and
it was fun!

• به چشمی اعتماد کن که به جای صورت به نهاد تو می نگرد…
• Trust the eye that looks into your soul, rather than at your face.

• به دلی دل بسپار که جای خالی برایت داشته باشد…
• Go after the heart that has an empty place for you.

• دستی بپذیر که باز شدن را بهتر از مشت شدن بلد باشد
• Accept the hand that can extend to help more than fist to punch.

• هوس بازان کسی راکه زیبا می بینند دوست دارند… اما عاشقان کسی را که دوست دارند زیبا می بینند…
• A capricious would go after the person he thinks is pretty, while the one, who is in love, sees the beloved beautiful.

• وقتی در زندگی به یک در بزرگ رسیدی نترس و نا امید نشو… چون اگه قرار بود در باز نشود جای آن دیوار می گذاشتند…
• When you come across a closed door blocking you, don’t panic and do not loose hopes. If it was not supposed to be opened, a wall would have been built in its place, instead.

• آنچه که هستی، هدیه خداوند است و آنچه که خواهی شد، هدیه تو به خداوند… پس بی نظیر باش. ..
• Who you are now is the gift from the God to you, and who you would become is your gift to the God. So be unique.

• شریف ترین دل ها دلی است که اندیشه آزار دیگران در آن نباشد…
• A beautiful heart is the one that does not have hate for the others.

• بدبختی تنها در باغچه ای که خودت کاشته ای می روید…
• Disaster only grows in the garden in which you plant it.

• وقتی زندگی برایت خیلی سخت شد به یاد بیاور که دریای آرام، ناخدای قهرمان نمی سازد. ..
• When the life becomes very difficult for you, remember that a calm sea does not make any brave captain.

• هر اندیشۀ شایسته ای، به چهره انسان زیبائی می بخشد…
• Positive thinking reflects beauty on your face.

• قابل اعتماد بودن ارزشمند تر از دوست داشتنی بودن است
• Being trustworthy is more valuable than being loveable.

• نگو: شب شده است. .. : بگو صبح در راه است
• Don’t think the night has come; remember the morning is on the way.

With his gentle voice, Bijan referred to Johan Sebastian Bach’s answer when Bach was asked what the music was. His answer was that the music was a language, a language for communication. Bijan continued to compare every human being to a music note. He believed and demonstrated with his violin how notes and vibration of waves, in music called “over tones” together could create a beautiful sound. One note alone by contrary would be nothing, but a string noise and terrible to hear. He maid his point that the  “over tones” or quality like love, justice, friendship, honesty, peace, trueness, trust, and etc., which we all have and vibration of these tones would create a beautiful music.

It was the most beautiful comparison I have heard. Then, I thought why we can’t use so many good qualities we have and together change the life, as beautiful and harmonic as the tones on strings of the violin.

What kind of world we would leave for our children. I am not talking about the global warming; I am talking about the humanity. Are we suitable enough to be a role model to our children? Look around to see what a disastrous we have made of the world.  During the last ten years just greediness, wars and killing have been the outcome of our contribution to our world. Our generation is guilty and responsible. What can we do about it? How will the future look like? And will our kids condemn us? I need some answers and like to know what is wrong with us and our society?  Please, somebody gives me a clue to understand. Niki

Please watch the video!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AXqMo-ICeHs&feature=player_embedded

But there was a backlash against Iranians, especially when Americans were taken hostage at the American embassy in Tehran in 1980.  Although most Americans could not locate Iran on a map, I would hear remarks like  “I-ranian, go back to I-ran!”   It didn’t help that the television program “Nightline” counted the number of days the hostages had spent in captivity.

More than thirty years later, my soul still remains a slave to the soil that belonged to my ancestors.  I seek solace among my Iranian friends when I yearn to speak in my native language.  I crave to connect to my roots by studying the the works of Rumi and Hafez  and I often visit the Persian supermarkets in Westwood and Los Angeles where I am reminded of the sweet smells of my childhood (cream puffs, saffron and jasmine).

