 
Ali's story

Published by Akram Monfared Arya (Taraneh), Pilot, Author, Poet, and Artist

Contributor: Ali Sadeghian

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Akram Monfared Arya

ISBN 978-91-981818-2-1

Cover Artwork: Akram Monfared Arya

Cover Design: Multitech Graphics Inc.

Translation from Swedish to English: Mina Boyne

Swedish Edition Copyright 2009 Akram Monfared Arya published in Sweden

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author.

True story of fleeing from the revolution,

the war between Iran & Iraq,

and life in exile in Sweden

Table of Contents

Acknowledgement

Section 1 – Ali's childhood in Iran

Section 2 – Between life and death in war

Section 3 – Life in exile in Sweden

Dedication

About Akram Monfared Arya

Connect with Akram Monfared Arya

A huge thanks to my son Ali for his story

Thanks to the Swedish Writers' Association and Ariane Wahlgrens

Thanks to the Authors' House in Athens, Greece, where I got to finish this book

### Section 1 - Ali's childhood in Iran
Part-1

It all started after the revolution. We had a calm and quiet life like everyone else. My father worked and my mother was successfully learning how to become a pilot. No one could have guessed that one day Shah would be overthrown and the country would have a new leader; a turn of events that changed everything. People's beliefs, their ways of life, and their treatments of others were all changed. Before, no one could say anything about the politics of the country or the royal family, but now in the aftermath of the revolution, everyone was, all of a sudden, a learned politician and an expert in politics. Clashes of opposite views were a non-stop occurrence that led to conflicts and civil war.

Life that used to be simple and rather unproblematic, suddenly, became a different experience for many. It was no longer easy to go about one's everyday life without fear all across the entire country. All it took to land in trouble, for example, was for someone, who had just joined the ranks of fanatics, the young and dull-witted revolutionary guards who were full of prejudices, rage, and vindictiveness without even knowing the reason, without any care about who their victims were and how their lives were destroyed, not to like the way someone else looked.

So that was the way it went with people over night. People who lived together peacefully before the so-called revolution, saw their lives turned upside down without any warnings. A mother could betray her family by reporting her husband or kids as infidels, as could a child do the same to his or her own family. The situation was exactly that of those totalitarian regimes where everyone snitches on everyone else and no one trusts anyone. At least during Shah's time, one knew that the only thing that could get one into trouble was saying something negative about the royal family, but as for the rest, one was free to believe in a religion or to be an atheist without the fear of being persecuted, and one was confident that the country had laws and law-enforcement agencies. To have a dissenting opinion was no crime back then, so long as it did not cause any harm to the country or to the people.

We were a family of seven: my mom and dad and five of us children, of which four are boys and one is a girl. We lived in an area called Abbas Abad. It was located in the north of Tehran when we moved there in the late sixties. But fifteen years later, the area was no longer considered to be the north of Tehran rather the centre.

I remember that there were not a lot of buildings when we moved there. But with the uncontrolled migration of people from small towns in the later years, there were more houses, offices, and other types of edifice that were built to the point that by 2009, the population of Tehran grew to a total of seventeen million.

When we moved to the area, we had a great view over the southern part of the city. A vast view whereby one could see the oil-refinery, which was located outside of Tehran, with its glowing flame night and day. The house we lived in was big and the neighbouring houses were to the right of our house. It felt so nice to be able to see the city every night as if the city lay under my feet and I was its ruler. Abbas Abad is situated on a hill and Tehran itself sits on the Damavand's pathway, a mountain that is about 19000 feet high. Mount Damavand is an old, dormant volcano that can at any time erupt much like the volcano eruption in Pompeii. Many researchers have warned about a massive eruption from this volcano that has been dormant for so many years, but no one seems to take heed. The city keeps expanding further and further. On the other hand, thanks to the fact that Tehran lies on the mountainside, at the foot of a steep slope that is surrounded by mountain chains, it is a well-located city with great climate.

People simply lived their lives and did not have major worries. Political affairs were strictly the forte of politicians, who evidently were not good at their jobs, otherwise there would not have been a revolution and the subsequent mass exodus of people from the country.

My father was a calm and sensible man with a lot of life experience. Highly educated with a doctorate in law, he was a retired judge who carried on working as a lawyer and an official translator in two languages namely, English and French. He could also speak a few other languages like Latin, Arabic, Italian, and Russian. He loved his job by virtue of which he had gained a deep insight about human nature and the society in general. He started his career as the inspector general, then a prosecutor, then a judge level one and eventually reaching the highest rank as a judge, which was the eleventh level. Back then in Iran, there was a ranking system for judges, from level one to level eleven, similar to that of the military personnel's promotion up the rank.

I remember my father's words of wisdom to us on what to do and what not to do, on how to behave, on how to be cautious with strangers, and so forth. It is interesting how his advice helped me out of a few difficult situations later in life. "Strangers," interesting word. Who are they and how can one recognize them as such? No, it is not easy for a kid to tell a stranger from an acquaintance. However, one can at least remember his or her parents' advice when one is faced with a peculiar situation similar to what one's parents had mentioned before.

It so happened that one day I was going by bus to my father's office, which was located in the southern part of the city. It was a forty-five minute bus ride from our home to his office. I was only ten years old then. It was a warm and sunny day, and people were going about their own business.

Sun, an uncommon word nowadays. In Iran, it was not common to talk so much about the weather, at least not as much as here in Sweden. The everyday conversation was rather about what one did, ate, bought, and so on.

The bus was initially empty and, slowly, it got more crowded at every passing station. I sat by the window and as more people got on the bus, a man in his forties took up the seat next to mine. Out of the blue, he started chatting with me and asking me questions as if we knew each other forever. He pretended to know my family specially my father. He even claimed his son went to the same school as me. As he kept on talking nonstop, I kept wondering what that was all about. There was not much I could do except for sitting still and staring at him.

A little while later, he suddenly put his hand on my thigh. Scared, I began to realize what his intentions were. It was at that point that I remembered my father's saying that I should scream or make others around me aware of a bad situation, or if someone ever tried to harm me. I got up in order to move away from him, hoping to get off at the next bus stop. But he was blocking my way and not letting me go. He claimed that my father had asked him to accompany me to his office so that nothing would happen to me. I am sure people would have believed his story since he looked well dressed and well put together.

I guess that is why one should never judge a book by its cover. Despite his appearance, he was nothing more than a pedophile with no morals and no conscience. Nonetheless, he kept rambling on in an effort to calm me down. Once he realized how agitated I had become, he dropped acting like a caring father figure, and instead accused me of being unruly and in need of supervision.

I was horrified and I desperately needed to get away from him. So I tapped on the shoulder of an older lady who sat in the front row and asked if she knew at which bus stop the Ministry of Justice was located. Unfortunately, she was hard of hearing and before I could repeat my question, the low-life piped up and told her not to bother because he was going to help me. At that point, I decided to get up and scream for help. So, I screamed at the top of my lungs telling him to let go of me. The whole world turned around looking at us. Grasping the gravity of the situation, he immediately accused me of having tried to pick his pocket. What was a ten-year-old boy to do? The only thing I could do at that point was to tell it like it was. That he had tried to seduce me and get closer to me; and, all I was trying to do was to get to my father's office. Among the passengers, there were a few men in his age group who became outraged and, immediately, came to my defence. The pedophile had no choice now but to let me go while mumbling something under his breath.

As soon as I got loose from under his control, I went toward the bus door and at the following stop, I got off the bus before things got too heated as it usually does in Iran in contrast to here in Sweden, where people are more levelheaded. I do not know how it is with others, but for me, I like to repress unpleasant events from my memory so as not to be reminded of them. The event of that day and many others belong to that category that one would like to put aside and forget for all times.

That day when I got to my father's office, I did not tell him anything about what had happened on the bus. Perhaps the reason is that one feels ashamed when something like that happens to him or her, or that one in a young age is scared of confronting such nightmares.

### Part-2

My life was full of surprises, of which I would like to talk about the good ones now.

My mother worked at two different insurance companies called Tehran, and Iran-America insurance companies, while at the same time, carrying on with her training as an aircraft pilot. With the exception of Shah's sister, my mother became the first female pilot of Iran later on. It was thanks to my father's encouragement and support that she could fulfill her life's greatest dream. I remember exactly how that came about.

One night, we were watching television when a commercial came up advertising about flying lessons both for those who just wanted to try it out, as well as those who wanted to pursue licensing. My mom turned around to my dad and said, "I want to be a pilot." Looking admiringly at her and seeing the glow in her eyes, my dad was confident that this was what she was meant to do and what she was meant to be. Without hesitation, my father gladly responded, "Yes, why not?" Except for my father, others did not believe for a moment that my mom could go as far as she did as a female pilot.

My dad was a great encourager and supporter. He believed in his wife. He believed that she was going to succeed. The path to success is not a straight line; there are many bends along the way.

People's jealousy can also become an obstacle in one's path to success. People with their negative comments and ill advice who try to stop others from pursuing their dreams. Making comments like how dangerous flying can be or questioning why a woman would want to learn to fly. But thanks to my mom's determination, she remained steadfast in pursuing her dream.

We were and are forever glad and proud to have such a courageous mother who raised us while simultaneously, succeeded in becoming a pilot. Undoubtedly, if what happened in Iran in 1979 had not happened, my mom could have gone a lot further in her career as a pilot.

As for myself, there is nothing remarkable about my life. When it came to schooling, I was the worst student among my siblings. I had to be re-tested in mathematics during my secondary education. My reports from fourth grade to the eighth grade were not the best to the point that I had to redo the eighth grade.

I started my very first school-day at a kindergarten close to home. I do not remember much about my kindergarten except for our teacher. From what I remember, she was a kind person with long, dark-red hair. But as my mom found out one day by accident, she used to force us to take a nap after lunch so she could herself get some sleep. For me and another kid who were not used to sleeping in the afternoons, it was painful to sit in an awkward position around the table and keep quiet. The problem was that we were to sleep while seated at an oval, short-legged table. So in order to accomplish that, we had to lean forward in our chairs, cross our arms and lay them on the table and then put our heads on our arms and sleep. Needless to say that sleeping in that position was extremely painful specially if one could not fall asleep and was awake the whole time while trying to maintain that posture. It is amazing that I do remember the naptime ritual, but cannot recall how painful it was.

My mom used to drop my sister and I at school in the mornings and pick us up in the afternoons. Coming early one day, she caught the teacher screaming and frightening a kid who did not want to sleep. That was it for my mom who confronted the teacher and scolded her for her conduct. I thought that would be the last day at kindergarten for me, but it was not. Due to other personal issues, that teacher was gone shortly thereafter and replaced by another teacher.

My school life was quite something. When I started grade one, everything was hunky-dory to the point that I got a superior school report-card and my picture was published in a major daily newspaper column, where children with outstanding report-cards got to be mentioned. But that was short-lived as everything was about to change.

My second grade, which I remember like it was yesterday, turned out to be one the hardest school years of my life. My teacher was a middle-aged woman whose miserable past had made her into a bitter, hateful person, full of fury. She was a widower who had also lost her only child, a twenty-two-year-old son, in an accident. At the age of twenty-one, she had been forced by her family into marrying a seventy-year-old man who had died a year later. The practice is commonplace among many uneducated families who consider girls as burdens hence, the need to marry them off as fast as possible. The teacher had suffered from such horrible practice. She did not deserve what had happened to her, but life is not fair for everyone.

We were seriously scared of her. She never smiled and there were no signs of happiness in her face at all. One could see the anger in her piercing gaze. It was almost as if she wanted to hurt others for all the misery she had gone through herself.

My sister and I went to two different schools; hers was an all-girl school and mine a boy-school. Since both schools were on the same street, we used to walk to and from school together. Both schools were in our own neighbourhood so, not that far from our home. We had a variable timetable, that is, our classes were held in the mornings one week and in the afternoons the next. It did not take long for me to make changes to my timetable and stop going to school altogether.

It all happened one day after our teacher put a pen between my fingers and pressed hard on my fingers. It terrified me so much that I decided not to go to school anymore. Not to raise any suspicion in my parents—why I don't know—I used to get up, get dressed, have my breakfast, take my backpack, and walk with my sister to school. Then when she would go in the school, I used to go walking around the streets to pass time until it was time to pick her up at school and walk back home. It seemed like my plan was working well for the first couple of days and my parents had not noticed anything. However, what got their attention was that every night, I had no homework to do. When they would question me about that, I would tell them that the teacher was sick and the school had not found a substitute teacher yet.

What was interesting though was that the school never bothered to call my parents and ask why I was not at school. It seems reasonable to think that a school would be responsible enough to contact parents about the absence of their child from school. At any rate, that was not the case with my school and no phone call was ever made.

The charade went on for a few days and since night after night, I had no homework to do and never even thought of making something up, my parents started to question the situation. My father became angry at school for being so nonchalant as not to find a substitute teacher. To voice his concern, my father decided to follow me to school the next day. I thought that was it, now I was going to be in real trouble. I suppose, I could have put a stop to all of that by just telling my parents the truth. I do not know why I did not do that right off the bat. After all, I had not done anything wrong; rather, it was the teacher who was at fault. Well maybe, I should have followed the teacher's order to write with my right hand rather than my left hand. Maybe, as she put it, it was a crime to be left-handed.

The next day, my father came to school with me and right to the principal's office we went. While my father was talking with the principal, I kept looking around. For me, the school felt like a prison, a place wherein I was doomed to spend my life. In Iran, buildings, including schools, are made of bricks. Unlike many countries, where schools have open outdoor playgrounds, schools in Iran feel confined like a prison.

I was deep in my thoughts when I heard the principal say, "why did you miss classes?" He wanted me to explain why I had been avoiding coming to school. He asked me if I had done anything wrong and if that was all my fault. He went on to say that I should not be worried to tell the truth. I had no choice but to tell the truth. So, I said that I got punished for writing with my left hand and I told them how I was punished.

My father got very upset and told the principal that he wanted to meet the teacher at once. The teacher was in the middle of teaching a class, but who could say no to my father. My father was a 185-centimeter long man, well built, with broad shoulders. He was soft-spoken and a great speaker. Thanks to his education and profession, he knew how to handle people. He was great at seeing through people right from the first moment of laying eyes on them.

The principal asked us to wait in his office while he went to get the teacher. It was dead quiet in the room until my father asked me why she had crushed my fingers with a pen in between them. Before I could answer him, the principal and the teacher walked in the room. The teacher walked in wearing a grey dress, running shoes, no make-up, and looking as angry as ever from behind her thick glasses. My father came right out and to the point and asked her what had transpired in her classroom. She claimed that she did not know and that perhaps, I did not like coming to school. My father cut her off and told her to stick to the facts.

The entire time, she kept staring at me. Maybe she saw me as a threat to her job and livelihood. Maybe she just did not like me right from the get-go; I really do not know. All I know is that she did not want me anywhere near her, but why? Who knows?

My father told her to explain what had gone on in her class before he went and filed an official complaint with the school board to have the matter investigated. The teacher knew, at once, that the situation was grave. The principal was anxious to hear an explanation from the teacher that would put the matter to rest. However, there was another equally worrisome matter weighing on the principal's mind and that was the fact that no one at school ever informed my parents that I was missing from school. It seemed that, more than likely, the teacher never informed the office of my absence in order for them to, in turn, inform my parents.

Considering what was at stake, the principal turned to the teacher and told her, in no uncertain terms, that she better speak or she would be fired on the spot. The teacher mumbled something at first, and then started talking about her life, her sorrow, the loss of her only son, and so forth. The principal told her how sorry he was for what she had gone through, but insisted that she get back to the matter at hand.

With tears in her eyes, the teacher finally realized that she had to talk about what she had done. So, she started by saying that all she did was for my own good and out of concern for my welfare. Simply put, she explained how she pressed my fingers down with a pen between my fingers, so that the painful experience would stop me from writing with my left hand. She went on to claim that being left-handed would cause this and that in accordance with certain psychologists. But I was left-handed and there was nothing I could do about it. I could not write but with my left hand. A child does not decide which hand he or she wants to use for writing; rather, it is something that occurs naturally. I could not understand why she considered my inability to write with my right hand a major concern and an inexcusable act.

My father was flabbergasted, but since he had no ill-will towards her, who was obviously misguided in her judgment, he refrained from reporting her to the school board. However, I was allowed to switch to another class with a different teacher. My new teacher was a young, twenty-five-year-old, kind and understanding woman, with whom I felt safe.

### Part-3

Life goes on regardless of what happens. My life, similar to that of others, was and is full of good and bad surprises. I remember the day my mom's grandmother passed away. She was a simple, religious but not fanatic, old lady who believed in life after death. What was commendable about her was that she never forced her views on anyone else and always respected others' views.

I was probably eleven years old when she passed away. We were sitting in the living room watching television. My parents were talking with each other when the phone rang. It was my grandmother calling to tell my mom the sad news. This came as a shock since my great-grandmother was healthy all her life. However, two weeks prior to her death, she had taken a fall on the street, on her way home from the local mosque, and had broken her hip. In some cases, a broken hip can become a major concern for elderly and my great-grandmother was no exception, who became bedridden on that account. After one week in bed, she had got massive infection and, slowly but surely, her physical as well as her mental health had started to deteriorate. I remember the last time we went to visit her; she was so weak that one could hardly hear her talk. I remember clearly that evening when we heard the news of her passing. I cried and said a few prayers for her.

As a child, one is honest and sensitive. One views life and people differently from an adult. A child is an innocent being. It is with the passage of time, that one gets to see the world as it truly is. That is when one understands why people are different and why everyone struggles for a better life. What kind of prejudices would a child have? How does a child see his or her environment? My world comprised of my toys, my little cars, my bicycle, and some other ordinary stuff that are insignificant and comical in a grown-up world. So as a kid, I said a few prayers for my great-grandmother. What was I thinking? What did I believe in? Was I a religious child who also believed in heaven and hell? Or is one influenced by something from birth? Is it not strange that one inherits one's religion from his or her father? Why can one not have a say in the matter instead?

I am not an atheist, but what is the difference between an atheist and one who inherits a religion without his or her consent? With the passage of time, it seems, I am not as emotional as I was in dealing with the passing of a relative. Perhaps, there is an explanation for that. Having lived far away from my relatives in another part of the world for so many years, one loses his or her sense of closeness that one once felt.

My grandfather died in 1994 and I was the first one to hear about that. His death hit me a lot harder that the death of my great-grandmother. My grandfather and I used to arm wrestle and it was always him who won. He was a structural engineer. A well dressed, stylish, courteous man whom everyone respected. He was honest and kind. He could never cheat anyone out of anything. He was indeed a good man. He was a Muslim, who prayed five times a day, but he also had fun in life. Him, I knew well.

I remember when he got a major construction contract in another city in Iran; I went to visit him and my grandmother and stayed with them for two weeks. At grandparents, one always gets spoiled. I could not help but feel special at my grandparents more so than being home where everyone was treated equally. At grandparents, one felt like a king.

I went to the work-site a few times with my grandfather. I was amazed how all his personnel were so respectful of him. Everyone addressed him as "Mr. Engineer." My grandfather led a major project in an industrial area and was in charge of over a thousand personnel, from construction workers to the architects and other engineers. He had a beautiful handwriting and he could draw beautifully as well.

He was born in the northwest of Iran in the city of Tabriz, which is located in the province of Azerbaijan. Despite the fact that he had moved to Tehran at the age of twenty, he had his Turkish accent all his life. One could always tell that he was Turk from his accent since that was the spoken language in Azerbaijan.

I remember my first transistor radio, which I got from my grandfather. One day when he came home from work, during my two-week stay at their place, he gave me that as a present. It was a square wooden box, gold color with white corners, and two black knobs on top. It had a black handle on top of it and a silver-color antenna. I really loved it since, back then, transistor radios and small electrical gadgets were novelties. Anything electrical, in those days, were big such as, TV sets, fridges, radios and so forth. I decided to install my transistor radio on my bicycle in order to have something to listen to when I went bicycling. It took quite a lot of work and ingenuity to somehow get that radio installed on the handlebar of the bicycle. However, it did not take long for it to fall off the bike and get broken. But fortunately, it still worked even without its casing. The last thing I remember of my transistor radio was when, out of pure curiosity, I decided to break it apart to see the inside of it.

I was not one to keep any of my toys in one piece. For that matter, I even broke some of my sister's toys and even a little toy-truck of one of my brothers. I guess I was trying to see what was inside the toys. I was curious to know how toys, clocks, television sets, radios, cassette-players and so forth worked. Why? I don't know. My parents, though, were happy that their son was so smart that he wanted to break apart something in order to put it back together. That is probably how I became interested in electronics from the age of twelve.

### Part-4

At the third grade, I went to a mixed school. That is where I met my first love called Soheila. She was a shorthaired, petite, girl who lived nearby the school. She was Jewish. Back then, religious differences were not an issue for people. Since it was a mixed school, both my sister and I were enrolled there. She was one grade behind me. We used to walk to and from school together since it was a ten-minute walk. The school was a three-story building with four classrooms per floor. It was a primary school covering grades one to three. The school building was donated by a well-known Iranian who wished the building to be used for educational purposes.

Before I started my third grade, the education system in Iran was different. Schooling consisted of twelve years of studying, at the end of which one received a diploma, that is, high school diploma. More specifically, from grade one to nine, all subjects were taught and then, students could choose what major they wanted to pursue at high school. But right when I started my third grade, the system changed, in that, all subjects were taught from grade one to eight and then, it was the school and not the student who decided the students' major at high school based on their grade eight average. In the new system, there were five fields of study offered during the four years of high school, which were in their order of ranking: general, natural sciences, economy, humanitarian, and primary care. Due to its extreme level of difficulty, it did not take long before the general field of studies was replaced by what was called math and physics.

Not much happened during my third grade. It was a rather calm and uneventful year. The only memorable event from that year was meeting Soheila whom I liked very much.

When we are children, it is the parents who decide what we can do and in what activities we can participate. But once, we start to decide for ourselves, things turn out differently. I remember that I used to be involved in swimming a lot. Especially in summers, Mom used to take us all to a big sport stadium in the mornings, and either stay while we swam, or pick us up in the afternoons. In that sport stadium, there were, among others, two big outdoor swimming pools, one large indoor swimming pool, three football fields, four tennis courts, and a boxing ring. The stadium was one of the city's best athletic centres called Amjadieh, where many sports' matches used to take place. It was located in the middle of the city and it took fifteen minutes for us to get there by car. Amjadieh was my second home. I spent quite a lot of time there until I was fifteen. Swimming was one of those activities at which my parents signed me up. When I was eight, I got to join a swimming organization where I got daily swimming lessons. Thanks to that training, I got permission to swim in what was called the championship swimming pool. It was a huge swimming pool that was used for swim competition. It was 33 by 82 feet long, 13 feet deep on the edges, 26 feet deep in the centre, and had two 10-feet springboards and one 1.5-feet springboard. It also had a cement dive-tower that was 33 feet tall with three diving platforms at 10, 16, and 33 feet.

I remember once, I mustered all the courage I had, and decided to dive from the 33-feet platform. I had to walk up quite a lot of narrow and small stairs before getting up there. As a small kid, I had to try to reach the railings and hold on to the railing of the stairs with my small hands. The higher one went, the narrower the stairs became. If one lost grip of the railings, one could fall from a 33-feet long structure onto the concrete ground down below.

Nevertheless, I pulled myself together and despite my reservations, I took the first step up the dive tower. At first, it felt normal. At 10-feet high, I could have easily dived into the water since it was the same height as that of the springboard which I had tried many times. Once I got to the 16-feet platform, it started to get a little nerve-racking but I managed to overcome the fear and continue upward.

What was interesting is how everything got smaller as I got higher up the dive-tower. When I finally succeeded to reach the 33-feet platform, I was frozen. I could not even walk to the edge of the platform, let alone jump from it. I would have preferred to call on someone to send for a helicopter to come and rescue me from up there. The swimming pool that seemed so enormous from down below looked more like a gutter now. From up there, I could see the entire stadium and beyond. What was I to do at that point? I wanted to feel like grown-ups and prove something, but I have no idea what I was trying to prove. I knew that landing in the water in a wrong position could cause serious injuries or worse, could become fatal.

On a side note, such fatality did actually occur a few days later when someone landed on his stomach in the water from the 33-feet platform and died from his injuries. In the aftermath of that tragic incident, the 33-feet platform was closed off for a few days and when it subsequently opened up, access to it became restricted to only professional divers and dive-instructors.

What had I got myself into? A tiny, little kid who stood up there under the sun, shaking like a leaf, and who could not back out of what he had started. It was not possible to take the stairs down, not to mention the fact that it was outright scary going down a set of stairs that was positioned at a ninety-degree angle with the ground. Well, it seemed like I had no choice but to take the dive, so, I plunged into water with my feet down and my eyes closed the entire time in the air. Falling down, I felt weightless. I could hear the air moving around my body. I did it; I landed in water with no problems. Once successfully in water, I felt on top of the world; I felt a great sense of self-confidence knowing that I could do this again or even dive from higher heights.

My sister and I changed school after my third grade. The new school was farther from the house so we had to go to school on a school-bus in the mornings and come home on a school-bus in the afternoons. It was a top-ranking school and it covered both primary and secondary schooling, that is, from grade one to eight. According to the new education reforms, at the end of the primary school (grade five), one would take a specific test in order to be granted admission to the next three grades, which comprised of the secondary schooling in Iran. At the end of the secondary school, one was advised as in which field of study he or she could be enrolled. Our new school was also a mixed school for both boys and girls. The school was owned and run by a well-known Iranian poet and public speaker called Abbas Yamin Sharif. The school was run by him and his wife. He was a small, grey-haired, soft spoken, gentle man. He was not someone who would raise a hand on a student. His wife, however, was a total opposite. The school was big with a modern design, and it had big yards at both sides of the building. In addition to at least fifty classrooms, the school also had a lecture hall, offices, general-purpose rooms, a dining hall, a sports hall, and storage areas. The main building of the school had five stories and looked like a large rectangle. Just behind the main building, there was a smaller second building, which housed the lecture hall, the dining hall, the sports hall, and so forth.

At the time the school was built, it had been initially designated for the Crown Prince to attend that school. However due to the fact that the announcement had caused quite a commotion in the ministry of education and was met with enormous objections by other private schools, there was a change of plan. As such, Shah decided that all children in the royal family along with those from the ministers' families should go to an exclusive school built in the palace. By so doing then, the situation was resolved. However as a result of the initial announcement, the school attracted many from, among others, upper-class families and high-ranking government officials.

This was my second year going to a private school. The first two years of schooling, I had gone to a public school, so I could detect the differences between private and public schools. Students in public schools were from impoverished working-class. The reason I ended up in a public school was that registration for private schools had to be done well in advance. Due to the high demand and long waiting lists, parents had to contact the schools months ahead in order to have their child enrolled there. French, German, Italian and English schools were among the most popular ones in Iran since among the well-to-do families, it was perceived prestigious for their kids to go to those schools. Those types of school were built during Shah's father time, and they were big and very modern.

We took the school bus every morning at six o'clock, which meant getting up at five in order to get ready and go. In wintertime when it was snowy, cold and dark out there, it was terrible to have to get up and go to school that early in the morning. I was not a fan of school by any stretch of imagination. I hated mathematics and the only class I liked was physical education and only because one could take a break and relax. Truth be told, neither I nor my siblings liked the types of sport that schools offered.

I remember one day I went to school without my mathematics homework. Apparently, I had got my schedule mixed up and while I thought we had English lessons that day, it was actually mathematics. The mathematics teacher, who was a tall man with curly hair and in his forties, was an extremely aggressive man. So aggressive that later on, he did get fired for the senseless beating of a student. He had a very high temper and an awful sense of humor.

There was nothing I could do. I knew he would not believe anything I told him, no matter what, specially since I was not his favorite student. So, I knew I was in for a world of hurt. He had a habit of going from desk to desk and check to see if everyone had their homework done. When he got to my desk, since obviously there was nothing on it, he asked me where my homework was. Seated at my desk and looking down, I said, "Sir, I forgot them at home." I did not even get to finish my sentence before he took me by my collar, dragged me toward the door, and literally kicked me out of the classroom. As I did not want to stand out in the corridor, I went hiding in the bathroom for two hours until the math class was finished. The problem was that any student standing out of the classroom during lecture hours was hauled by the superintendent to the principal's office, something I did not need at all.

I remember in grade six, when I did end up in the principal's office after being kicked out of the classroom. He asked me, in his calm demeanor, why I had misbehaved and if I perhaps, did not want to be in that school. He told me that he could arrange for me to be transferred to another school and have my spot filled with so many who were on the wait-list. As soon as he said that, I got really scared since I did not know how my parents would have taken the news. I remember he even picked up the phone and supposedly carried a conversation with another principal at the other end with regard to exchanging students. After he put the receiver down, he turned to me and said, "Ali, why don't you think about that?" He claimed that if I continued in the same fashion, he would follow through with his proposal. I realized that I needed to become a better student and improve my academic performance. So, while trembling and with my head down, I nodded and left his office as fast as I could.

While I found out later on that there was no phone call and there were no plans for transferring me out of the school, I could not help but admire the principal's tactic in making me think about my school performance. I had all the intentions of doing better at school after that, however, it did not take long for me to stand outside of the classroom in the corridor again.

So much went on during my primary and secondary school years. From grade four to grade eight, I was one of those unstudious kids who had to rewrite an exam every year. In grade four, I had to rewrite the exam in math. I grade five, it was math and geography that I had to study again in summer time. In grade six, I was retested in math and English. In grade seven, it was once again math test that I had to rewrite. In the eighth grade, I broke the record and had to be retested in five courses namely, math, English, Persian, history and geography, which I completely refused to do. I could not care less at that point, and unfortunately as a result of that, I had to repeat grade eight in its entirety.

To repeat the eighth grade, I went to a different school, but not just any school. No, I ended up back at the old public school where I had done my first and second grades. The school had since changed and it was now only a secondary school. But interestingly enough, the nice lady, who became my new teacher in grade two, was still teaching at the same school.

An issue that upset me was the concept of physical punishment at school, which was more prevalent at private schools than public schools. Private schools were not only more expensive, some of their personnel were also more callous. It might have been that kids who went to private schools were more timid and dared not say anything against the abuse. But those going to public schools, who had already been through a lot in life, were not afraid of standing up for themselves. I remember some kids at my public school carried knives to the school. I did get a lot of beating at school, of which I never talked about at home. I stood up to the abuse and was not bashful about it either.

### Part-5

At home, we always had family and friends coming to visit. We lived in an ever-growing neighbourhood where for the most part, people were friendly and talked to each other. As the area got eventually built-up, our house got boxed in by the neighbouring houses, and we lost the open view we had in the past. Even in front of our house, a three-story building was erected. I remember when it was being built, my sister and I used to go over and chat with the property manager. He was there on behalf of the builder to oversee the construction. He was a simple and pleasant man. He loved gardening and, apparently, he had a garden in his own house where he grew plants and fruits. From time to time, he would bring us a basket of fruits from his garden.

The three-story building was purchased by a Christian family of six. They were a couple with three daughters plus the husband's elderly mother. The husband owned a restaurant and the wife was a house-wife. In Iran, the minorities were and continue to be oppressed. Since the majority of Iranians are Muslims, the religious minorities have always had a harder time to establish themselves in the society.

When the new Christian family moved in, they wanted to throw a house-warming party and have the neighbours over. As the husband was going door to door to invite the other neighbours, it so happened that my father was standing talking to another neighbour who had never struck us as being a fanatic. The new neighbour had approached my father and the other neighbour and after introducing himself, he had extended an invitation to both my father and the other neighbour. At that point, the other neighbour had insulted the Christian neighbour and had said something offensive. Well, that was completely shocking to my father who, without hesitation, scolded that neighbour and condemned his behaviour. My father went on to tell him how absolutely offensive his statement was, and how there was no greater privilege in being a Muslim verses belonging to other religions. My father wanted that neighbour to immediately apologize for what he had said because, as my father put it, my father had zero tolerance for people with prejudice. At that point, the neighbour's face had turned red and he did not know what to do. One could see that if it were up to him, he would have much preferred to punch the new neighbour in the jaw. But having seen my father's strong reaction, he apologized to the Christian neighbour and then quickly, went in his home without saying goodbye. My father and the new neighbour stood there chatting for a while, trying to forget the hostile encounter. Christians, Jews, Muslims, and people of other religions are all equal. We are all humans regardless of our race, religion, and sexual orientation.

My siblings and I used to go out, bicycle, play with other children in our neighbourhood, and have fun. But what I liked best was to drive. I had already started driving when I was around ten. Perhaps, that would sound strange in the Western World. People tend to enjoy more such freedoms in Iran, specially, if they belong to middle, or better yet, the upper class. I am not saying that it is a good thing, but that it is the case in the Third World. We always had a few vehicles so, there was always a car parked in the front yard. I liked to drive on the streets around our neighbourhood. I had no problems learning how to drive. To learn how to drive came naturally to me in the same fashion as children learn how to use computers nowadays; no one needs to teach them, they just pick it up by themselves. My parents used to advise me to be careful driving since driving without license was illegal and one could end up in prison if anything happened. As kids, we tend to hear what parents have to say, but then carry on with what we want behind their backs. At times, even parents themselves could be, inadvertently, the enablers for their children. I remember a couple of times when my mom was exhausted and would let me drive instead. Same went for my father. I was lucky that I looked older than my age hence, no reason to be pulled over by the police.

One day, we were on our way to my aunt's who lived in the west end of the city. At a traffic light, I followed a couple of cars that went through an amber light. While the police did not get a chance to stop them, I was pulled over. I got angry even though I was driving without a license and I had gone through an amber light. I guess I felt confident since both my parents were in the car with me.

The cop came to the driver's side and asked me for my driver's license. Spontaneously, I got out of the car and accused him of pulling us over because we were driving a luxurious car and perhaps, he was looking for a kickback. That was the dumbest thing one could do, that is, to accuse a police officer of corruption. Sure enough, he got furious and started shouting at me, telling me that I was going to regret what I had said for the rest of my life. Now I was a real spoiled brat who had no respect for anyone on the account of my family's status. I was foolish and that was wrong of me to behave as such. But perhaps, that was and still is the norm, the way of life, in some countries where people can use their contacts to get out of trouble. While that is not an excuse, but as bad as my behavior was, it was nothing compared to that of other kids with more influential parents.

In the midst of all of this, my father got off the car and asked if he could speak with the officer in private. After a few minutes of discussion, which I could not hear, my father came back to the car and told me to carry on. The officer went to his car, and we got on our way to my aunt's. My father criticized me for my behavior and wanted me to promise not to ever behave like that again. But he never told me what he had said to the officer. Deep down inside though, I was proud of myself for not backing off.

But not every trouble can be averted. I had a few close friends in our neighbourhood, one of whom was called Adel. He was a thin, irritable guy who came from a shattered family. His father was an engineer who lived and worked in the south of Iran where the oil-refineries were. He lived there with his second wife and their children. Adel's family was the father's first family, with whom he no longer lived ever since his second marriage. It so happened that back then, a man could have two official wives. In Islam, a man can have four wives and forty common-in-laws, but that was fourteen-hundred years ago. At any rate, Adel's family was among those who had to share the father with another family. Perhaps, that is why Adel was so short-tempered and felt somewhat embarrassed. He was the youngest son after two other sons and a daughter. Being the youngest child, he had the least amount of time to be with his father and get to know him.

I remember when I was eleven years old, Adel's mother brought us a plate of sweet dish called halva. It was customary for people to make special types of dish and take a plate of that to their neighbours. Usually people did that either to mark a religious occasion or on the anniversary of the passing of a loved one. The act of offering a plate to others is called kheirat, which means to donate in someone's name.

The day I went to return the plate, Adel came to the door. At the same time that I reached out to give him the plate, he leaned forward and hit his head on the plate. He got so agitated that he over-reacted and hit me in the head with the plate. Needless to say that I started to bleed and while crying, I ran home to my mom. Mom took me to the clinic that was closeby to our home. Fortuitously, it was a minor injury that was bandaged up for a few days. After the incident, our moms got together and patched things up between the two of us so, we remained friends.

The neighbourhood got bigger and more families moved in. The Christian family, who lived in a three-story building opposite our house, rented out the upper and lower floors of their house so, once in a while, new people would move in to the area. The first tenant was a family with three kids, all of whom had health issues. The parents were first cousins who had got married, which was perfectly legal in Iran and which had, perhaps, contributed to the medical complications of their children.

A Jewish couple lived to our left, who were quiet and pleasant. Their children lived abroad and they too left Iran before the revolution. There was a neighbour to our right, but we still had an open view on that side of our house thanks to the enormous backyard of that neighbouring home. Among other early residents of the area, there was a retired military general who worked for the secret police known as SAVAK. He also had a brother who was a member of parliament and lived only a couple of doors down from him. He and his family ruled the neighbourhood. They were definitely among those who seriously abused their power at all times. The father had one day slapped an American neighbour just because he had parked his car in front of their house. Another time, they had called the police on their next-door neighbour, who happened to be Adel's family and who were holding a wedding ceremony for their older son, for disturbing the peace. Being afraid of them, many neighbours steered clear of that family altogether. After the revolution, the same family fled from the area out of fear for another old neighbour who, out of the blue, had become pro-revolution and anti-Shah.