Even though Los Angeles has a large Iranian community, I still feel like an outsider.  Sometimes I still feel like the immigrant who has lost her identity.  I feel that I don’t belong anywhere.

My heart broke on a warm, summer day while vacationing with my family in Dubai a few years ago, as I stood by by the waters of the Persian Gulf.  The captain of the small passenger boat said that he could take us to southern Iran–it would only take 20 minutes.  Iran had been in the news again and the western media outlets had not been kind.  My heart was aching to go back home even if  just for a few hours, but my American children were terrified.  I don’t blame them.  I knew it would be taking a risk to step on the soil of an extremist Islamic country without wearing the veil or the chador–with a Jewish last name like Cohan.

So I just stood there on the dock, by the waters of the Persian Gulf, and cried silent tears for my lost world.

It all happened so fast. One minute I was driving home from an appointment. The next minute two boys on their bicycles by the street corner caught my eye, and the next minute I found myself swerving my car to avoid hitting a silver Lexus that had suddenly appeared in my path. Well, you already know that I did not succeed.

The first thing that popped in my head was I hope the lady in the car is okay. “The lady” drove her car to the side of the curb and I followed. I could only see the back of her head, and from the greying hair I could tell she was an elderly woman. Needless to say, I felt even more terrible. I immediately got out of my car to apologize. I knew I had been careless and had not paid attention.

Just imagine the sheer horror in my face, and my mom’s as well, when we finally saw each other. With both hands on the steering wheel, my mom leaned out of the window and squinted, “Angel, is that you?” I didn’t know what to do first: pick my jaw off the floor, drive and run to my room and close the door out of sheer embarrassment, or pretend that I was not me. The afternoon sun was glaring into her face. I could tell that she was clearly shaken up. And did I tell you, I felt horrible?

Nothing had really happened to my car, but her Lexus was badly dented. I made my way towards her, my eyes downcast, “Yes it is me, Mom.” The words barely come out of my mouth. As I was reaching for my mother’s hand, a witness came by and asked my mom if she needed her testimony.

I ignored the question and asked, “Mom, are you okay?” My mom straightened herself up right away, patted her hair down, paused and looked down at her hands that lay once again on the steering wheel and quickly looked up at me. The mother that she is, her first instinct was to want to protect me, exonerate me of my guilt. “Yes, yes. I am okay. Are you?”

The witness interrupted us again, “Ma’am, do you need any help?” she asked. I turned to her and explained that I was her daughter.

She shook her head in disbelief, “I’ve never heard of anything like this!”

“I know,” I sighed and turned to my mom. I got lucky; my mom wasn’t hurt. We both drove off, and of course, this accident became the butt of our family’s joke for the next week. I managed to get her car fixed within a week. As much as I nervously laughed and joined in on the joke with everyone, I wanted to quickly erase any evidence of what I had done.

A few weeks passed, and I was sitting next to my oldest brother at a restaurant. He was telling my husband and me how he is enjoying taking up the santur (a Persian musical instrument). His wife interjected and said, “He loves to practice, and what is so funny is that when the teacher comes the following week, he can’t believe his remarkable progress.”

It was no surprise to any of us. My oldest brother, along with the rest of us in the family, tends to have this laser beam focus when it comes to mastering something. Granted he seems to take first prize in that category (he skipped three grades in school and recently won in a competition in downhill skiing), we all appear to have picked this habit up from both my mom and my late father. “Believe me,” I said, “by next week, he will have skipped an entire method booklet.” I looked over to my brother, Jamshid, and noticed him leaning back in his chair, chuckling, first looking down at his hands, then quickly looking up.

That was it! I instantly recognized that look. I leaned in and said, “You know, this very look you just gave? Well, it’s exactly the same look that mom sometimes has.” “It’s unbelievable,” I added. I don’t remember his response, or even what we talked about after that. I sat back, thinking how much I missed my mom. I mean I speak to her almost everyday, and we do see each other at least once a week. But this was a different kind of missing.