As time went on, our Christian neighbours got a new tenant moving in. It was a couple with four sons and a daughter. The father had a history of drug and alcohol abuse and the mother was an actress. Their way of life, manner of speech, and interaction with others were interesting. People who work in the film industry tend to slowly become bold, in that, they say whatever they want and they carry themselves however they want; something that might be taken by others as odd and discourteous. At the time they moved in, it was still a few years before the revolution.

Their third son called Darius was the same age as I, so, it did not take long before we became friends. He was a thirteen-year-old kid with medium height and curly hair, who was very concerned about his looks. He was very much interested in impressing others specially, girls. In order to come across as fashionable and classy, Darius listened to only Western music. Even though Darius and, for that matter, his entire family tried to portray themselves as upper class, some events took place that proved otherwise. Their oldest son, for instance, who had studied in England, had married an older, rich woman just for money, something that benefited the whole family. He was a tall, well-built, and good-looking man who carried himself like a real gigolo. Thanks to that marriage, the son was able to buy, among others, a condominium for his parents a few years later.

I used to listen to modern Persian music otherwise known as pop. I did not have a top-of-the-line stereo equipment, but as soon as I met Darius, I became more familiar with the Western music and gained better knowledge about sound engineering and sound equipment. Darius had a good stereo and a great collection of Western music. Hanging around with him then, got me interested in acquiring a much better stereo than what I had. Unlike my friends at the time, I could get what I wanted.

To have been better off than all my friends was not always a plus. It caused a lot of envies among some of my friends and led to animosities in many cases. As humans, we do not like somebody else have what we do not. Still those with money tend to have so many friends hanging around them like flies hovering around a cake. On the account of having better economy, I lost a lot both financially and emotionally. The so-called friends who ripped me off or tricked me and cheated me out of large sums of money. I was, partially, to blame as well since I did not learn my lessons and kept repeating the same mistakes over and over again.

Now that Darius had got me on track with music and music-related stuff, I started asking my parents for expensive gadgets. I bought a stereo for 25,000 toman (Iranian currency), which was a lot of money back then. I already had one that had cost 5,000 toman, but now I was in competition with Darius. What I lost sight of was that people I was competing against were in no position to keep up with me from a strictly financial point of view. As such, nothing more than resentment came out of that. To prove a point, I remember Darius and I used to play music and crank up the volume in order to overwhelm the sound of the other one's stereo. Poor neighbours who had to put up with that. They did complain a couple of times, but who listened? One was not to make loud noises in the afternoons when everyone used to take a siesta particularly, in summer time, when it was hot up to forty degree Celsius around that time of the day.

### Part-6

If I may say so myself, we were not difficult neighbours. At least we were never mean to anyone, and my parents never abused their power like many others did in the society. But we went through a lot ourselves at the hands of the new neighbours who moved into the area after the revolution. We were labelled as being anti-revolution, anti-mullahs and so forth.

As I grew older, my expenses grew bigger as well, since I wanted more and more expensive gadgets. My parents spent a fortune on travel, leisure, and everything else we needed. My younger brother, Reza, was enrolled in an Italian school called Don Bosco. It was a boy school which taught grade one all the way to grade twelve. It was a fine and reputable school that was run by the Italian priests. Reza is smart and has a calm personality. For the most part, he was and still is a quiet person who does not talk much about his dreams and expectations in life. While our parents would automatically get a lot of stuff for us, he would never go to our parents himself to ask for extra money or anything in specific. For instance, I remember when my father wanted to buy bicycles for all of us, he never commented on what type of bicycle he wanted or for that matter, whether he was even interested in having a bicycle or not.

The five of us children had different personalities. I was someone who would spend a lot of time going out with friends. Growing up among four boys, my sister grew up like a boy. She was a smart girl who was constantly busy learning something new. She learned English, French, little Italian and German, and her handwriting was just like our father's. She wanted to do everything that we boys did. She came along with me to the music school that was run by the Iranian television station. We went together to karate classes that were held at the Amjadieh Stadium. She learned how to drive a car and ride a motorcycle at an early age. So she was one of the boys and still lives as such. Agewise, we are not that far apart from each other.

Reza, who is three years younger than me, had no interest in cars, bicycles, sports, music or other ordinary stuff. His interests were astronomy, books, languages, philosophy, psychology and so forth. I remember once I took him out to meet my friends. He was fifteen years old then, and I had thought it would be good for us to spend a bit more time together. But he was so quiet that no one even noticed him being there, not to mention the fact that he did not enjoy coming out at all.

My third sibling, Madjid, who is six years younger than me, is very much like me. He liked to have friends and disliked school. Madjid had enormous aptitude for electronics and used to fix things around the house from a very early age. While I had only the curiosity and not the ability to fix things, Madjid could easily figure out how to fix mechanical and electronic gadgets. Since I had a big motorcycle when I was in my early teens, he followed in my footsteps and did the same. He got his first bicycle while in kindergarten, a new bicycle every year after that until he got his first motorcycle, a Suzuki 80 cubic, at the age of ten. He had a lot of friends as well, but he had no interest in hanging out with my friends. Madjid was insistent on riding along with me to the Caspian Sea. My friends and I used to ride our motorcycles to the Caspian Sea every so often and spend a few days there. I promised to let him ride along with me there one day. But in reality, there was no way I would have done that since he was only ten, and I did not think he would be a good travel companion as he proved to be later on.

One afternoon when I came home to grab something and head back to my so-called friends, Madjid asked me why I was not taking him along to the Caspian Sea as promised. I spontaneously responded, "O.K. go get your motorcycle ready and when you're ready, let me know." To my surprise, he was already set to go so, he turned around and told me we could go right away. I was completely caught off guard since I was not expecting that at all. But over time, seeing how determined he was, I gave in. So, I went to my friends and told them I could not be with them since I was going to the Caspian Sea with my brother.

I took Madjid, with his little Suzuki 80, and got on the way that afternoon. He looked so happy and enthusiastic. Everything went really well and surprisingly, without a hitch. We rode up a high, curvy, mountainous road called Haraz to get there; and coming back the next day, we had to take an even steeper, curvier, mountainous road called Chalous, which was a narrow road with many long tunnels. Both mountainous roads, that is, Haraz and Chalous, wind around the high mountain range of Alborz with its steep slopes. The roads are narrow, curvy, and mighty dangerous. Driving through the uphill and downhill slopes of those roads, one feels so small in comparison to the grandeur of the mountain. One also tends to admire the beauty of the natural surroundings and the fascinating view that one encounters. On some of the mountaintops, one sees the glaciers even in summer time. The greenery and tree lines on the mountain sides along with the small waterfalls that run quite a distance down the sides of the mountain are so beautiful that one cannot help but stop and take in the scenery while relaxing and breathing in the fresh air. One can also get a bite to eat or have a cup of tea in the numerous small restaurants and tea-houses that exist along the way. In winter time however, driving on the foregoing roads become even more so treacherous due to the slippery condition of the roads as well as the risk of avalanche. Thousands of people have lost their lives on those roads on the account of avalanches. Notwithstanding the danger, those roads look even more breathtaking with the haze and snow during daytime, or at night time, when the moon sits so low in the sky and a thick haze covers the roads and in particular, the valleys. One has to be extremely careful driving at night in those conditions since it is hard to tell the road from the valley. Although countless cars have ended up going over the cliff and down into those deep valleys, there is no way to avoid driving on those roads since they constitute the only means of getting to the Caspian Sea by car.

### Part-7

When my brother and I got to the Caspian Sea, we went looking for a hotel room. Madjid went into a hotel to check and see if there were any rooms available and came out with another guy who had also rode his motorcycle there along with his brother. They were looking for a hotel room as well. Now there were four of us on two motorcycles going around to find a hotel room. We, ultimately, managed to find one room which we agreed to share. In fact, that turned out to be a nice experience since the two brothers were friendly and we had lots of fun.

The day after, we all got on the road together to head back home. Madjid was a very pleasant company. Going back, I decided to let him ride, but I warned him to be extra cautious and extremely careful considering that we were riding a small 80 cubic motorcycle. Furthermore, I weighed twice as much as him, which could throw the balance off if the motorcycle skidded. Although I advised him as such, it so happened that I slipped on the seat myself during a U-turn and we swerved to the shoulder of the road. We were lucky that we ended up veering off toward the side of the mountain and not the valley, which could have been catastrophic. Nevertheless, the trip was successfully over and left us with great memories.

With nine years of age difference between us, Iraj is my youngest brother. Considering the age gap, he was still a very young child when I was practically a grown up. Iraj's role-model was Madjid, whose age was obviously closer to his own. As a child, he was just as careless as I was like when he managed to wreck an expensive bicycle that was bought for him on the same day that he got it. Thankfully, he was not hurt himself, but the bicycle was totaled. He was also not that studious at school either. Among us, the only ones who were interested in school and books were Reza and my sister; and of course, that was the case only when we were kids.

We were a big family of seven so, I grew up in an environment where people were around me all the time. Therefore, what I hate the most is being alone. For me, what counts has always been family and friends. Although I did not interact with my siblings as much as I should have, we are very close to each other. We have our disagreements and so on, but who does not? The main thing is that we support each other in many different ways. Ever since coming to Sweden, we have got even closer to each other than ever before.

The school was no fun for Madjid, Iraj, and me. I very much doubted that I would finish school successfully. When at school, all I could think about was motorcycles, cars and gadgets. At grade six, I got interested in having a motorcycle. At the time, there was a small motorcycle called Yamaha 80 that was being imported from Japan. As the name goes, it was exactly an 80 cubic, one cylinder motorcycle, with a speed of maximum eighty kilometer per hour, and a price tag of 8000 toman. To get it though, was not easy. My parents were not in favour of getting me a motorcycle since there were reports of motorcycle accidents in the news on a daily basis. But I was stubborn. My initial tactic was to threaten not to go to school if I did not get what I wanted, which turned out to be ineffective. My parents were willing to get me anything else that I wanted but not a motorcycle. So, I took advantage of their offer and bought a whole lot of power tools like Black & Decker drill press, saw, spray-gun, an assortment of screwdrivers, and so forth. The reason I picked the foregoing items was that we were going to start a new course in grade six, which was called handicraft and carpentry. We did have a large workshop at school with all the required tools, but I wanted to have a workshop of my own to become an expert in who knows what. I bought all of those tools, and my parents gladly paid for them in the hopes that I would forget about motorcycles which were dangerous. Not long after that though, we were back to square one with me asking for a motorcycle, and every time getting something else in lieu of that like a new and expensive bicycle, stereo equipment, and the like. When I got to the eighth grade, I was back at it again, only this time, I was adamant to get a motorcycle. I was only partially successful since I did get a motorcycle, but it was just a moped.

One day, I went to my father after school and together we went to a motorcycle shop where I got a blue, automatic transmission with two gears, Rex moped, as well as, a helmet and other accessories. It cost around 4000 toman. I was so over the moon. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. After buying it, I rode it home while my father was in the car ahead of me. As the weather got warmer, I started to go to school with my sister on my moped. So, we ditched riding the school bus back and forth and instead, we rode to and from the school on the moped.

It did not take long before I experienced my first traffic accident. One evening, I took my moped to go get bread. The streetlights in certain areas were not on, and there was a lot of traffic. To be on the safe side, I decided to drive on the street shoulder. Suddenly, I was no longer sitting on my moped; rather, on a white metal and staring at a pane of glass. For whatsoever reason, I had failed to see the parked car on the shoulder and had driven right into the backend of that car. Funny that I did not feel anything until I landed on the trunk of that car. I must have been deep in my thoughts for not having been in the moment when the accident happened.

The driver of that car, who was at the other side of the street shopping, had not heard the sound of the crash; rather, he became aware of the accident by seeing people pointing to where his car was parked. So, he came running toward me and asked me how I was. Shocked and disoriented, I looked around me, literally got down from the car, looked at my moped, and said, "I don't know. I have pain in my hand, but otherwise, I seem to be O.K." At the other side of the street, the security guards inside an auto dealership, who had seen the accident, came over and took me to the dealership and let me call my mom. My mom was at the scene of the accident in a matter of minutes since the crash had happened so close to home. She took me to the clinic nearby our home. I used to be a regular visitor at that clinic since in all the years that we lived in Iran, I had ended up there countless times. I got a few stitches on my heel, but the x-ray showed nothing wrong with my hand. According to the night-shift physician, the pain in my hand was probably due to the fact that I had smashed my hand when I had come into contact with the car. The problem, however, was that the hand became swollen and red the next day.

We headed back to the clinic the next morning when a second look at the x-ray by a more alert doctor led to the diagnosis of fractured bone in the hand, for which my hand was in cast for three months. As for the moped, the front wheel and the shock absorber were destroyed and it had to stay in the repair shop for two weeks. My father had to also pay for damages to the car I had hit.

Over time, I got one motorcycle after another. Funny enough, I had a few accidents with the moped. I had the moped for two years and I had a lot of fun with it. One Friday, I took a ride on the moped to the north of Tehran during a hot and sunny summer day. Back then, the streets used to be a lot less crowded, and specially on Fridays, there were even less people out on the streets. The trip took forty-five minutes and it was enjoyable to get there in peace and quiet, have a glass of juice or a Coca-Cola, and head back. It was best to avoid being on the roads in the afternoons due to traffic. It could take a long time to get anywhere in traffic even on a moped and one had to have a lot of patience to sit in traffic.

Thanks to me, a lot of my friends also experienced riding a moped. I used to always lend my moped to my friends and as usual, they would take advantage of my kindness. One day coming back from my friend's home, I heard a noise from the moped's engine. I was so distracted that I looked down for only a few seconds to see if anything was coming loose. Before I knew it, I landed on the hood of a driving-school car. The girl who was behind the wheel of that car was a novice driver and she was out on her first driving lesson. I was driving on the main road and she had just changed lane, when her car had stalled. Before she or her instructor could start the car and get it going again, I had caught up to them and since I was looking down at that very moment, I had hit their car and landed on the hood of their car. This time though, I escaped suffering any injuries and paying for any damages since the accident was not my fault; as well, no damages were done to that car. It was only my moped that was damaged again.

### Part-8

Sometimes one has only bad luck. For it seems that despite what one does and how careful one is, that which is not supposed to happen happens. The saying that "it was meant to happen" might have a ring of truth to it.

One afternoon, I was riding my moped calmly and carefully. I was on my way to my father's office. A taxi was standing at a traffic light and as I came up to its left side, suddenly, the passenger door swung opened, hitting my moped and throwing me right into a ditch that was filled with water and mud. Instead of helping me out, the taxi driver came out shouting at me for the way I was riding my moped. In effect, I was riding my moped neither fast nor carelessly. The taxi driver had the audacity of demanding payment for damages to his passenger door. I was flabbergasted and told him to back off. But a taxi driver who deals with many sorts of people on a day-to-day basis was not one to be easily intimidated particularly, by a thirteen-year-old boy. Ultimately, thanks to other people's intervention, he had to back down and I got on my way. Given my age and the state I was in, which was all soaking wet and muddy, people felt for me and came to my aid. In retrospect, considering all the worries that I caused for my parents, I am amazed at how patient, understanding, and supportive my parents were of me.

Aside from motorcycle accidents, I also ended up in a few car accidents. As I mentioned earlier, I started driving when I was ten. In the beginning, it was just starting the car and driving back and forth in the front yard of our house. Then came driving in the alleys around our area, and finally getting out on the city streets with their massive traffic and without a driver's license.

While life was eventful outside of the school, the school had its own moments as well. There was plenty of stuff going on at the second private school I attended. I remember how two of my classmates, a boy and a girl in their teens, were caught naked by the school superintendent up in the supply room in the attic. They were having sex, which is a taboo in Iran. No one in their right mind would even talk about something as simple as puberty or gender differences, let alone engaging in sexual acts. In many cases, girls panic when they have their first menstruation, and boys think they are suffering from some sort of illness when they go through physical changes. In Iran, there is no sex education at schools; and, in many households, one has to learn things by himself or herself as one grows up. While what happened that day at my school happens in other schools at other places, the handling of the situation varies from one place to another. At any rate, the affair caused quite an uproar in my school. In view of the fact that the teenage girl was no longer a virgin, her reputation and her future were ruined. In Iran, for a girl not to be a virgin at the time of her marriage is nothing short of a scandal. Given that the boy's father was a military general, the school board settled on transferring the boy to another school, which was the least damaging option for the boy. The girl, on the other hand, remained at the school for a while, and was, later on, sent to the U.S. by her family, perhaps for a medical operation. In some corners, it was not unheard of for a girl to be sent overseas to receive a medical procedure to restore her virginity.

For me, the one thing in which I was most interested was to carry my little radio to my classes. The radio I refer to was a miniature-size device that could receive shortwave frequencies as soon as it came into contact with metal. I used to listen to a play on the radio which was aired every weekday at ten in the mornings. The story of the play was about a teenage boy called Madjid who lived with his only relative namely, his grandmother in a poor area in the south of Tehran. The main character, that is, Madjid was a boy with an active imagination. He always looked after himself and the neighbours one way or another. I used to sit at the back of the class and listen to my radio secretively. So while a lecture was going on, that was what I was doing. No wonder then, that I failed the eighth grade.

Other classmates had the habit of bringing Playboy and Penthouse magazines to school, which even then was nothing special. We used to look at the magazines at the back of the classroom. Lucky, I never got caught with that. I got caught for other mischiefs but not that one.

Once, a classmate ground yellow chalk and offered it to another student claiming it was ground peas and sugar. When the other student put a handful of it in his mouth, he started having difficulty breathing. He felt like he was going to die. Everybody started to panic but thankfully, he was back to normal once we rinsed his mouth with lots and lots of water.

With regard to that aggressive mathematics teacher who was in the habit of hitting students, including myself, he was, ultimately, taught a lesson he would not forget. In our class, there was a student that was perhaps, a born actor. He was tall, thin, and blond like Swedish people. He was not good at math either so, he used to get hit by the teacher as well. One day, when, as per the norm, the math teacher hit him and went to kick him out of the classroom, he acted as if he was going to pass out. The math teacher, who used to hit students for not having done their homework or giving wrong answers, had never thought that one day he might actually do some serious harm to a student. The guy collapsed on the floor, looked red in the face, and coughed incessantly. At first, the teacher did not look bothered by it, but when the situation dragged on for a few minutes, he got worried that the student might be hurting for real. As such, he grabbed the student and took him to the school nurse in a big hurry. As for that day's lecture, all we did was to sit quietly and watch what was going on. The student was, subsequently, sent to the hospital, and his parents had filed a formal complaint against the teacher. As a result, the teacher lost his teaching license the following year. The student, on the other hand, came back to school after a few days and looked perfectly well. He was hit hard, but he over exaggerated his pain in order to get back at the teacher, which I think was brave.

The problem is that children never dare tell parents the truth no matter how understanding the parents may be, because children are timid. I myself have never had that kind of a problem with my parents or family members. We could say it like it was. We were never physically punished at home, but we were at school. It is mindboggling to pay an exuberant amount of money to private schools and have your children get beaten up instead of getting a better education.

I had to repeat the eighth grade, which I did at a public school. The same public school I went to in my first and second grades. There were still a number of teachers and students that were there from way back when I was there. Public school was different. Kids came from working and lower-middle classes who were struggling in some form or fashion. Due to their hard lives, they were not the type whom one could mistreat and get away with it. They were not afraid to talk back. And they used to carry knives and sharp objects to school. The teachers in those schools had a rough time since there were some sort of verbal or physical altercations happening all the time. Since I knew many of them from the old days when I attended that school, I was able to blend in among them without any difficulty. Despite my family's background and status, I never behaved or carried myself like an upper-class kid. Nonetheless, I was extra careful not to get into any trouble with them. In that school, everything had a harsher tone to it.

For instance, we had a thirty-five-years-old English teacher. She was very pretty and since the school was a public boy-school, the teacher had to endure a lot of unacceptable behavior in her class. The students used to openly hit on her whereby she had to come up with a strategy to put an end to that. She knew she could not act tough since that would have had no impact whatsoever. Instead she opted to just be herself and speak her mind. She could be foul-mouthed when she needed to be; and, she was not afraid of using swear words in certain situations. Nevertheless, her strategy turned out to be effective in that, the students respected her openness and honesty and left her in peace.

The eighth grade was finally over but not without rewriting the math exam again.

### Part-9

That summer, my brother Reza and I went to England, where we had a lot of fun. At the age of fifteen, that was my first trip overseas. The trip broadened my horizons on many levels. The trip was arranged by the Don Bosco School, the Italian school that Reza and later, Madjid and Iraj attended. There were fifteen of us going on that trip, where five were fifteen years old and the rest were between the ages of nine and twelve. The five of us who were of the same age formed a group as soon as we met. Given that I was not a student at that school, I was the only outsider amongst them. The five of us were quite something on that trip.

First, we arrived at a boarding school in Swanage; a beautiful and large place with so many amenities. Upon arrival, we were given an introduction and presentation by the school principal and then, the keys to our rooms. The staff were young men and women. In the mornings, we were woken up at six o'clock by one of the staff, who was a tall and well-built man. He used to come into our rooms, shake our beds, and say, "Good morning, wake up!" Our days consisted of studying English in the mornings and participate in a variety of sports in the afternoons.

In the evenings, there was always some sort of entertainment going on. The five of us, who were fifteen, would do our best to get out of doing what everyone else was doing. So, we had come up with different strategies, the most effective one of which was to pretend to have a headache so, we could stay in bed longer.

Speaking of fake headaches, I used to try that at home with my parents in order to get out of going to school. I remember particularly, when one of my siblings was sick and got to stay home, I pretended that I was also not feeling well and got to stay home that day.

In the first boarding school, we had a young female English teacher and we were all fond of her. As young kids, we used to try to get her attention all the time. I used to joke around with her and try to be funny. When we used to write essays in class, I was the one asking her a lot of questions. The questions were not out of interest in the subject; rather, a scheme to look at her when she was leaning over my desk. The other kids in the class were aware of my ploy and while envious, they used to kill themselves laughing. At first, she was oblivious to what was going on, but, eventually, she caught on to the fact, and, surely, she was not impressed. Another time, a younger kid came up to me and asked me to take a picture of him and the same teacher. They were sitting on the grass outside and the teacher was unaware that her underwear was showing. So, I took my time taking the picture and since it was one of those old Polaroid cameras that took instant pictures, she got to see the picture I had taken right away. Upon seeing it, she said, "Ali, you are a funny guy." Sometimes we do silly things in life and act weird in some way.

The trip to England was a great experience. In addition to sightseeing, we learned how to dive, canoe, and do mountain-climbing. We stayed at different boarding schools across the country, which provided us with the opportunity to see many parts of England. Our second and last destination in that trip was Scotland. The entire trip took two months. My best memories were the parties we had specially, in Scotland. At the boarding school in Scotland, we met a group of thirty from Belgium, among which were many beautiful girls. The year was 1978, when Bee Gees had come out with their hit album, and the movie Saturday Night Fever had made quite a sensation. I had got quite a list of records and cassettes that Darius wanted me to purchase for him, which included Bee Gees, Jethro Tull, Supertramp and Cat Stevens. I had got around buying only the first two records on his list and I could not believe how cheap they were. In Iran, those two records would have cost an arm and a leg; for instance, just Jethro Tull's record alone would have cost 4000 toman back home. In any event, the five of us in the group kept listening to the Bee Gees record over and over again on the day the Belgian group went home. We did have a lot of fun with the girls from that group; they were very nice and loved to party, drink, and have a great time. Thanks to the girls from that group, we dared grab a bottle of wine from the priest's room, which we drank together.

We were accompanied by two adults in that trip, a priest from the school called Father Francis and an English physician. Father Francis was a young and kind Italian priest who was fluent in Persian and English. The physician, on the other hand, was a sixty-year-old, cheerful man with blond hair and blue eyes. However, we were rather uncomfortable around the physician since according to one of the younger boys in our travel group, he had allegedly tried to molest him when he had accompanied him to London once. According to the young kid, he had managed to avert the situation by threatening to complain about him to Father Francis.

In light of all of that, we could not help but feel a bit awkward around the physician's son as well, whom we met in London and who was to take us on a sightseeing tour around the city. After seeing a lot of tourist places, we all headed to a restaurant for lunch. Sitting at the table, a few comments were made in Persian about the physician as well as the awkwardness of the situation to be sitting there with his son. After the conversation was over, the physician's son responded to the group's concerns in Persian. Everyone was surprised that he could speak Persian. Somewhat embarrassed, the group thanked him for addressing their concerns.

When we travelled to England, the intention was for my brother and me to stay there. But completely unaware of what was going to become of Iran and how it was going to be known as a terrorist country, there was no reason for us not to go back. Despite my mom's pleas for me to stay there so that eventually, my other siblings could join me as well, I went back. It did not help that my sister, who also went to England a few months later, came back too. The only one in the family who was interested in living abroad was my mom. She thought we would have a better future if we lived overseas. My father, on the other hand, had no interest whatsoever in leaving Iran since he was happy with his life there.

Back then, there were a lot of families, be it rich or otherwise, who would try at any price to send their kids abroad to study. Those who studied abroad tended to do well in Iran and have a good future. That was the mindset among Iranians. Speaking of mindset, it was interesting to see how life in Iran was perceived by some in other parts of the world.

Back in Scotland, we went camping at the base of a mountain once. After setting up the tents, our group leader wanted us to go on a long walk. Four guys and I, who did not want to go and very much preferred to sit and play cards, refused to join them on their walk. The group leader, who was a well-built English man with dark hair, tried hard to convince us to follow along with the younger crowd in our travel group. After a few attempts to no avail, he lost his temper and said, "You Iranians all have an oil-well at home and that's why your government doesn't force you to work hard." The oldest boy in our group, whose father had a high position in the secret police organization in Iran, cut him off and told him to stay away from politics and leave such matters alone. The group-leader gave up after that and took the other ones on the long walk.

It was interesting that he was one of many who thought Iranians owned oil-wells when in reality, all the natural resources including oil belongs to the state even if it happens to be on a person's private land. In case of the latter, the person has to hand over or sell the land to the state. Even the notion that Iranians had it better was invalid because there was and still exists large-scale suffering as a result of massive poverty, illiteracy, illnesses and other miseries on the account of the corruption in the system. Although things were slightly better in the past regime, there were many homeless, unemployed, and illiterates who, to some extent, laid the groundwork for the revolution.

In any case, the trip to England and Scotland was fun, adventurous, and memorable. One such memory from the trip was meeting the group from Belgium. We got along phenomenally with the girls in that group. We used to sit in the piano room and listen to music for hours without even saying a word. When they left, it was as if Romeo had lost its Juliette. Maybe it was love. Days went by and soon, it was time to come back home. I had bought a whole lot of stuff for myself, my family and friends. I had bought only two music albums for Darius, but they were the most expensive and the most recent albums in the market at that time, which one could not even find in Iran.

We spent the last week of the trip in a hotel in London. London was certainly different with its keen architectures, museums, the palace and its guards, and the well-known Hyde Park. A park where one could see people being free to do as they pleased, that is, from seeing naked people making love under a tree to watching comedians, speakers, demonstrators and so forth. Watching television at night was also interesting since we could watch porn shows and there was nothing Father Francis could do about it. He did speak with the hotel staff to have those channels blocked in our rooms, but obviously it was not possible. Since this was the very first time Don Bosco School had arranged for such as trip, there were a few miscalculations that had been made. An example of that was booking us into hotel that was expensive and where there was a television set in each room, with a bar downstairs where alcohol was served and which was frequented by the occasional escort girls.

On the last day of the trip, we missed our flight and had to be housed at the Don Bosco School in London. We spent one night at that boarding school. There were two tall buildings at the opposite side of the school-yard. From one of the floors there, perhaps the fifteenth floor, one could hear the sound of the music, people talking, and the rattling of knives and forks. There must have been a private party going on there. I stood in the school-yard looking up at that floor and wondering who those people were and what kind of party it was. I am sure they were having fun and I wished I could be a part of that. In a sense, I felt sad leaving, but not to the point of wanting to stay there forever, which I could have if I had so desired.

The following day, we drove to the Heathrow airport. Everything went fast and we were on the plane heading back. When we landed in Tehran, it was seven o'clock in the evening local time. I saw Mom and Dad while I was waiting for my luggage. I waved at them. I noticed my mom's hand was in a cast. I got worried and as soon as I got through the customs, I rushed over to find out what had happened. On our way home, she told me about her car accident. She also told me about the passing of my uncle's adjutant as well as my father's sudden spike in blood pressure for which, he had to be taken to the emergency department.

I was so glad to be back as if I could do something about all that had happened back home while I was away. It seems that all is well when one is at home, but as soon as one is away, lots of stuff happens. That is how I have always felt, maybe so do others.

### Part-10

It was a warm evening when we came back from our trip. Now that I had taken my first overseas trip, I could distinguish between two different cultures and lifestyles. The differences were huge. People's way of thinking, living, and dealing with stuff were different. It was nice to have been able to visit another country in another continent and get to know about another culture.

When we got home from the airport, I ran into Darius and his father who were stepping out of their home. Darius welcomed me back home and I guess, he was wondering if I had got him the albums he wanted. I did not want to ruin his day so, I lied and said I had got them. He smiled and looked happy. He could not wait until the next day to get them. In any event, we went in the house and were surrounded by my siblings. It was nice to be home. I was more eager than everyone else to open up my luggage and give out the presents I had bought for everybody. So, I got on with it as soon as we sat in the living room.

That night my brother and I talked about our trip and got to hear how things had been back at home. It was sad to hear about the car accident and other incidents. As the car sat in the yard, I saw how my mom's car was smashed on the driver's side. That car was going to be sold since my mom had bought a new one. The car that had got wrecked, which was a canary-yellow Ford Mustang, was the one that my uncle's adjutant had found for my mom.

I had to wonder why he had died. He was only in his fifties and was a healthy and fit guy. From what my father said, the adjutant had all of sudden felt a pain in his stomach and before getting to the emergency, he had passed away. Life is short and unpredictable. One has to be thankful to be alive.

The following day, Darius came to visit and was anxious to see what I had got for him. I gave him the only two records that I had got around to buy for him. First, he got super happy because he knew what they were worth back home. Then, he waited for the rest of the albums he wanted me to purchase for him. I shook my head and told him that was it. He asked me what had happened to the rest of the albums on his wish-list, and why I had not bought the rest. I had to tell him that he should be happy with the two that I had purchased for him. He began to sulk, but I tried to make him understand that as a friend, I had got him more than one can expect to receive as a gift from a friend. He did not look happy, but his brother, who saw the gifts, told Darius, "You should be happy Ali got you the best records in the market. Moreover, if you wanted the other ones on your list, you should have given him money for them in advance." With what his brother had said and the fact that, after all, he had got two rare music records, he got over his disappointment and things went back to being fine between us again.

Now that I was back, it was time for me to prepare myself for the math test I was supposed to rewrite. Around the same time, the political unrest in small cities in Iran was becoming a bit more worrisome than before. The mass media, however, made almost next to no remarks about that and life appeared to go on as normal. I took my re-examination. The eighth grade was of academic significance since the decision as to what line of study one could be enrolled in at high school hinged on that grade's general average. Given that I had not put a lot of efforts in my schoolwork, I was allowed to take economy at high school, which was a four-year cycle regardless of which field of study one pursued. My parents were always trying to focus my attention on my studies, but up until then I had no desire to do so. But as I was about to start high school, I promised myself to do my best to finish those four years without any problems and without having to re-write the exams.

My father enrolled me in a high school close to our home. It was a great school with a great reputation. On the other hand, the riots that had started at the end of summer of 1978 became more and more prevalent in the cities. By the time the wave of demonstrations engulfed Tehran as well, the schools were well under way. In Iran, schools begin on the first day of the seventh month, the conversion of which equates to twenty-third of September. This was then, the year that I was starting high school; the year that I had promised myself to buckle up and study hard. I remember that my father had promised to purchase a car for me, if I did well at school.

It did not take long, perhaps only a few weeks, for the day to come that people could be heard on the streets uttering "Death to Shah." After that day, everything was upside down, and people carried themselves differently. It was a different atmosphere completely. Suddenly, the school was no longer a place to learn; rather, a gathering location for the demonstrators. The students were up-in-arms against the regime, shouting "As long as we live, Khomeini is our leader," or "We want Islamic government," and other slogans. I could not believe what I was hearing and seeing, that is, people protesting against and criticizing Shah and wishing him and his family death. I had thought that everything in my country was fine and dandy. I was only fifteen at the time and I really had no idea how life was for people.

I remember once, I had thought to myself that Shah's wife was silly and I know that I immediately regretted thinking like that. It was a big deal or better yet, almost a sin to think that way about Shah and his family. What else is one to expect when one from as early as the time of kindergarten is to line up and sing the national anthem every morning before going to class; a national anthem that is packed with rubbish like Shah is our protector and he is the shadow of God. As if that was not enough, in every book at school, one would read how Shah and his family are better and finer than the rest of us. In such an environment then, that neither a child nor an adult could speak his or her mind, it was inevitable that one day more horrible characters could trick people to rise up and revolt against the regime.

Form that moment on, there was no peace and quiet and life had changed forever. People with different opinions clashed with one another. Small and big arguments and fights broke out everywhere. The destitute and the religious people who had, at that moment, got the opportunity to express themselves actively participated in the debates and demonstrations. Families fell apart on the account of the differences of opinion. Many, on the other hand, thought that what was happening was just the same old story that had taken place thirty years before during the then Prime Minister Mosadegh's time. As a result, many did not take the demonstrations seriously, all the while believing that Shah would not fall. For an outsider, it seemed as if the entire country was anti-Shah, but for us living inside the country, we could see how people were simply being manipulated and misled.

There was antagonism galore in the neighbourhoods and ours was no exception. The modest, religious neighbour, from whom no one ever heard a peep, had got bold and boisterous. Our Christian neighbours became more concerned because of their religion and the fact that they used to serve alcohol in their establishment. Our ruthless neighbours were a bit shaken by those whom they had tormented all those years. The animosity directed toward them, however, was kept to a minimum since there was no telling whether it was Shah or Khomeini who would prevail.

It is worth noting that while I am neither anti this nor pro that, the ideas that were advocated by Khomeini quite a number of years back had some merits based on their face value. He wanted people to benefit from the freedom of the press and expression, and the country to become more independent, none of which was, in and of itself, a bad thing to advocate or uphold. However, the problem was that people were not yet at that stage to fully appreciate such liberties not even fifteen years after his speech, that is, at the time of the revolution.

And now, the situation is even worse than it was before. Since it seems that we Iranians cannot tolerate other viewpoints. We are incapable of working together and cooperating with each other. The desire for individuality runs rampant amongst Iranians. As individuals we are dynamic and successful, but in groups, we tend to be unproductive and contrary. We have not yet reached that level of understanding to respect others' views and to get along with one another. We are proud over things that do not mean anything. Boasting about the ancient Persia, an empire and culture that existed 2500 years ago. The fact that we are Persians, to the point of getting upset if we are referred to as anything but. We have lost sight of the fact that during those 2500 long years, there was never a time, not even a short period of time, when we were governed by a multi-party political system instead of a sovereign. I have asked many of our intellectuals whether there ever was a time in our glorious history when even two parties existed and governed together. But no one seems to recall such period. I have furthermore tried to explore the notion of being Iranian in light of the fact that historically Iran was dominated by Arabs for five centuries and by Greeks for three centuries. It goes without saying that in the aftermath of both those eras, the following generations included those of mixed backgrounds. If one was to search one's ancestry, one would find different lineages other than Persian in one's background. In any case, to refer to an earlier era that was not ruled by democracy, or an ancient past as one's background serve no real purpose. It would be better for Iranians to learn how to coexist and unite with each other.

### Part-11

Now the entire country was in crisis. Friends and families were divided over their differences in opinion. Households were in turmoil as family members clashed with one another over whom they supported and whom they did not. Many parents lived in anxiety over the future of their children whom had been brainwashed by the revolutionaries.

After a few weeks of being in school, we only managed to cover one-third of our books. Every day, the lectures were disrupted half-way through and students were off to join the demonstrations. My family and I deplored the chaotic situation that was under way. My grandparents, my aunt and my uncle came to stay with us. It felt safe to have so many people living under the same roof. No one knew what could happen next. Society was at the brinks of losing its sense of law and order. Bullets were flying all over the place. Here and there, attempts were made on the lives of those who were suspected of having dealings with Shah's regime.