That night I went home and thought about how startled she was when I had found her after the accident, the vulnerable, yet strong look on her face. In our family, we all love each other deeply, but we’ve been raised in a very formal and traditional way. Outward displays of affection are reserved for big celebrations or special events. Come to think of it, in our Persian language, the word “love” is not spoken between a parent and a child or visa versa.

Blame it on my more American upbringing, my sensitivity, or even the fact that I felt bad for running into my mom. The very next day, I called my mom and asked her if I could come over her house. “Mom, I love you,” I said in English over the phone. She let out a belly laugh and replied, “I love you too,” in her strong Persian accent.

I felt stupid, as if I were an 8-year-old child. But I guess it doesn’t matter how old you are; from time to time, you want to feel mothered. I told her I wanted to come over so that she could give me a hug. There was a pause for a few seconds. I imagined she probably thought I had fallen out of the wrong side of the bed. But her voice cracked when she said, “Come over, my little one.” Being the youngest of five kids and with a petite build, my father had nicknamed me — koochooloo, meaning little one. Once, when I was in my early 30s, I went to visit my father. Upon seeing me enter the room, he sat up, snapped his fingers, and flashed his blue eyes in delight. “Bah, bah! Koochooloo is here. She looks like she is only 18,” he said. Well, I am sure I looked older than a teenager, but this goes to show that parents see their kids with different eyes. No matter how old we are, we remain their children — beautifully preserved in their memory.

“I am waiting for you my little one,” she said again, this time with a little tickle in her voice. I was smiling on the other end of the receiver. In my mind’s eye I could imagine my mom first looking down and then shifting her gaze forward before saying those endearing

Last week I was having lunch with a longtime friend, who happens to be a professor of Political Science. We chuckled over how differently we register the world around us. “I look at things more from a broad, economic or political angle, you know,” she said, tapping me on the shoulder lovingly, “But for you — your vision is funneled through the human experience.”  She was right.

And she proved me right again a few days ago when I heard of the tragic an untimely death of Prince Ali-Reza Pahlavi, the youngest son of the late Shah of Iran and his wife, Empress Farah Pahlavi.  Prince Ali-Reza, 44, was found dead by Boston Police early Tuesday morning from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Titles such as King, Queen, Prince, and Princess conjure up similar visions for people all around the world.  We tend to project our deepest fantasies onto these titled heirs, envisioning them larger than life, super-human almost, as if they glide through life in a world of privilege.

My image of the royal family of Iran was largely shaped by my recollections of the pageantry, celebrations, and ceremonies broadcast on television when I was a young child in Iran. It was only a year ago, when these abstract and all-too-mythical ideas transformed into something more grounded and rooted in reality.

Being the great arts patron, Her Majesty Farah Pahlavi, made an appearance at my book party in support of my work. I was taken by her generous gesture and her infinitely calm demeanor as she was being mobbed by the many guests who wanted their photographs taken with her.  She had an upright and regal demeanor, no doubt, but she was approachable and exuded a warm human quality of kindness.  She was not what I had imagined, nor was she the image that was portrayed on T.V. or the media. She was simply an elegant and sincere lady who “was delighted to be amongst so many other compatriots.”

So, it comes as no surprise that upon hearing the sad news of Ali-Reza’s passing, I was not thinking of conspiracy theories or political back stories, I was thinking how a family bares the pain of loss in such difficult times.  The great equalizer amongst all people, whether royalty or not, is life’s experiences and its emotional undertow that pulls us ever more deeply into feeling the experience. Tragedies such as this cut through political divides and bring us back to the fundamental percepts of life.  We are reminded that we are all vulnerable, and the experience of losing a beloved son, brother, or friend is deeply felt no matter where your station in life.

Those who knew the late Prince described him as an intelligent, unassuming, fun-loving, yet introspective young man who had a deep attachment to his country and his heritage.  As a matter of fact, after having gotten his B.S. from Princeton and M.A. from Columbia, he went on to do his postgraduate work in Ancient Iranian History at Harvard.

Perhaps he had a strong pull to relate to what seemed to be absent in his life — a homeland, a sense of connection to his father, his grandfather, and ancestry.  How could he have not? After all, he was forced into exile at the age of twelve, and spent the next few months trying to find a country that would give offer them shelter and provide the necessary medical attention for the dying Shah. As a grieving young boy, how did he reconcile the deep, intimate father-son experience with what was being said by the Islamic Republic or political analysts for that matter?  Friends noted that in his 20′s, he had grown a mustache that resembled his grandfather’s and kept it for years. Others recall how he took pride in other Iranians who had come to the U.S. and had forged a successful life.

Then tragedy hit again. Many account that he had an especially close bond to his sister, Leila, who died in 2001 at the age of 32. With these turn of events, the family once again plunged into another wave of sadness.

Many people, especially of my age group, have responded viscerally to these unfortunate news. It is the sense of unrealized potential, a young man cut down in his prime that behooves all of us. After all, Princess Leila and Prince Ali-Reza are of my generation.  They were displaced at the cusp of adolescence, where typically the budding young adult is undergoing the early stressors of identity formation. We wonder and ask ourselves, “What shields us from these seismic changes in life? What happens when one is groomed and trained to hold a particular position in life, only to see it crumble in a matter of days?”

After all, as adolescent emigres, we had our own share of confusion and adaption to new circumstances. But the scrutiny and pressure on royal members must have been something that we can’t even fathom. Those early months of the revolution were tumultuous indeed. I remember one day, as we were making our way to our new house in Los Angeles, we noticed the road barricaded with police. Demonstrators were chanting and throwing empty glass bottles. Rumor was that the Shah’s sister’s residence was nearby and demonstrators had come to set fire to her house.  My generation of friends dealt with many changes, but I doubt that many faced this level hostility.

Yet, when interviewed, friends remember Prince Ali-Reza for all the things that he truly loved — skydiving and flying, his love for music, books, and backgammon.  Many mentioned his sense of humor, his ability to bring laughter to others’ faces, and his gift for mimicry.  And of course, it goes without saying that he was described as being “a sensitive and gentle soul with a great sense of loyalty to his family.”

The poet David Whyte once said, “When we lose the one you love, we lose our connection to what he or she loved the most in life.” It may be a particular melody in the voice of a stranger, the unique curve of a smile, a favorite meal sitting before us at the dinner table, a certain scent on a pillow, or the special way the one we have lost made us feel that reawakens those great waves of yearning and pain.

Ali-Reza was no different than anyone else who feels the aftershocks of loss, and nor are his family and friends, who once again will tread that well-traveled, all-too-familiar inner landscape of grief.

]]> http://iranianamericanwriters.org/blog/?feed=rss2&p=205 0 http://iranianamericanwriters.org/blog/?p=191 http://iranianamericanwriters.org/blog/?p=191#comments Mon, 31 Jan 2011 19:38:22 +0000 Angella Nazarian http://iranianamericanwriters.org/blog/?p=191 I would like to share an article that my friend wrote in regards to the honoring of noted Iranian journalist and multimedia producer, Mr. Parviz Nazerian. Hope you enjoy it.

Dr. Rosemary H. Cohen
From the Persian book review
A Quarterly on Arts and Literature Fall 2010

On July 24, 2010,  Channel One TV, Javanan International Magazine, Atelier de Paris, Kayhan of London, and International Film Center in New York, came together to celebrate the life and work of a well known Colleague, Mr. Parviz Nazerian. While his family and friends were present in the beautiful hall of Channel One TV, every one was able to hear about the hidden characters and talents of Mr. Nazerian from those who have worked with him for many years.

As one can imagine the program was a combination of arts, music, literature, poetry and theatre.  There were numerous famous artists, musicians, actors and actresses who performed beautifully. Many speakers and colleagues talked about their years of experience working with Parviz and almost every one admitted that Mr. Nazerian brings a lot to our society and works hard and long hours.