One evening when my father wanted to come home from his office, he called my mom and asked her to come get him. On the way, there was a lot of traffic. I was in the car with my parents. On one of the main streets, cars were lined up behind each other over a long stretch of the road. That was a one-way and wide street. Suddenly, there were shots fired. It sounded more like a machine-gun firing. Then it became dead silent. The sound of the shooting came from a close by location to where we were in our car, which also happened to be in the proximity of where our home was. In effect, we were in our area of residence when the shooting broke out. It did not take long before we got to drive ahead at which point, we came across a man who had a blue jacket on with grey pants, a white shirt and a red tie, and who lied in the ditch. Someone was trying to help him up. His white shirt was half-soaked in blood. From stomach downward, he was drenched in blood. He had been shot at and he was bleeding to death. The then revolutionaries had blocked the road and caught the guy off guard. It was that incident that had caused the traffic to be so backed up. Since the incident had occurred in our neighbourhood and the man had been rushed to the clinic in our area, we learned, later on, that he worked at the government's secret service organization, SAVAK. He had died later on that evening due to the extent of his injuries from a number of bullets that had hit him in the stomach.

Businesses, shops and schools were on again off again. A lot could happen from morning to evening. The schools had turned into a jungle. I never took part in the demonstrations. As soon as I felt like something was up, I would head home right away. I did not want to take part in those barbaric actions.

One day in the middle of a lecture, when everyone left to join the demonstrators, I stayed behind in the classroom. The principal, who was a tall and tough man, was going around and checking the classrooms. When he saw me sitting in my classroom, he flew off the handle and said, "Why in the hell are you sitting here? Do you think that you can single-handedly change things by sitting here? Are you the only idiot who does not want to join the others?" He was so angry that I thought he was going to hit me.

I knew he was, in effect, furious at the misery that had befallen the country, but he could not very well come out and say it since as soon as one questioned or worse opposed the state of affairs, one was immediately labelled as an anti-revolutionary or anti-Muslim. As curious as it sounds, many of those who participated in the demonstration did so as a joke. That is the sad truth. A few of my friends and classmates, whom I knew well, took part in the demonstrations just to meet girls and have fun, something that applied to even more mature and older people in those crowds. Still many others, who joined in the protests, did so out of ulterior motives. Some essentially used the rallies as an opportunity to loot businesses and warehouses that were being smashed. Not to mention those with animalistic instincts who simply enjoyed causing harm to others. Overall, it was only a small minority who really knew what they wanted and were pursuing that.

I remember how the son of my mom's uncle, who was at the time twenty years old, partook in the demonstrations with his friends despite the fact that his own father was one of the top civil servants in the secret police organization. He did so to meet girls and to have fun. He tried to encourage me to do the same. According to him, the demonstrations were the best place to meet girls and to exchange phone numbers with them and to have fun in general. He truly had no idea what impact a person's tagging along would have over time. He came to understand that when his family went through hardship after the fall of Shah. Unfortunately, he got the point at the expense of his family's devastation.

It was a similar set of mentality at play at schools. Students wanted to cut classes and saw the protest marches as their ticket out. Years after the revolution, many of those who had, in some way, contributed to the change of regime, vehemently deny having had anything to do with that.

After two months of following an ad hoc schedule at school with classes being held one day and cancelled the next day, the schools finally closed down. Now we were home and we followed the daily events on the television. Mom's career was in jeopardy. She was a pilot and she had also landed a great position at an American insurance company in Tehran. She had met people like Shah's cousin, who was also a pilot and was about to hire her in his airline.

On the whole, there was a lot at stake and it was just a matter of time before all came crashing down. People were utterly taken by many of Khomeini's promises, declarations and speeches that they heard either directly or in the form of hearsays. One such assertion was that everyone was going to receive a daily subsidy from the sales of petroleum. After all, Khomeini had argued that the revenue from the oil export belonged to the people, which according to the fools who fell for that would amount to seventy-five toman per person. The said amount was to be paid to people every morning. As idiotic as the statement sounded, many wholeheartedly believed that and started calculating their family's monthly entitlements. With that in mind, many thought they would never have to work or lift a finger ever again.

### Part-12

Before moving on, it is worth mentioning that bazaars across the country and particularly, in Tehran had and still have a very important role to play in the country's political affairs. In the same manner that stock markets have an impact on life and politics in the Western World, bazaars have been of significance in Iran's history. There were the businessmen in bazaars who supported Khomeini, and they were the ones who were most fanatic and radical. Shah tried repeatedly and in many ways to demolish the bazaars, specially the one in Tehran, to no avail. Had he succeeded to do so, he would have disrupted the congregation of businessmen in one place hence, increasing his chances of staying in power.

My aunt and her husband became two of those who advocated for Khomeini and his promise of equal distribution of oil revenues. That led to the very first division among my relatives. My grandfather was a religious man. Someone who would get up at four o'clock in the morning to pray and read from the religious book, but he was no fanatic. He was a Muslim but none that would follow blindly. He thought before he spoke. Now, he was faced with the irrational thoughts and theories put forth by one of his own daughters, and all he could do was to try and talk some sense in to her.

During those troubled times, we had a lot of family coming over and staying at our place day and night. I remember those fierce conversations between my aunt and her husband on one side and the rest of the family on the other side. My aunt and her husband wanted to impose their ideas on others and they believed that they were right and everyone else was wrong. But their arguments were not cogent. Their judgments were clouded by the allure of money. They had no clue what they were talking about since they knew nothing of poverty or politics for that matter. With the proverbial carrot dangling in front of them, all they saw was the color of money. Supposedly, people were not only going to get a daily subsidy from oil-sale, but they were also going to have free water, hydro and telephone services. Some people were completely taken by so many empty promises. To have risen up against Shah based on political views was one thing, but to have done so for the sake of monetary gain was sure to cause contempt and disappointment later on.

Khomeini was a tool for many opposition groups who could not surface in the society before. To be sure, Shah was a dictator, but nothing compare to his successor. In an oil-rich country like Iran, everything has to do with power in the hands of a few and the oppression of the masses. Back when Mosadegh, a former prime minister during Shah's time, had revolted against Shah, he, according to my parents, wanted nothing more than democracy and freedom for people perhaps in much the same way as the revolutionaries of the time. But what people failed to realize during both Mosadegh's time as well as the more recent past was that Iranians were not politically mature enough to implement a democratic system.

People have continuously fought for 2500 years to reach their ideals of democracy and freedom including the freedom of speech and press. But it seems that all those efforts were in vain. Now, we were, once again, faced with the same old story. As one person had managed to be heard and gained an audience somehow, but who? No one knew for sure. Someone who had succeeded in causing chaos in the society and steering the country in a different direction.

Since the political arena in Iran has always been under domination and extreme control, there have also been many underground organizations formed by the opposition groups, all of which popped up in 1978 as the revolution got underway. Like many of my fellow countrymen, I was not aware of the existence of such organizations. Granted I was young, but still, I had never heard of resistance groups such as, Mojahedin, Leftist, Komole, and Partisans, nor was I familiar with words like imperialism, socialism, liberalism, Marxism, and totalitarianism, among others. In books, there were no mentioning of such words and concepts. However, those who were politically active in secret had access to books that were otherwise banned.

I remember a song by a famous singer that had to do with themes like oil and people's misery was immediately forbidden to be aired on the radio ever again after it had been played on the radio once. The singer appeared to have had somewhat contrary views as a result of which, he had fled the country shortly after the release of that song.

It was interesting to see how everyone tried to get through to my aunt and her husband. How efforts were made to get them to understand how badly they were being misled and deceived by a bunch of empty promises. However, they were not the only ones who had fallen for a pack of lies. My best friend's family, that is Darius's family, also turned out to be fools. Darius's mother was an actress and his father a freelancer, who in his younger days had worked in the film industry until retirement and dabbled in everything from distilling ninety-percent alcohol to going hunting and fishing. They were a fun family. A family who lived exactly as they would in a movie. In other words, there was a lot of acting going on whereby they would fake things and pretend all the time.

Every night, all those who were or who wanted to pretend to be Khomeini's supporters used to get on the roof of their house and shout, "God is great," or "Down with the Shah," or other mantras of similar nature. Accordingly, one could tell who was for and who was against the revolution in a given neighbourhood. The Christian neighbours were against the revolution but kept that well to themselves. The ruthless neighbours were unequivocally against the revolution; they initially frightened the daylights out of the neighbours and later on, fled the area once the situation deteriorated. The religious neighbours, on the other hand, had got a free rein to promote their religious views and act proud around others. They were also the first ones to get up on the roof every night and utter anti-regime slogans. It was ludicrous that Darius's family also participated in such foolish undertakings. Who knows how many people like them played a part in the revolution just for fun? We could hear Darius's family on the roof as they were joking, laughing, drinking their homemade booze while at the same time, shouting slogans like lunatics without realizing the implication of their actions.

That was the common theme in many corners. In other words, there was a lack of understanding on the part of many who participated in the revolution, and a sense of greed in others who fell for the empty words and promises. Only a fraction of the society was politically motivated to overthrow the regime and even those regretted their actions later.

As mentioned previously, I am not for or against anyone be it Shah or Khomeini, but what I am against is how people in certain set of circumstances behave like brutes. Let me explain what I mean.

### Part-13

Once I conducted an experiment. In 1993, I was going to Turkey to get married. In order to get there, we had a stop -over in Bulgaria where we had to change flights. After going through the passport control, we came out of the building to get on a bus to be transported to the next plane. My mom and I were the first ones out the door heading for the bus. Just as my mom was going to get on the bus, I told her to wait. She asked me the reason and I said I wanted to see how people would react. The bus was about sixteen feet from the building with its doors open, engine running, and the driver waiting for people to come onboard. My mom and I, who were the first ones in line, stood by the door and did not get on the bus. Next passenger approached the bus, took two steps toward the bus when he noticed us standing there. He looked at the bus and then at us, took two steps back and got in the queue behind us. Next person came out and without even looking at the bus, got in the line-up. The fourth, fifth, and even sixth person followed suit without even knowing why; they did it just because others had done it. The seventh person, however, took a good look at us and then the bus, and after a short pause, decided to get on the bus instead. Soon, there was chaos, someone had upset the order and people were confused. Slowly, people approached the bus and got on the bus. In the main, it did not take more than a few seconds for people to abandon the first act and follow someone else's lead who had taken a different initiative.

That is what I mean by people acting like brutes. A flock of sheep stand at the side of a creek and as soon as one jumps over, the rest follow. That is how it went with the revolution. That is how it was with everything in Iran. Shah was not an angel and neither was Khomeini, but both of them managed to sway the masses as soon as a small number of people submitted to their will. No one dared say anything negative to Shah since neither those close to Shah would have allowed that, nor Shah himself had the insight to grasp what was going on around him. It is easy to lose sight of reality when one is put on a pedestal and constantly praised. Shah was portrayed as mighty as God. The motto "God, Shah, Country" was commonplace among the people. National songs were loaded with phrases such as, "Shah is God's shadow," "God is Shah's protector," and the like. Same was done in reference to Khomeini. The silence of the people, or worse, their flattery is therefore to blame, in part, for the ineffectiveness of a given political system.

If people are sensible enough not to unduly revere a person today in order to capriciously despise that person the next day, can there be a slight hope for leaders to do better as leaders. However, while some places have done better than others, the fact remains that such ideal is never fully attainable anywhere in the world, not in Iran and not in any other land. Sweden is among the places that have achieved a level of success in that regard. With a monarchy, Sweden enjoys a parliamentary system where various political parties work together without conflict and chaos.

As revolution continued to disrupt every aspect of people's life, the flow of goods including groceries and fuel slowed down. As a result, there were all sorts of queues for various food items and fuel. On top of the foregoing shortages, the power outage was also a daily occurrence. Thanks to my father's and uncle's connections, we were not impacted by that dire situation.

However, we had problems of different kind. For us, there was the fear of not knowing how we and our relatives, who had worked in some capacity during Shah's time, were going to be treated. Moreover, neither I, nor my family ever participated in any demonstrations or took part in anything that had to do with the revolution. As such, we lived in a state of fear at all times.

One afternoon my father called my uncle and asked him to come get him. My father's office was located in the then centre of Tehran. He could not get home since the military had suddenly, issued a curfew late in the morning that day. My uncle, who had many working for him, sent his adjutant with a car and a driver to go fetch him. I followed along with them since that day I happened to be at my uncle's. On our way to my father's office, no one stopped us due to the fact that the car we were in had a military license-plate. At an intersection, I saw a young guy being chased by two soldiers. Since the soldiers could not catch up with him and their orders to halt had been ignored by the guy, one of them kneeled down and shot the guy in the foot. We got to see all of that unfolding since the guy went down in front of our car. The guy was about eighteen or nineteen years old. The soldiers rushed over to arrest the guy and at the same time, they saluted the adjutant, who was a colonel, in our car. That was a horrendous experience. I was disgusted by the soldiers. Even though it was not a fatal shot; rather, a shot in the knee, I thought it was very unnecessary. In my view, the soldiers could have let the guy go. It was, obviously, easy for me to judge the soldiers without knowing the circumstances that had prompted that. However, to shoot a fellow human-being is an incomprehensible and unconscionable act.

We drove off. The city looked like a war zone. The air was filled with thick, dark smoke from countless burning tires in the streets, and there were armed military troops on patrol everywhere. There was no sign of compassion or understanding anywhere; it was only doom and gloom that dominated our city. People had no clue where they were taking the country. Young people who put their lives at risk without even knowing why. Did people really not want to laugh and be happy anymore? Did they really not want to be able to even dress the way they wanted? Did they not want to be allowed to read what they wanted and to do what they wanted? Shah may have not been an angel, to the contrary, he was a dictator. Khomeini, as a religious figure, was also a dictator. But as mentioned earlier, it is the people who create dictators and oppressors.

As the situation deteriorated and the revolution gained momentum across the entire country, Shah appeared on the television apologizing to the nation. He knew his days were numbered. He had come to realize how badly he had been misled by those around him, those who idolized him but only on the surface, and those whose greed had led to major frustrations among the people. Shortly after Shah's ridiculous plea for forgiveness was aired on T.V., the situation got even more out of control with more people rushing to the streets and their roof-tops chanting anti-Shah slogans. Since at that point, they knew that it was going to be smooth sailing ahead.

It did not take long before Shah left the country. The day he left, people took to the streets shouting "God is great," while those behind the wheel honked their horns and flashed their headlights as a sign of victory. That day, my mom and I happened to be on the road. When we saw people's jubilation on the streets, Mom turned the radio on whereby we got to hear the news about Shah's departure. My mom's eyes filled up with tears, and she became unable to drive for a few seconds. I tapped her on the shoulder and pointed out to her that we were in the midst of people's celebration as a result of that very news; thus, we would be in a world of hurt, if they were to see her like that. While she was deeply saddened, she realized the danger and pulled herself together quickly. She took the wheel, and honked the horn once in a while when she thought it was necessary. We drove home as fast as we could and once there, I grasped that my entire family, that is, my parents, grandparents, and the rest were of the opinion that it was, indeed, over for Shah.

The outcome of the revolution differed from that of a previous uprising in Iran. Twenty five years earlier when Mosadegh had rebelled against Shah, the skirmishes had not got blown out of proportion. While Shah had to leave the country even then, he did so in complete confidence and a peace of mind that he would be back. This time, however, he and the Queen were crying as they said their farewells to those who were seeing them off at the airport.

### Part-14

Shortly thereafter, Khomeini came to Iran. He arrived not too long after Shah's departure. On the day of his arrival, there was a huge number of people in the city. The entire event was broadcasted live so, we watched it on television. The resistance movement had made quite a headway, and they had begun to mobilize even faster in order to gain control of the remaining strategic organizations. The military had slowly got dismantled and many of its soldiers had deserted. Many sat in front of their television sets, and watched, inquisitively, Khomeini's arrival. Onboard the plane, a journalist had asked Khomeini, "What do you feel?" And Khomeini had answered, "Nothing." That was it. He did not say anything more. What could he have said? How was he to express himself? That he was glad, but over what? That he was sad? What exactly could he have done for all those who gave their lives for revolution? Should he have smiled or have cried?

He lived fifty years in exile in Iraq. He spent a lifetime fighting for his ideology as a result of which, he lost his oldest son and his home. He was betrayed by people once and was sentenced to exile. People are not to be relied on since, historically, it has been shown how they can be for a person today and against that person the next day. We as people have always created gods that we have, swiftly, thrown away and put aside. Shah, who was he? An ordinary individual like everyone else, who was trusted with the task of leading the nation.

His father, Reza Khan, was a simple soldier. According to my grandfather, Reza Khan was referred to as "fearless Reza." He had lived in the same area as my grandfather. My grandfather's childhood coincided with the final years of the Ghajar dynasty's reign in Iran, when Ahmad Shah was the king. It is during that era that Reza Shah was just a soldier in the military. As per my grandfather's account, he was a bully that used to stand at the grocery store in the alley and steal yogurt through the half-open display window of the store. That being said, my grandfather still had a lot of respect for Reza Shah on the account of his charisma and his courage to challenge the status quo. By means of a military coup, Reza Shah brought to an end the Ghajar dynasty and instituted the Pahlavi monarchy. In contrast to his son, Mohammad Reza, he came from humble beginnings, with no stable home or family. He had no formal education, but he was smart. He had great insight and was able to get involved in the nation's affairs quickly. He was authoritative unlike his son. His son, Mohammad Reza, had no authority. It was those close to him that made the decisions for him, and it was the internal conflicts in his family and friends circles that led to his demise. He was born with a silver spoon. He never had to struggle for anything in life. Those around him afforded him so much undue, high praises that he came to believe that he was nothing short of a god. Had he settled for being just a symbolic head-of-the-state and allowed the country to be governed by a diverse group of people, the country might have looked different from what it does today. Reza Shah had started something that his son could have built on and improved by allowing political parties to emerge on the scene.

But as mentioned earlier, Iranians are not ready for democracy. Neither the people nor our leaders and politicians can handle dissident opinions. So long as we wish to silence the dissenting voices, we are doomed to live in misery.

### Part-15

One evening we were watching a programme on T.V.'s channel two. The programme narrator was about to introduce the next programme when his announcement got, suddenly, interrupted. One could hear arguments going on in the background. The narrator looked confused and for a few seconds, all he did was to stare at the camera. All of a sudden, the picture "temporary interruption" popped up on the screen and after five minutes, the same person came back on stating, "This is the Iranian democratic T.V.-channel." He himself belonged to the Mojahedin group, which was the reason for him to make such an announcement. A few minutes later, someone else appeared in front of the camera and announced, "This is the Iranian Islamic republic T.V.-channel." The first individual, who belonged to the Mojahedin and was called Ali Hoseini, fled Iran later on.

Same evening, the revolutionaries took over the radio stations and other key organizations. As of that point, one was inundated with new revolutionary songs and propaganda. A few days later, the military bases in Tehran and other cities were taken over. Furthermore, all prison doors were opened up and prisoners were freed. Same day, people armed themselves and took part in the fights against the last resistance elements that had not yet given up.