Although many Iranians probably have not had the chance to meet Mr. Nazerian  in person, most of them recognize his voice and hear his name on the radio and television many times every day.

I met Mr. Nazerian at the different concerts of the Liana Cohen Music Festival and in some painting exhibitions. I was amazed to learn that he was interested not only in politics and literature, but also in classical music and in arts.

Women rights and their place in society

“We have experienced too many tragedies and wars in the human history. If we look back to these events, we will see that men have been the source of these tragic decisions and wars have been their choice of solving the political or economical problems. I believe if women were put in the same situation, they would rarely choose war in order to solve problems. As they are the ones who carry the baby for nine months inside their being and later nourish and care for them,” he says.

May be this belief comes from the women who influenced Parviz in childhood. First he grew up by his hardworking mother who took care and loved her children tenderly and worked hard for her family’s comfort and well being. At the same time he experienced the affection of her two older sisters who loved him and always took care of their younger brothers. And finally, Parviz attended the primary school where boys and girls were admitted in mixed classes and were treated equally.  (Not like in present educational system in Iran).

I also learned that the first major theater that Mr. Nazerian wrote, directed and produced is about the life of a woman, Tahiri Ghoratolayn, a very brave poet and public speaker who lived in mid 19^th century in Iran. Tahiri is the first Iranian woman who took away her head cover (chador) 160 years ago.  She believed in women’s right and freedom. She wanted to live her life as she wished not as she was told or expected. Later her ideology resulted to her tragic death, she was put in prison, physically tortured and ultimately murdered.

This theater was shown in 1994 in Ebel Theater in Los Angeles. Although the performance was in Persian, many Americans and non Farsi speakers attended, which were able to hear the translations through the ear pieces. The theater was sold out which remained a very successful and memorable night.  This theater was also shown successfully around the country in main cities like Washington D.C., Dallas, Seattle and Oregon (Portland).

Parviz is planning to produce this theater into the movie in a near future.

A scene from this play was performed by Mrs. Zoreh Ramsey, a famous artist, on the night of the July 24th.

Adulthood and active life

While Parviz was working towards his bachelor degree, the University of Syracuse from New York established a department of movie production in Iran by the help of the Iranian Ministry of Culture and Arts.

Parviz participated in this program and graduated in screen writing and directing, while he received his bachelor degree in literature and philosophy from Teheran University.

Mr. Reza Badiei was his class mate the first year, by the end of the year he obtained a scholarship and left for the United States. Actually he is a well known film and TV director in America and remains a good friend of Parviz.

After graduation Parviz and some Iranian film critics came together and worked together for “The Film and Art” magazine which was the best source for readers who were interested in objective critics of movies and arts.

Later he was asked by the Iranian Ministry of Culture and Arts to publish a quarterly magazine “The Film and Life”.  He was the chief editor of this very serious magazine for a year. After a year he was obliged to leave his job as he was called to the military service.

After finishing the military service, he travelled to Europe to attend the University of Padua in Italy where studied history and critic of Modern Art.

Upon his arrival to Iran he started writing articles which were published in different magazines. Such as Ferdosi and Bamshad magazine.

Later he travelled to England as the correspondent of “Bamshad Magazine Parviz says that this trip was a very enriching period in his professional life.

“During this trip I was able to attended many concerts, exhibitions, ballet performances and theaters. I wrote articles for each event and they were published in Bamshad and other magazines in Iran.”

The first feature film that Mr. Nazerian directed was “An Isfahani in New York”. It was produced in 1972. The main part, 80% of the production took place in New York and 20% in Isfahan. Mr. Vahdat and Mr. Erham Sadre, two famous Iranian comedians, played in this movie.  It was a very successful and well received movie which was shown on the theaters during the first three weeks of the “Ayde No-Rooz”, the Iranian New Year.

Parviz has also occupied the post of the public relations of the Rudaky Hall a very prestigious modern hall in Iran in the 1970’s that numerous concerts, ballets and operas were performed on this stage.

Parviz was the general secretary of the music film festival in Iran and he had to travel abroad to meet with the producers and obtain the rights of these artistic movies and share them with the Iranian film lovers. Parviz worked with Mrs. Pari Saberi, a writer and director who is educated in Paris. Together they worked on a piece about the famous Iranian author and poet Froughe Farokhzad.  Parviz was the producer and Mrs. Saberi was the director.

Iranian Revolution and departure

In 1979, while Parviz was traveling Europe, he returned to Iran a short time after the Iranian Revolution. But as the situation was getting complicated in the country he returned to Italy.

In October 1980, he moved to the United States.  Then in 1981, upon his arrival to Los Angeles, Parviz started working with Mr. Gorgin, Mr Sabet Imani, Mrs. Homa Sarshar and their colleagues in the Iranian Radio and Television, as News Editor, Talk Show Host, and director of the programming.

Mr. Nazerian has worked for the Javanan and Rahe Zendegi Magazines more than fifteen years, he has written over 200 articles on the different subjects of the world events, arts, culture, science, book reviews, also about the life and work of the Iranians as well as other national and international personalities.

Personal life

Mr. Nazerian is married to a beautiful woman, Farah, who has a degree in business. They have two beautiful children; it is amazing that both of their children are born on the same date but four years apart. Sophie is studying history at UCLA, she is planning to attend the law school after her graduation. Justin is attending college and has decided to major in accounting and business.

Music, Books and Movies

Parviz loves people and music. For five years he combined all his interests in a program called: “Peace and Unity Fire Side”, where friends were invited in different beautiful houses for an evening of arts, literature, music, and dance and of course delicious food.

He not only appreciates the traditional Iranian music but loves the classical and especially Baroque music as well. He has studied the origins of Baroque and gypsy music and finds the influence of the Iranian “chahar zarb” in them and vise versa.

As a movie critique and film maker, he takes great interest in seeing the latest motion pictures.

Parviz Nazerian’s Beliefs and Ideals

Parviz believes that it is a necessity to recognize God. “When we believe in God, we are then able to love each other and live in a more harmonious society.”

The specific religion or any belief does not make a difference for him as far as it remains divine and human. “Every one should be free to choose his religion and practice it freely. No one should impose his/her belief on each other. But it is important that we respect each other regardless of our differences.  I believe that the Fanatical religious leaders are more dangerous and worst than any political dictators.  As the religious fanatics use God’s name and their laws in order to achieve their goals. They discriminate and suffocate their own people and justify all their actions on the name of God.”

“Every human being is created differently. As soon as twins are born, even though they have shared the womb of their mother for nine months, we realize that each one of them have a unique personality. Therefore we should respect each other as we are.”

“I believe that all the governments should accept and respect the Chart of the Human Rights. Therefore every human being should have the right to practice his/her freedom in life. Voltaire says: “I am against all your words and opinions but I allow you to express your ideas and all that you believe.”

“Wealth and Poverty are the two main elements that work against the interests of the humanity. A poor person ends up being poor culturally. On the contrary, when a person is too wealthy, he becomes selfish and greedy. Greed and pride usually end up in conflicts and wars.”

“The Youth in Iran is among the most educated and courageous young men and women in our history. This generation has suffered more than their fare share and they are among the purest and at the same time the strongest young generation ever known in the Iranian history.”

**Dr. Rosemary Hartounian Cohen, earned her Ph.D in sociology from the Sorbonne in Paris. She has published three books in America and soon two new books will appear. “The Survivor” is translated and published in Iran last year and the Armenian version is being published by Yerevan University in October 2010.

Although the courtyard in front of the strict and fear-inspiring English headmistress of our school was not the most popular place, we were there often challenging each other to a game of ping pong. And more often than not, we dared the other girls to squeeze through the metal railings of the fence that separated the courtyard from the playground. This led to many instances of classmates getting their heads stuck in the gaps of the railing. They blushed with anger and frustration but were too scared to yell out and call the attention of the headmistress.