Like many others, I was out that day watching people, who were running here and there with a weapon in their hands, from a distance. All at once, I was full of energy and ran toward the military academy that was nearby. The buildings in that location were full of all kinds of weapon. After each additional shot fired at those building, they gradually got invaded with more and more people who commandeered whatever they came across inside those buildings. When I got closer to one of the buildings, I walked in as well. Everything was upside down. Paper and office supply, tables and chairs, filing cabinets and safes, paintings and tapestries, as well as weapons of all kind were lying on the floor everywhere. There were rifles, pistols, machineguns, and grenades. People were taking the stuff as if there was a clearance or out-of-business sale going on. I was lucky I did not get hurt that day. In a big hurry, I grabbed a hold of a wooden box and took the AK4 rifle in it and ran out. I would have preferred to take a revolver gun, but it was so chaotic and dangerous in there that I did not dare stay there any longer. What had happened was that as soon as I took the rifle, someone shouted, "Watch out for the grenade." Everybody ducked, but it turned out to be a false alarm since it was a mock grenade. There were no law and order there. Lawlessness had reached its peak. One could kill someone without any reason or problem. Everyone had a James Bond license that is, "license to kill." The best thing was to take whatever, run out, and head home as fast as possible. As I was running home, a young man came up to me and said hastily, "Brother, we have to go to the base at the next block. Come!" With no time to think, I said, "I will come, Brother, but I have to get bullets. I am all out of bullets and I am waiting for another brother who's coming with full magazines. You go! I will come; go before it's too late!" He bought that and took off in a flash.

When I got home, I saw how worried everyone was. I first met my mom who was waiting anxiously for me at the intersection near our home. She and other neighbours who were out saw what I had on me. It was not like I could hide that under my jacket. I was, in effect, happy to have taken the rifle since during that period of time, there were chaos and mayhem all the time, day and night. No one was safe anywhere. I became more convinced of my decision, when I saw my uncle, who was a general in Shah's army, at our place all messy and in muddy civilian clothes. His military base, where he was the commander, had also been invaded. His secretary had got fatally shot in the stomach as she had been standing next to my uncle. My uncle had managed to flee and by taking short cuts and the like had come to us to take refuge. So now, I could protect my family. But how was I supposed to do that without any bullets?

That night, all the organizations and bases were taken over. Many executions were carried out that night and the nights after that. My friend's father was among the first military officers who died; he was a colonel. His name was Nafar. His oldest son was so scared and quiet after that incident that no one could talk to him. He had a six-year-old sister who could not understand what had happened to her family and who kept asking for her father. I witnessed all of that misery when I was at his place a few weeks afterward. They had no more tears and could not cry any longer.

Same night that all the bases and organizations were seized by the revolutionaries, armed patrols were tasked to guard the streets and areas. This was in response to the guerilla attacks by Shah's guardsmen and supporters who hoped to save the country from the revolutionaries. I went out with Darius that night. We did not venture out too far from home and stayed at a nearby crossing where one of those patrol-stations was located. Darius had taken a revolver gun the day I took the AK47. I was interested in having the revolver and wanted to get him to give that to me. But he wanted to hold on to it as much as I did. I was so foolish that I would have given him anything in exchange for that even up to paying him a few thousand. I did offer him money for the revolver as a matter of fact, but he was so fascinated by it that he was not going to let go of it. He thought he was John Wayne. I got upset with him about that, but he let me fire a shot with that in our alley to make me feel better. So, I fired a shot and what a feeling for a silly guy like me, who was not thinking straight. Did it feel wonderful? What did it mean? Thankfully, I only shot at a brick wall and, therefore, I did not injure anyone with that.

That true feeling of disgust is what I experienced years later when I accompanied Darius and his father on one of their hunting trips. Darius's father was into hunting and fishing and so forth. One day when I went on duck-hunting with them, Darius gave me a shotgun and got me to fire a shot amongst a bunch of small birds that were about sixty feet away. Since it was a shotgun, there was no need to take aim. I got a hit and a little bird got injured and was still alive when we got closer. I looked at the bird. Although it was injured, all one could see was a tiny drop of blood on its wing. As such, I told Darius that maybe the bird was not seriously injured so, I would take it home to see if it lives at which point, I would set it free. I hated shooting living beings. Darius did not let me continue. He got a hold of the bird in one hand and with the other hand, twisted the bird's neck. To be so cold-blooded, I thought. After that one time, I never went on another hunting trip with him.

### Part-16

Back to the night that Darius and I were out, standing at the patrol station. As I did not have any bullets for my AK47, I thought I ask one of the patrols if he had any. He told me that ammo was on its way to be delivered to that location, and it should get there shortly. I only had the AK47's magazine with me. Soon, a car showed up with four people in civilian clothing in it, who dropped off the ammo and wished us luck. I took fourteen bullets and loaded the magazine that could hold twenty, and left there, together with Darius. On the way home, I did not tell Darius anything about my uncle being at our place.

It was a time that no one could trust anyone. I did not tell Darius not because I did not trust him or his family, but I was worried that if the word got out, someone might do something to us. My uncle's family lived abroad, but due to his profession, he had not got a chance to leave the country. He had related to my father that he knew a month in advance that it was over for Shah. Neither my uncle nor my parents had any intentions of putting their lives in danger, but we lived in dangerous times. We had no idea what could happen. My father was certain that any day, the revolutionary guards would show up at our door, but no one knew when they would and how it would pan out.

I had now loaded my rifle. My uncle showed me how to do it, but he was adamant to take the rifle away from me. On television and radio, there was a constant barrage of revolutionary songs and propaganda.

After a few days of people getting executed on the spot left, right, and centre, there came a knock at our door. I opened the door. It was a group of young guys who had covered their faces with Palestinian shawls. They stepped in our front yard and asked to see my father. My father came to the door quickly and greeted them. They told him to follow them. My father was already dressed up as if he knew they were coming in advance. To ensure they did not come further into the house, he followed them without any resistance. Now that Khomeini was in power, he had set up a temporary government led by a prime minister who was a well-known politician and an ardent opponent of the former regime. His name was Mehdi Bazargan. As luck would have it, my father and Bazargan were old acquaintances back when they both worked at the ministry of justice. So when my father was being interrogated by the revolutionary guards, my father asked them to contact the prime minister. In the interim, my uncle was also busy calling the last few people he knew, who were working in the new regime, for help. Thanks to the multi-pronged telephone conversations on different fronts, my father was released and back at home a few hours later. A few hours that seemed like eternity. My mom, grandparents, everybody was worried sick.

A few days later, a new scary situation developed. My uncle got a frantic phone call from his staff at his residence. His staff, who were military sergeants and soldiers, told him over the phone that a few armed men were there looking for him and that if he did not show up, they were going to kill the entire staff. My uncle asked his staff to put one of those armed men on the phone. He tried to calm the situation and assured the one he got to talk to that he would be there in an hour. We could not let him go there alone, so we, that is, my entire family along with our cousin who was also at our place, followed my uncle to his place. I put my AK47 in the trunk of the car.

Once we got there, my uncle and my father went in the house first. When I came in the house, I saw a few armed men in the living room, whose faces were covered by Palestinian scarves. As soon as I laid eyes on them, I remembered the AK47. I kept hoping that no one would make the mistake of taking that out of the car. I was afraid that maybe my brothers or my sister might bring that in the house with them. In retrospect, I can see that we, or more specifically I, did not understand the gravity of the situation. It was a life and death situation and I, for one, did not take the situation seriously. Those people could have executed all of us right there and then. After all, people lived in a lawless society during the first few weeks of the revolution, where it was a free-for-all kind of state and everyone was in charge. I was relieved to see that my sister had not taken the AK47 out of the car and my brother, Reza, who was holding the magazine in his hand, managed to immediately hide it in the plant pot by the door. As a result of Reza's quick-thinking, the armed guards failed to notice anything. My father and uncle, who knew the newly appointed Prime Minister Bazargan, as well as a few others like Dr. Yazdi and Banisadr, started calling around. Perhaps as a means of showing his spirituality, my uncle also showed the armed guards the temple he had built in his house in the memory of his oldest son who had been murdered in the U.S. years ago. Ultimately, the armed guards, called Pasdaran in Persian, left us alone after a few grueling hours, but continued their watch of the area.

That night, we slept over at my uncle's. My uncle's family, who lived abroad, called a number of times during the night. With foresight, my uncle had sent his family overseas, sold everything he could, and transferred his assets abroad. The only thing left in Iran was his primary residence, which was confiscated after the revolution. He was also forbidden to leave the country. On the whole, it was fortunate that my parents and my uncle could still turn to a few in that new regime for help; otherwise, who knows what would have happened and how things could have turned out.

People were tracked down and killed like animals, and there were no laws to prevent that. Local trials were soon taking place everywhere and execution sentences were issued in a blink of an eye. Countless acts of terror and executions took place all round the clock. As for us, we did have more people showing up at our door.

### Part-17

On an afternoon of a weekday, someone ringed the doorbell. I went and opened the door when I saw the painter that my uncle had sent to us a few years back standing at the door with three other men. He was a Pasdar now, that is, a revolutionary guard. He asked if my father was home. I said no. He replied that they would wait until he got home. They went and sat in their car, waiting for my father. A few hours later, my father got home. Before my father would even get to the door, the painter got off the car and called my father over. My father stopped and they approached him. I, who was on the watch out all that time, stood by the door and listened to their conversation. Quite bluntly, he asked my father for money. He blatantly demanded money while threatening my father that failure to comply with his demand would result in his arrest on the charges of being anti-regime. My father had no other options but to pay him. Afterward, he called my uncle to let him know of what had happened in case, the same person showed up at his door too, demanding money.

After that incident, we did have to put up with more visits of various nature, and much hardship from our religious neighbours. But all in all, I believe we managed to escape a lot of misery that many other families had to endure.

Once the new regime was in place, the schools resumed after a few months of break. However since the entire fall-semester as well as half of the winter-semester were lost, we got to write a final exam that was based on only a portion of the curriculum that had been taught, that is, one-fifth of the curriculum.

A different era had started. Life had found a different meaning. Rules had changed and different laws were at play. There were new government departments and oversight organizations. Police forces and military were disregarded and put aside, and guards of diverse type were given authority and power over people.

Among the newly-minted organizations, there was an oversight committee, called Kommitte in Persian, which was responsible for the enforcement of laws and regulations. In addition to that, there was an even bigger organization called Sepahe-Pasdaran meaning pasdaran forces who had the overall authority in the country. Secret police, reprimand units called Ershad that dealt with offences related to forbidden acts, and many more such entities popped up. The only laws that were in force in those organizations were those of their own, that is, a made-up version. And those who worked in the said entities wielded their power anyway they pleased.

In Shah's time, it was a matter of having contacts or relatives working in the system, who were educated and were so-called intellectuals, to bribe in a polite and sophisticated manner. Now there was a need to have contacts among illiterate and unsophisticated people many of whom had, allegedly, criminal backgrounds in the former regime. It was such people who became the guards and who could support the revolution. The other groups who had a hand in overthrowing Shah and installing the Islamic regime did not fare well after the revolution and had to, ultimately, flee the country. The fanatic Muslims took over the power and had no intentions of sharing their power with anyone under any circumstances.

When we commenced school again, I was determined to apply myself to my studies and go through the four years of high school without having to rewrite any exams. The school which originally was a private school was now a public one. The concept of private school was completely abolished. Students, teachers, and the school systems were all in disarray since every day, there were protests for someone or something. Every day, there were executions, bomb explosions, and sheer terror here and there that would cause interruptions in the day-to-day life. Some of our relatives were out of the danger since they had fled the country, but some of them were executed. Our close relatives, on the other hand, managed to survive the ordeal. Ironically enough though, a fraction of our relatives became a part of the new regime.

At any rate, I started fresh as if nothing had happened and returned to my everyday routines. Now, I was keen to get a new motorcycle and more specifically, a Yamaha 80-cubic that I had wanted since the sixth grade. To my surprise, I got it in no time at all. As soon as I asked my father for it, he bought it for me. It seemed as if he was in no mood for any arguments. Having been forced to pay so much money to so many apparently, he had got into the habit of paying with no questions asked.

I had made new friends at school who also had similar types of motorcycle. We used to get together every day in each other's area. As long as the new regime had not got a hundred percent foothold in the country, there were still a lot of things one could do and get away with. One could listen to music. Women could go out without headscarf. People could throw a party; however, they could not drink alcoholic beverages. Since there were a lot of pressing matters that the new regime had to tackle in the beginning, there was not enough time or resources to legislate and forbid a lot of stuff. The guards did everything they could to create an oppressing environment, but it took time before it got fully implemented. In those days, one could easily drive a car or ride a motorcycle without license, or commit small offences and get away with them since the legal system was overburdened with arresting and executing the opponents. Despite all of that, one had to be careful not to be caught by the fanatics and get into trouble. Once in trouble, one could expect whiplashes, torture, or payoffs to the maximum. Before, it was easier for people to come to an agreement with each other. People did not hate each other then, and they were not frustrated and nervous.

### Part-18

I remember one evening when I was in grade seven, which was during Shah's time, I was out with two of my youngest brothers bicycling in our alley. My mom drove into the alley, got off the car and told me to park the car. She had to run in to make a phone call, which turned out to be an expensive phone call. I got in the car and told my brothers, Madjid and Iraj, to get in. Madjid, who was the older one of the two, asked me where we were going. I replied, "Just for a ride." They got in and I drove off. Mom's car was a Mustang. I went around the block and I stopped in a cul-de-sac, turned around and headed home. I do not know why, but I got curious to see if the tail-light worked or not. So I stopped, put the car in reverse and drove fast in order to stop at the end of the alley, got off and took a look. But I had not even backed up half way before I heard a huge bang and the car came to a stop. Out of sheer panic, I started the car, put it in the first gear, and took off from there without even bothering to check and see what had happened.

Madjid asked me, "Ali, what was it?" I replied, "Nothing, it was just a rock." He did not say anything else and Iraj, who was even younger, said absolutely nothing. I drove the car back to our alley at which point, I got to see the damages. Unbelievable, half the trunk on the driver's side was damaged. In order to hide the damage from my mom, I deliberately parked the car in a way that would make it look like as if the car was damaged by a hit and run car sometime over night. I also got my brothers to promise not to say a word.

We went in the house and with butterflies in my stomach, I sat in front of the television and watched the American detective T.V. series Baretta that was on. I was a nervous wreck. My eyes were fixed on the T.V. screen but I was somewhere else myself. All I could think about was that if they were to find me, I would land in jail. I could not help remembering all the times that my parents warned me about driving illegally and the dangers of doing so. Everything that my father had described from his court cases, which had to do precisely with the matter at hand, was going through my mind and making me sick to my stomach. I was shaking like a leaf. My father was busy reading the newspaper and my mom was cooking dinner. I desperately hoped to not be exposed. I felt bad for my two brothers who sat in front of the television quietly and without making any sound. To make matters worse, Baretta's episode dealt with offenders and prison. I just hoped to get away with the accident. But much to my dismay, half an hour later, there came a buzz through the intercom and my dad asked me to answer it. I picked up the receiver and asked who it was. The person at the other end responded, "Hello, would you come to the door please." I asked what it was about. The person came back saying, "You ran away after you hit my car." I did not wait any longer and went to the door. But as I was heading to the door, my father asked me who it was, and I said it was my friend. When I opened the door, I saw a construction worker who said, "Can you tell you mom to come." I asked him why. He said, "She ran away when she hit my boss's car." He did not get to finish his sentence before my mom came to the door and asked what was going on. The construction worker accused my mom of having run from the scene of the accident, and poor mom, who did not have the faintest idea what he was talking about, looked disquietingly at her car and the other car. Mom realized right away what must have transpired.

I had hit the back of a Land Rovers that was parked in front of a construction engineer's house. Since the construction project was right across the engineer's house, the construction workers who worked for the engineer also happened to live in that semi-finished building. It was them who had seen the accident, had been able to describe the car that was involved in the accident, and had helped find the car. The construction worker had identified me as the driver of the car, but obviously, I totally denied such thing claiming that I could not even reach the break and the clutch with my feet. So since it could not be me, it was plausibly my mom then that was to be blamed for the accident. My mom did not know what to say. Her oldest son had committed a traffic offence and he had no driver's license. At this point, my father stepped outside and asked what was going on. As the construction worker went to explain the incident from scratch again, the construction engineer cut him off and took my father a few feet away to discuss the matter with him in private. A few minutes later, they came back. The construction engineer had decided not to file a police report about the accident. Everyone had caught on to the fact that I was behind the wheel when the accident had happened. But out of concern for my welfare and future, the matter was to be handled on a personal level. Lucky that the engineer was not a vicious or greedy person.

The engineer along with my parents drove to a garage where my father knew a mechanic. They agreed that my father was to pay him cash the next day for the damages to his car. But since my father did not want to drag out the issue any longer than necessary, he offered the engineer five thousand toman right there and there, and the matter was closed. As for our own car, however, we got an offer to sell it due to its extensive damage. I remember how hard I prayed for the matter to be somehow resolved and for me not to land in jail. I never underestimated the consequences of driving without a license, even though my father had many contacts in the justice system. But as far as landing in prison, my fear was baseless since no kid was sent to jail for a traffic violation so long as it did not involve any fatalities. At any rate, it took a few hours before my parents were back. By the time they came back, we all had gone to our rooms, and while my siblings were asleep, I was not. I could not shut my eyes.

Funny how one finds God when life gets hard. Why doesn't one pray to God when one is happy and everything is going well? That is how it was before the revolution. People could come to agreements with each other without any difficulty. Hostility was not the order of the day and people's lives were not cheap commodities. It was not perfect then, but not so scary either.

### Part-19

Our small group of motorcyclists met frequently after school and on weekends. As usual, I would let my friends borrow my motorcycle and every time they crashed it, I would foot the bill for the repairs.

A friend of mine borrowed my motorcycle to take his girlfriend for a ride. When he got back, both the headlight and the signal light were broken. I had to buy the spare parts and pay for repairs. Even as far back as the time when I was in grade four, I used to lend my bicycle to my friends. I remember once during that period of time, I lent my bicycle to a kid in our neighbourhood, who hit the street light-pole and wrecked the front wheel of the bicycle. Even then, I took care of the damages. That was the type of person I was. And I believe that I have not changed a bit and am still the same way I was. It is unfortunate that people like me get to be taken advantage of even as adults by their so-called friends.

Another one of my characteristics is that I never forget my debts and cannot relax until I have paid them back. However, I tend to forget others' debts to me. Clearly, those who are honest pay their debts, but those who are not exploit my inattentiveness and let it be forgotten.

The first year of high school was an interesting year. I sold my small motorcycle and wanted a bigger one, or more to the point, the biggest type of motorcycle in the market. It was a Honda 750-cubic, four cylinders; why that? Well, few in my new circle of friends had that and so, I had to have it too, period.

At home, I started with the shenanigans. I kept saying that I wanted a Honda 750. My parents who at first, had no idea what I was babbling on about, got themselves familiarized with motorcycle models. Once they learned what model I was after, it was absolutely out of the question for me to have it, and there were no ifs ands or buts about it. I was way too young, in their views, to have such a big motorcycle. Indeed, I was only fifteen or sixteen years old at the time, but I knew I could handle the motorcycle since I had done a couple of test-rides with my friend's motorcycle. Determined to get them to change their mind then, I became a pest and kept going on and on about it all the time. In turn, my father kept bringing in more and more articles and court cases that had to do with motorcycle accidents. Soon, I realized that no matter what, my father was not going to budge at all. So, it was time to beseech my mom. I wanted a Honda 750 and, as for the rest, it made no difference whether it was my dad or my mom who bought it for me. I figured women are kinder than men, especially toward their children. To certain extent, I felt like it was easier to convince and persuade a mother to fulfill her children's dreams.

I was successful with Mom. I found a Honda 750 for twenty thousand toman and my mom paid for it. My father was not happy about it, but happy that it was not him who did that. My father told my mom that she would not forgive herself if anything happened to me while riding that motorcycle. But I had promised my mom to be extra cautious riding that.

Our neighbourhood had changed drastically, that ruthless neighbour was gone and many new faces had moved in. Living in the area had got a bit more cumbersome and my come and go with the motorcycle had become a bone of contention for some of the neighbours. Already as of the first day that I got the motorcycle, a neighbour complained that it made too much noise and that they could not get any peace and quiet.

That very same neighbour had also asked my father if I had ever turned in my AK47. He was referring to the fact that in a few months after the revolution, all those who had any type of weaponry in their possession were ordered to return it to the nearest mosque. No one was to be penalized or convicted of any crime, provided the weapon was handed over during the set grace period. Since he had seen the rifle the day I brought it home, and he was curious as to its whereabouts, I had no choice but to return it. As a matter of fact, I should have done that earlier. It was unlawful and, not to mention, dangerous to have it at home. One could easily be taken for an adversary and be sentenced to death for that.

Needless to say that he and a few others in our neighbourhood, who were religious, were against us right off the bat due to my parents' status in the former regime. I was not afraid though, and I knew that my father had found a few acquaintances in the new regime just in case there was a need.

The motorcycle made a lot of noise since the silencer on the exhaust system was taken out, which was a common and cool thing to do. As such, some of the neighbours' complaints were legitimate. Anyhow, I was, at that point, hanging out with older guys who had big motorcycles. None of those in my own age group had such motorcycles. Thanks to me though, they did get to experience riding such heavy and big motorcycle. As for accidents, I had many of those with my new Honda.

One such accident came about as a result of racing with another motorcyclist on the highway. I ended up colliding with a brand new BMW, whose owner was from Kuwait. I was on my way to meet a friend and I, somehow, ended up on the highway. On the highway, I came across another motorcyclist who, upon seeing me, started to rev his engine and tried to entice me to race him. Feeling a bit of an adrenalin rush, I threw caution to the air and got into a race with him. Soon, we were speeding as we were trying to pass each other. There were a lot of cars on the highway, and as I came up to a ramp, a BMW merged in to the highway without slowing down and looking first. The other motorcyclist, who was about a hundred and fifty feet ahead of me, tapped the front end of the BMW on the driver's side slightly and took off instantaneously. I, on the other hand, who was over a hundred feet behind the car, put my breaks on immediately, but I skidded and the motorcycle ended up sliding on its side with me under it, and finally coming to a full rest once it hit the back corner of the BMW on the driver's side. I was thrown up in the air and as I was rolling in the air, fully conscious, I came crashing down on the passenger door of another car, and after a few bounces I landed on the ground at last. Astonishingly enough, there seemed to be nothing wrong with me. I got up, looked around and looked at myself. I was not even in a state of shock. I then went over to my motorcycle to see how badly it had been damaged. The handlebar was slightly twisted and the shock absorbers on the front wheel were bent at about five grades backwards. I picked up the motorcycle, put the gear into neutral, and started the motorcycle. It worked. Thanks to all the crash-bars that existed on the motorcycle, I did not receive any injuries to my feet. Those are the ones that take the impact and provide a space between the ground and motorcycle's body. Moreover, those protect the fuel-tank and the rest of the motorcycle's body against damages.

While I was busy inspecting my motorcycle, the driver of the car had assumed that I was going to take off. He ran toward me the minute I started the motorcycle. However, I had to get the motorcycle off the road and in order to do so, I had to ride it to the shoulder. He was so irate that swore at me nonstop and accused me of trying to flee the scene like in a hit-and-run kind of a situation. I got so furious that not only I shouted profanities at him too, but I nearly enough got into a fistfight with him. It was a good thing that people, who had gathered at the scene of the accident, intervened; otherwise, I would have got quite a beating from him and his friend. How was a teenager to defend himself against two grownup men who were acting like bullies?

We waited until the police was sent for. Back then, there were no cell phones and no SOS-telephones on the side of the highways. A passerby driver had promised to call the police, who showed after a couple of hours. The police officer was a lieutenant who arrived on a motorcycle. No sooner had he arrived, when the car owner started his accusation against me. After listening to him, the officer, who was a wise man, told him, "He is a teenager and clearly is not capable of what you accuse him of." The officer came over to me and told me, "I can tell you don't have a license to ride a big motorcycle like this since you're way too young. If this gets to a trial, you won't fare well. It's best to come into some sort of agreement with him; even though according to traffic laws, he is at fault." What he said was true. The accident was not my fault, but it was me who did not have a driver's license.

We went to the police station so that I could call my parents. The car owner did not want me to ride my motorcycle and he insisted that I ride with the police officer to the station. He was all too worried that I would run away. The officer got eventually annoyed at him, and ordered him to stop his nonsense and to get in to his car. Once at the station, I called my mom who was at work. As soon as she picked up the phone, she asked what had happened. She said that before I got to say anything beside hello. She had a feeling that something must have happened. I calmed her down and told her about the accident. She rushed to the police station, and after talking to the police and the car owner, it was agreed that we were going to pay for the damages to the car once it was seen by a mechanic. In turn, the driver of that car was to refrain from filing a report on me. As usual, my parents got to pay for the repairs to the car and my motorcycle. I had imagined that my father would have, then, blamed my mom for having bought me the motorcycle, but he never did, not a word, at least not in front of me. That was my first accident with that motorcycle.

Like all teenagers, I did a lot of stupid things in my teens. Sometimes we do something because we think it is cool, which might turn out to be the dumbest thing ever. At the encouragements of some idiot, we get tempted and excited to do something just to prove that not only we can do it but we can do it better than everybody else. We all want to show off to others in some form or fashion.

Speaking of showing off, Iranians are experts in that regard. We Iranians have to always show that we are the best. According to the statistics done in Sweden, Ii has been reported that Iranians have ambition, feel self-important, and are materialistic. Furthermore, the statistics has shown that Iranians tend to pursue education or start a business the minute they arrive in Sweden. Iranians are noted to have the most number of radio stations and associations. I have heard from many of my Swedish friends, who have happened to be in Iranian parties, that our parties resemble the fashion-shows with everyone dressed to the nines. Unfortunately, we Iranians are just as good in being the opposite. In other words, the concept of showing off applies to even those who follow a less desirable, dishonorable path in life. A prime example of that is opium addiction and opium smuggling. Another example is abuse and fanaticism in religion. Yet another example is the inability to work together as a team and so forth.

To show off or to try to prove something to others can be detrimental. My motorcycle accident was one such case that could have ended up badly for me. I did not, unfortunately, realize that at the time. I was, once again, back to wanting new toys. Now, I wanted a car. I was not older than fifteen or sixteen and I was just in the second semester of my first year of high school. Just under that short period of time, I had bought a little 80-cubic motorcycle, a big 750-cubic motorcycle, and now I wanted a car. In the hopes that I would sell my big motorcycle and not go after another big motorcycle, my father bought a Citroen car for me that was called Jian.

That was a lot of fun. My siblings never had such desires. My sister used to read a lot and played electronic organ. My brothers were into playing with small toys and bicycling, while I wanted things that were beyond my age. I always had a lot of money on me. My allowance was always a few hundred at a minimum. There was nothing wrong with that, but it was not good either. I never learned the value of money and I never became business savvy. I do not blame anyone for that, quite the contrary, I thank my parents for having given me all they could while they could. No one knew and no one could have known that one day, we would have to flee the country and leave everything behind just like that.

My father bought me a car but I still kept my motorcycle. I used to take my siblings for a ride around the city. An area nearby was an ideal place for practicing how to drive. It was a huge asphalt field that was to become a vegetable market. My siblings and I used to drive there, do U-turns and practice all kinds of driving skills. The car became a great means of bringing us closer to each other. Thanks to that car, we spent more time together. I was at that point, going out with them more often and having fun. For that short period of time then, I interacted more with my siblings than with my friends.

### Part-20

The first year at high school went well. It could not have gone bad anyway, since we only managed to cover a fraction of the curriculum that year. Only twenty pages from each subject were all that we got to be taught. For me, it was the first year since grade four that I had the entire summer free of studying and with no thoughts of re-writing an exam. That felt wonderful.

The country was still in turmoil. Many executions were taking place on a daily basis. The regime had not yet got a strong foothold in the country. Slowly but surely though, there came new laws and prohibitions. Listening to music was forbidden except for revolutionary songs. Drinking alcohol, partying, and having fun were also forbidden. For women, the wearing of hijab or head-scarf got enforced with time. For men, they were not to wear ties or be well-dressed. No, men had to dress in the same fashion as the revolutionary guards or look shabby, and they had to have beards or be unshaven if they wanted to be left alone by the revolutionary guards or the authorities. People, who used to shave their faces, dress well and go to work, were now forced to go unshaven and be less concerned about their personal hygiene and appearance. The messier meant the more religious. That was, in effect, the regime's way of insulting the intellectuals and the highly-educated people.

I saw how a society that was driven by the ideals of modernity and one that at least on the surface, appeared to be cultured got to show its appalling fanaticism and mean-spiritedness; a society where people became callous and held grudges against one another. It was under such set of circumstances that I tried to blend in as well.

I let my beard grow; dressed in the same way the revolutionary guards did, and carried a rosary-beads with me at all times. I looked exactly like a darned revolutionary guard. It is good that I can grow a beard with no difficulty. The beard gave me the look I was going for, which was none other than a fanatic revolutionary guard.

To become one of them, one had to be invited via schools to take part in a two-day training in a new entity called Sepah, that is, the revolutionary military. I took the training and then I joined the Islamic association at my school. I did all of that so as to have some kind of proof to refute potential allegations that a neighbour or somebody else could make against us for being anti-regime. A lot of people had to also do the same things to avoid being harmed at some point in their lives. One had to be careful around others since the regime had its spies everywhere in the society.

We were being constantly extorted by those who were looking for money, or being harassed by neighbours who would report us to authorities for anything and everything like having dogs or playing music and so forth. But thanks to my new look, my membership card from the association, and my training card, I was not as much bothered even though I had a big motorcycle and drove a car in the city. At the end of the summer that year, when I had finished first year of high school, I sold both my motorcycle and my car.

### Part-21

In those days, the video-players had just started to be imported to Iran. It was the Betamax system. That was quite a novelty back then. I remember for example the first color-television sets. We were one of the first ones to get that.

I remember one day when I came home from school and saw a new television in our living room. My mom said that my uncle had sent it to us. Later that day, two technicians came to our house and installed the new antenna and set it up. Back then, it was only channel two that used to play a few movies in color, something that the T.V. host would announce ahead of time. It was very expensive to have a color-television in the beginning, but it became cheaper over time until the revolution. After the revolution, everything became expensive. There were three channels during Shah's time: channel one which was a national channel, channel two with its transmission being received only in Tehran and the close by cities, and a channel three which broadcasted programs in English language which could only reach the capital city, Tehran. Channel two used to show a lot of American movies and was a more modern T.V. channel. It so happened that the latter also showed erotic movies that upset many people specially, the religious ones. Many families refrained from buying a television until after the revolution. The religious figures had boycotted television and radio during Shah's time.

The radio was not entirely banned however, since there were more channels to choose from on the radio that they were on the television. There was no FM-radio though. All that existed was MW (medium wave) and SW (short wave) frequencies. The FM came a few years before the revolution which aired a lot of music and great programmes.

In the aftermath of the revolution, there were not a lot of new products getting imported into the country; rather, they were mostly smuggled in. The luxury items were completely forbidden to be imported. Even banana, which was an imported item, could not be imported any longer. The same rule applied to video-players. When they surged in the market, they cost an arm and a leg, something to the tune of fifty to eighty thousand toman. Darius's father had just bought one.

Darius's family were not religious, but they did inadvertently partake in the revolution. In the interim, they would buy a video-player, make home-brewed alcohol, and throw parties in secret. As a result of the prohibition of alcohol post-revolution, there were many who had managed to acquire a primitive still of a sort whereby, they could brew alcohol at home. Darius's family was one of those and unfortunately, one of their sons ended up paying a heavy price because of that. One day, they had brewed wood alcohol, that is, methanol, when they had made home-made wine from dried grapes.

I was not there when the tragic event had taken place. That had come about a few years after I had come to Sweden. I got to hear about what had befallen Darius's brother from a friend of mine who used to write to me. Darius's brother who had drank that poisonous wine had died the very same night. There were many who went blind by drinking home-brewed alcohol and many others who lost their lives. People used to even buy moonshine from others since it was expensive to buy smuggled liqueur on the black-market.

In the aftermath of the revolution, the country's currency lost more and more of its value with each passing day. The prices of goods also fluctuated from one day to another. At Shah's time, one toman was equivalent to one Swedish crown. Furthermore, one could buy one American dollar for seven toman, and one English pound for thirteen toman. However after the revolution, there was a lack of confidence in the country and its currency. Consequently, one had to pay 1800 toman to buy one American dollar and 180 toman for one Swedish crown. That was partially the fault of so many who unwittingly helped turned the country upside down.

### Part-22

Now that Darius's father had bought a video-player, I got interested to buy one as well. I have to say that my parents had other things to do rather than thinking about money specially, the cost of the items on my wish-list; a list which became longer over time. As I got older, the list became longer and more expensive.

In the new Islamic regime, everything was rationed. Adults and elderly got to spend a lot of their time in different line-ups for grocery if they did not have enough money to buy what they needed in the black-market. But even those with money had other things to worry about. For example, how would they preserve their wealth and safe-guard their money. My parents had to go to many authorities to explain where and how they had acquired their fortune. Those were the days of confiscation of people's assets and inspection of people's finances.

Then, came a time for the mandatory participation in a variety of the country's one-sided and undemocratic elections for this and that. Failing to participate in the elections had severe consequences. I was not that old, but I understood quite a lot more than others thought. I remember when Shah had formed his own political party, which was called Rastakhiz, he made it clear to people that his party was the only party people should join, and since we lived in a supposedly democratic country, those who did not want to join that party had to leave the country. Quite a leader, how ridiculous can one be? Was that one of his own bright ideas or did he get that idea from one his idiot subjects? Why should anyone who did not want to be a member of that party have to leave the country? It was, nevertheless, the way it was and so, things turned out the way they did.

I got my video-player after I sold my motorcycle and my car. Darius's family knew an under-wraps video store that rented out foreign movies. On a side-note, all foreign films are dubbed in Iran, which I believe is dumb because one does not become familiar with another language. It is much smarter to use subtitles for foreign films instead, which happens to be the case in Sweden. After the revolution, there were not that very many foreign movies on television anymore and the odd ones that were shown were mostly from China's or Japan's film industries. However, the movies that were rented out came in its original language. Many video stores had to operate in secret since they were deemed unlawful. As such, any video that had been banned from the mainstream market had to be smuggled in, and behind every smuggled item, there was someone in the system that stood to profit.

Insofar as corruption is concerned, it applied to the state of affairs in Shah's time and all the regimes prior to that as well. Shah's family were fast to take as much as they could for themselves. Perhaps, it is human's nature to look after his or her own interest. As I said before, we Iranians take things too far.

A prime example is Shah who was the head of the state. His father did not have anything, not even a penny, when he took over power in Iran. So, the Pahlavi family were not rich by virtue of inheriting wealth from one generation to another. However, when Shah fled the country, his overseas assets were estimated to be eight billion dollars. And that was just Shah's possessions and not his relatives or the courtiers around him.

It is the same thing that goes on at present as well. Those who were supposedly going to provide a better life for Iranian people specially, the impoverished, deprive the people and send money to other Muslim countries or stash it in their own bank accounts to the point that one day, the financial system will collapse. But when and how, no one knows! Undoubtedly, everyone wants to be rich, but the question is at what price? Money is an interesting subject. People have devised a piece of paper with different patterns that is called money, over which people are willing to abandon their families and friends, kill one another, go to war, and commit so many other awful acts.

By no means, am I claiming to be a better human being. After all, that would be contradictory to the contemporary view whereby based on my origin, I am automatically placed in the same category as people who are known as barbaric at best, and terrorist at worst. I not only come from the Third World, I am also, unfortunately, a refugee.

### Part-23

Now there was a new thing I had got into, that is, watching lots and lots of movies. I bought a video-player and saw a few hundred movies with my siblings. Some nights, we stayed up till dawn and watched movies. I had also made new friends. But Adel and Darius were two of the first ones whom I stayed friends with throughout all the years.

Certain things are interesting in a teenager's life. I talked about my first love, Soheila, whom I fell in love with for a short period of time in my third grade. A few years later when I was in sixth grade, I became very fond of Adel's sister, Nasreen; a feeling which lasted for two years. She was a soft-spoken, pretty girl with long dark hair who was three years older than me and also, taller than me. I fell for her out of nowhere after many years of knowing her. Once I got interested in Nasreen, my relationship with Adel changed as I started to visit him a lot more. I would go over, ring the door-bell, and hope that Nasreen would answer the door before I get to see Adel. Inevitably, nothing could ever come out of that relationship especially since I was also very shy. For me, that was just a dream and that is where our relationship remained. After the eighth grade, I was no longer in love with her, but still had a lot of respect for her.

Being young and in love, I remember an embarrassing day when I made a fool of myself. Nasreen was on her way out somewhere, and I, who wanted to impress her, took my big motorcycle and tried to catch up with her. I tried to pass her so she could see me, but since I was nervous, I lost control of my motorcycle and landed on a pile of gravel in front a half-built house. My luck, she had got there right when the incident happened. It was her who helped me up and brushed off the dust of my jacket. How bizarre was that? Instead of impressing her, I had made a fool of myself.