That is what I remember of my times with my dear friend, Nagmeh, back in elementary school in Iran. Hers was the last party I attended in Iran, before we all fled and dispersed to different parts of the world. I have vivid
memories of Nagmeh’s 11th birthday party. All the girls had gathered in her living room, huddled in a circle. We were thinking of a game to play and Nagmeh’s cousin suggested a dance competition– I guess you could call it a
Persian version of a dance-off! The hot song straight out of the States was Boney M’s Ma Baker and we all sashayed to the middle of the living room floor. It was apparent even back then that I liked to strut my stuff on the dance
floor, and I went home as one of winners.

Three months later I remember listening to Bee Gees’s Staying Alive in the States and thinking if I will ever see my friends again. We had left Iran in a hurry and thought we would return once things calmed down. But it never did.
Iran was in the midst of a revolution, and I lost touch with all my childhood friends.

Imagine that just a few months ago I got a facebook message from my long-lost, childhood friend, Nagmeh. It didn’t take long for us to reminisce about our school, our friends, and her last party. We caught up on each other’s lives. I
found out that she was married with two kids and living in San Diego–just a three-hour drive from me.

She knew that I was coming out to San Diego for a book event, but alas I was there only for a couple of hours. I needed to catch another speaking engagement in New Orleans the next day and had to fly out of San Diego that afternoon. So Nagmeh and I made plans to see each other at another time, when we could actually sit and talk.

Then came her call the very day I was going to San Diego. “You know it’s crazy that you will be here in San Diego and we wont meet up,” she said. The rhythm of her talk was still the same even though now, after thirty two years, we
were speaking in another language (English). I could even sense that she was smiling through the phone and the thought that she was on the other end made me smile. It was true. It was a shame that wouldn’t get a chance to see each other, but other road blocks had presented themselves for the day. Nagmeh had taken off work because her son was sick with strep throat and she had no sitter. So, as disappointed as I was, I didn’t want to make things harder for her.

I got to the book fair in time and took a seat with some of the organizers before I was called up to speak. Five minutes before taking the stage, I got a text from her: I am sitting here in the audience! I stood up and looked around, but realized that I wasn’t even sure what she looked like as an adult. To tell you the truth, I still imagined her as a feisty eleven year old with short hair
and round, brown eyes. She had sent a picture of her adult self to my blackberry that morning–only because I kept insisting that I needed to see who she had grown to become.

I searched around the room for Nagmeh, but she was lost in the sea of faces. I texted her: where are you? It didn’t help that the lights were particularly bright by the stage and they were hitting me straight in the eyes. I walked a
little to the right. And moments later I saw a person in a red jacket stand up and wave at me. There she was, seated at a table on the left side of the room.

The program was starting shortly but I couldn’t wait. I made a bee-line toward her and we held each other tightly. Honestly neither of us would have recognized each other had we walked side-by-side in the street somewhere. Thirty two years is a long time not to see a friend.

We still held on to each other’s arms while we looked intently at each other’s face. We were two grown women now. I guess I was searching to find my childhood friend in the now adult features. And without me taking notice, I found myself smiling in recognition and saying, “Nagmeh, its those eyes. You have the same eyes that I remember looking into when I was a child.” She smiled and looked back. She still held me tight and said, “And your smile. You have the same smile, Angella.”

In these photos: 1) Angella and  Nagmeh as young friends 2) Angella and Nagmeh 2010

“No one ever told me I would remember the hands that sculpted me or that words could be carved into my soul. Now, decades later, I reminisce, sometimes with affection but often not. It is the flexibility that I miss the most about my childhood. It is the remembrance of that innocence which helps me to forgive myself for who I have become.”

Even though it’s a couple of weeks from what friends call “the launch party”, the support that has been pouring in from family, friends, colleagues and the community in general is overwhelming. Life may never be the same again, but how sweet it is to finally  put down the heavy load of a story I have carried across continents for decades. It is not my story, but rather a gift from a friend and I can only hope to have found the perfect place to display it.

Zohreh Ghahremani