As mentioned before, I was no longer in love with Nasreen. For once, I felt a sense of freedom since for as long as I could remember, I was always in love with someone and daydreaming the whole time. According to my sister, I was, and perhaps still am, an idealist. From the primary school onward, I was in love with first Soheila, then Romina who was my classmate in grade six, and then Nasreen.

So for a while there was no one and it felt nice not to have to be preoccupied with the matters of heart. At that time, I was into watching movies and enjoying my time. Foreign movies only existed in the underground video-stores which were hidden in an office building and had their own set of clienteles. Since I was a kind of a person who used to make friends easily, and had many friends who in turn had other friends, I got to know a new guy who was called Omid. I became friends with Omid straight away even though I did not know him very well. He lived in the same residential area as I. His father was a retired lawyer and his mom was a retired mathematics teacher. Omid had a younger and an older sister and a younger brother. His father used to smoke opium, an addiction that had impacted their finances. In the first couple of months of our friendship, it was Omid who used to come over to my place. We used to sit watch movies together and chat. It was during that time that I was mostly home and not going out as much, thanks to the video-player. Omid knew a lot of people. He was worse than me in that regard.

After a few months, I got tired of watching videos. The novelty had worn off and I needed something new. In addition to having lost interest, my father had also purchased a video-player. Thus, I decided to sell my own video-player. When I told Omid about that, he asked me to lend him the video-player for a while and let him sell it for me. As usual, I went along with his proposal and together we took the video to his home; something that later, I wished I had not done.

It was a warm autumn day when Omid and I took the video-player and headed toward his place. The minute we stepped in his home, I saw his older sister, Arezu. I was smitten as soon as I laid eyes on her. From that moment on, I could not stop thinking about her; no one else seemed to exist but her. I was deeply in love. Without even remembering how I set up the video-player, I left their place after a few hours. On the way home, I was so mad at the whole world for having met her and fallen for her when it was obvious that our relationship would not go anywhere at all. I was seventeen and as my luck would have it, she was a few years older than me. What was I to do then? I had just got over another emotional entanglements and now, I was back to square one. Despite being aware of how futile the situation was, I could not shake the feeling.

From the day I met Omid's sister, I started going out a lot again, but not just anywhere rather, to their place and their area. By using any excuse I could, I went over there practically every day. My friendship with Omid became more intense since I met his sister. Omid had a lot of friends who used to hang around in front of his house day and night. I also became a member of that group which consisted of surely fifty people. Most of them knew me from the time I had my Honda 750, but we got to know one another better during the period of time when I was visiting Ali more frequently. I remember hanging around at the crossing by Omid's place every day from ten in the morning to two o'clock the next morning. During schooldays, we used to get together in the afternoons.

### Part-24

I was now in my second year at high school and fall-semester was drawing to a close. Since I had no intentions of re-writing an exam in summer time, I studied hard and did my homework on time. That was the promise I had made to myself at the start of high school and at least, I had so far managed to keep my promise despite all the daydreaming I used to do.

In the first semester, my parents realized that I was having difficulty with mathematics. They hired a private tutor to help me in mathematics at home. The tutor happened to be an extremely qualified person. He was a highly educated statistician who had been imprisoned and tortured during Shah's time due to his communist ideologies and affiliations. He was hunched over like an umpteen years old individual due to the physical tortures he had endured. He was only thirty-five years old, but he looked a lot older than his age. He was a fine teacher and a competent one.

Outside of the school arena, life was going on as per norm. Omid sold my video-player after a few months for twenty-three thousand toman, but he lied to me and gave me only nineteen thousand toman. I knew that the video-player was worth more than that, and that I had been swindled. I felt so stupid to let someone cheat me, but I let him get away with it out of my feelings for his sister. I lost money every time I made a deal. I could never make money on anything, and I was not capable of lying or deceiving anyone for financial gains.

As the new semester of the second year of high school started, I wanted a new motorcycle. So as usual, I started going on about it at home, telling my parents that I wanted a motorcycle. I feel for parents since they have to put up with a lot sometimes. This time, it was my father's turn to buy me a motorcycle. I found a top-model, brand new Honda 750 motorcycles that had just been imported to Iran. I decided to get one of those. My father did not object to it as much this time around. From what my mom told me, I used to always get what I wanted.

My mom told me about a time when I was just in first grade, how I put my foot down and insisted on having an electric-car toy that I had seen in the window of a toy-store. How I had threatened not to go to school if that was not bought for me. I was apparently spoiled. I remember myself how a few years later, I wanted a projector that I got at last along with a few movies like Zorro that were silent movies in black and white. Generally speaking, I always got everything I wanted and cannot really remember a time when I did not.

I bought my new motorcycle. This one was quiet since I had not removed the muffler from the exhaust. During that period of time, I was mostly going out with Omid and another friend called Morad. Morad's father was a retired teacher and prior to that, he had worked as an agent in Shah's secret police, a type of work that had got him into a lot of trouble after the revolution. Morad's mother was a nurse, and she was a few years older than his father. Age difference is a type of a subject that is very much talked about in Iran.

In Iran, the norm is for women to be a few years younger than men, which is preferably a minimum of five years. Couples that did not fall into that category would be considered out of the norm and thus, becoming the talk of the town. In accordance with the sharia law, a man can have four wives and forty common-in-laws at any one time. But since that concept was no longer logical in the modern times, it was legislated that only under certain conditions a man could have two wives. The first condition was that the first wife had to agree to her husband's second marriage. Barring that, a second condition had to be met in order for the husband to be granted permission to marry for a second time and that had to do with the first wife's state of health. More specifically, the first wife had to either suffer from a mental illness or to be unable to get pregnant for that provision to be satisfied. Insofar as having forty common-in-laws was concerned, the practice was curbed radically during Shah's time. With regard to the notion of age difference, there were clearly no written laws about that; rather, it implicitly existed as a social norm. I remember once I read in a newspaper that in a small village somewhere in Iran, a man at the age of a hundred-and-eighteen had married an eighteen-year-old girl. Another time, there was an article about a twenty-year-old guy who had married a fifty-year-old woman, which became quite a gossip and sensation. So, the age difference between Morad's parents was also of that nature.

### Part-25

Ever since going out with Omid on a more frequent basis, I had acquired many new friends. It might sound odd, but in Iran, guys get together with guys and girls hang around with girls. That was the case even in Shah's time albeit, to a lesser extent. Iranians are extremely vigilant when it comes to their daughters. A girl has to be a virgin when she is getting married for the first time. Given the mentality then, going out with guys would be considered a risky proposition. The social interaction between boys and girls became much more restricted or better put, forbidden after the revolution. I guess that explains why my friends were mostly guys. Even when I was a kid at a private mixed school, it was not a given that one could interact with someone of the opposite sex during after school hours.

Through Omid, I came to know many including a guy who was two years older than me and came from a rich family, and with whom I am still in contact. His name was Ramin. He was the only one who enjoyed the same level of financial freedom as I did. His father was a constructional engineer and his mother was a housewife. They were well-off. Ramin had no need to ask anyone for anything. He had everything he wanted. Furthermore, he was smart in doing business, as well when it came to friendships. He knew a lot of people but kept his interactions to a moderate level and stayed away from those he did not like.

I used to invite my friends to lunch or dinner at different restaurants and pay the bill for about ten or fifteen people as if I was the CEO of a big conglomerate. Given my affection for Omid's sister, Omid and his brother always got what they wanted from me. For instance, they got to borrow my motorcycle for a few days. They borrowed money from me without worrying to pay it back. The reason is that, on top of everything else, I was also a shy person who was embarrassed to ask for my money back.

The country's political state was still unstable and there were more social and religious rules being implemented. But suddenly, something new happened; something that, at once, affected the lives of people in an even more negative fashion. Up until then, we had to put up with the revolutionary guards and the horrors thereof, which got to be compounded by another more terrifying situation. Life was about to become much gloomier for people.

The second year of high school went without a hitch. There was no need to re-write any exams all thanks to my private math-tutor. As a matter of fact, I did so well that year that I even volunteered to write my exam in natural sciences subject earlier than scheduled. So when it came to the regular examination session in the foregoing subject, I went and wrote the test for someone else. That was my first and last time cheating at school, even though, it was not for my own benefit; rather, it was for the benefit of a classmate.

There was a guy who was religious but not fanatic. He had difficulty in natural sciences subject and when it came to the test, he asked if I could take the test for him. Given that I had already done my test ahead of time, I agreed to do that for him. I did it despite the fact that it could have ended up badly for both of us, but particularly for me. I guess I felt sorry for him since he already knew he had failed in a few subjects, for which he had to be re-tested during summer, and he wanted to at least have one less to deal with in summer time. I was lucky that the natural sciences teacher, who clearly knew me, was not present at the examination hall and the invigilators, who oversaw the examination, did not know me from Adam.

School was over and summer had arrived. I was as usual hanging around with Omid. One day at his place, at around two o'clock in the afternoon, we heard two loud bangs in the city. I along with Omid and a couple of other friends who were sitting in Omid's living room, rushed outside to see what in the world had happened. All the neighbours were also out trying to figure out what that was. Omid's father turned the radio on when we heard the air-raid sirens; a sound which up to that point, we had only heard in war movies. Moreover an announcement came over the radio advising people to stay in their homes and indoor. A few hours later, Iran declared war on Iraq. The loud bang we heard was from the bombing of Mehrabad airport in Tehran by the Iraqi bombers.

Early the next morning, I, accompanied by Omid and a few others, tagged along with a guy called Mohammad and his family to the airport. Mohammad was from a rich family. His father was a businessman in the bazaar and he rolled in money. They were a religious family. Mohammad, whom I came to know through Omid, was an economist but not in an academic sense; rather, by virtue of his grasp of financial matters. He was careful on how he spent his money to the point that he had a little notebook in which he would jot down his expenses, and then, tally up his expenditure at the end of each month. Mohammad's father wanted to send him to Switzerland to study economy. So we were at the airport that day to see him off. He was lucky to have left that day since the airport got shut down the following day and all overseas flights got cancelled. For that matter, all borders were sealed off and no one was allowed to travel abroad. Therefore, those who were planning to fly overseas saw their plans get derailed, and those who were trying to fly back home had to return by land transportation via land-crossing checkpoints.

My mom was in Italy when the air attack and subsequently, the airport closure happened. The horror that we felt during that ordeal was nothing compared to that of my mom's. The telephone connection with overseas was totally cut off. To make matters worse, the reports about the outbreak of war that were published in foreign media were no better than what was being reported by the local media inside the country. While we were being fed a whole bunch of lies though our own media, the overstatement of the news in the foreign media had painted such a bleak picture that those overseas thought the country was completely ruined and no house was left standing.

### Part-26

When the attack happened, everyone panicked. No one was prepared for or accustomed to war and no one knew what it was. The whole world was scared. I remember calling home immediately to see if my siblings were O.K. My father was at work at the time. He had called home before I did. I was not that far away from home. It would have taken me about ten minutes to get home. But instead, I stayed at Omid's place. It was not just me but many other friends who were at Omid's home.

All afternoon, we were bombarded by the news about Iraq's aggression and how courageously the revolutionary guards and the military had averted the attack. That was a boldfaced lie since Iraq had succeeded to invade the western part of the country and had caught Iran off-guard by launching the air-raids. Iraq had the best military equipment while Iran was weak due to so many internal problems. Iraqi forces had seized so much land that it enabled them to launch an air attack on Tehran from within the country.

In the evening, it got worse. The Iranian regime took advantage of the situation and issued a blackout order. Cars were not to turn their lights on. While driving, cars were to cover their headlights with a blue filter. At home, windows had to be covered so no light would penetrate through them. The first night, the city was in total darkness. There was constant firing of anti-air missiles from various defence establishments. The air-raid sirens went off repeatedly warning people of imminent air attacks. The entire ordeal made people frightened beyond belief. There were now talks about holy war against an enemy who wanted to defeat the Islamic regime. Thus, the number one priority for the regime was to fight the evil of Saddam.

There were many scary nights to follow. During the first month, there was a real circus going on every day. There was a sense of fear and melancholy as soon as the darkness fell.

It did not take more than a week before Mom got home. She had to fly to Bulgaria then, take the bus from there to Turkey, and change bus a few more times in order to get back home. After all, there were no longer any flights to or from Iran.

One night when the sky was lit up with the spark of anti-air-missiles, I was standing on the balcony. Suddenly, I heard someone knocking on the big metal-door of our front yard. Due to cutting off of electricity during air-raids, the doorbell was not working. From the balcony, I yelled out asking who it was. I was horrified since I had no idea who was at the door.

Anything can happen when there is chaos. There were thieves who used the situation to rob people. There were murderers and rapists who now had an excellent opportunity to act on their sick impulses. One wondered where the police and the paramedics were. There was pure pandemonium. It was a hellish nightmare that up until then, one had only seen in movies. Who knew that one day, one was going to experience such horror in reality.

The minute I asked who it was at the door, I heard my mom's voice saying, "Open, it's me." We all rushed to the door together and opened the door. She was so happy to see that we were safe and sound, and we were so glad to see her back. It felt safer now when both Mom and Dad were home. Mom told us what she had heard and seen in Bulgaria and Turkey in reference to the war. She had seen how Iraqi forces had massacred people and occupied one area after another. Based on the news, she was not sure if we had survived the air-raids.

It was much calmer during the day. The daylight gave everyone a sense of safety. Clearly there was less risk of being attacked from the air during the daytime verses night-time.

I was at my father's office one day when two Iraqi bombers attacked the oil-refinery in the south of Tehran. However, they were both shot down later outside of Tehran.

It was indeed dark hours. The rationing of goods became even more tangible which left people feeling more agitated and frustrated. Men from the age of fifteen all the way to the age of ninety were being recruited in the military to fight the so-called holy war. Many from impoverished families enlisted voluntarily. Public collection agencies of diverse kind were created. With the exception of the religious folks who gave voluntarily, everyone else was forced to donate food items, medication, clothes, money, and jewelry to support the war efforts and the war-ravaged areas. Many people were displaced as a result of losing their houses and properties in the attacks.

People came to Tehran in droves from all parts of the country be it, places that were ruined in war or those that were not. Life became even more burdensome. After the revolution, many people's properties were confiscated and subsequently donated to or taken over by the needy families. Being destitute, many had no clue what purpose a toilet-bowl served. As such, the toilet-bowls were used for washing clothes. The bidets in bathrooms, on the other hand, were thought of as water tanks hence, water consumption out of that. A lot of nice buildings and beautiful places were turned into a jungle due to the lack of care and maintenance by people who were now occupying them. It was not the people who were at fault; rather, the Shah's regime that did nothing to raise the standard of living for all during fifty years of domination. Shah's concept of modernization centred mostly around buying weapons and gaining nuclear power. The sad state of affairs for so many was the main line of criticism for those like Mosadegh, Khomeini, and the opposition in general.

One can appreciate the fact that a country requires a standing military for its defence hence, certain expenditures to that effect. That which is unfathomable, however, is the stealing, cheating, and lining of one's pocket at the expense of many who are deprived of even the most basic necessities in life. When so many were left to their own devices and left to fend for themselves, over time, their anger boiled over to the point that it ultimately, led to the demise of the Shah's regime. Shah should have tried to eradicate illiteracy and combat massive poverty that existed in many places across the country. Had he addressed those issues better perhaps, there might have been a different outcome. Under the new regime, on the other hand, quite the opposite was done, in that, the underprivileged were extemporaneously parachuted into the world of the wealthy; an approach that proved to be equally ineffective and irresponsible. Those who were housed in such places had difficulty adjusting to that style of living and were completely out of their comfort zone.

A person who used to go around on a mule to sell vegetables, who lived in a rundown single room and had a little stable for his mule, was now living in a luxurious two-bedroom apartment in the north of Tehran. He and his family of eight were living in a couple of rooms now along with their mule. Where else was he supposed to keep his mule? Not having seen a bathroom or in the habit of regular bathing, they ended up filling up the bathtub with hay and turned the bathroom into a barn for the mule. There were many such examples all over the place.

The housing of people from war-torn areas into all sorts of accommodation became more hectic with every passing day. The number of families who were relocating to Tehran from other towns and cities was on the rise. Not only those who were impacted by war moved to Tehran, but also those who were struggling in many parts of the country came to Tehran. Mass migration to Tehran had warranted the use of any and all types of buildings for lodging purposes.

In Tehran, there was a luxurious five-star hotel called Continental Hotel in the north of the city. A large group of people from the city of Abadan and its surrounding villages were placed in that hotel. In a short few months, the hotel became a ghost-town. The expensive wall-to-wall carpet of the hotel was burned down when people had started fire in their rooms for the purposes of cooking. As a result of that and a series of other bizarre events that had taken place there, the building was in ruins.

The number of break-ins, fights, rapes, and assaults rose dramatically in those areas and those who lived in or nearby those areas were negatively impacted. The cost of living was also on the rise irrespective of where one lived. The only thing that was front and centre was war, and to win the war was the most pressing and the most sacred preoccupation.

The horror that was felt in the first few weeks immediately after the outbreak of war eventually subsided. First, it became obvious that it was not as easy for Iraq to attack Tehran as it had been purported. Second, Iran quickly mobilized an army of people from all ages to counter Iraq's military aggression. Last but not least, the war became such a regular part of the everyday life that people got used to living with it. It is amazing how people can easily adapt to a new situation.

After a while, it became easier to deal with the new realities of life. Now the war had become just another ordinary part of living, and we just had to be thankful that Tehran was no longer a battle-ground as it had once become. Travelling in and out of Iran by air was still suspended and the borders remained closed off. By enforcing the foregoing rules, the regime ensured that no boy was shipped out of Iran that was either of the military service age or close to that. In the main, it was the war that had the highest priority.

### Part-27

When the situation returned to what had become the new normal, that is, people were not as scared of war as they once were, I also started to carry on with my life like everyone else. I sold my second big motorcycle and I commenced the third year of high school. I was still in love with Omid's sister. But now I was spending more time with Ramin verses with my other friends. Ramin was a loyal friend. He was well-off. He had everything. He did not have to cheat anyone out of anything, and he was honest. We had a lot of fun together. We could go anywhere without worrying about how much it was going to cost. In many instances, either each of us paid for himself, or we split the bill. That was a new phenomenon for me. I had found someone who wanted to be my friend not for my money or toys, but because we had something in common which was equal financial status and much more importantly, a respect for friendship. I was a food -lover, a foodie. I was also a type of person who loved to hang around with my friends almost round the clock. So my friends knew that there were a lot of perks in hanging around with me like driving a car, riding a motorcycle, and getting free lunch or dinner, among other things. It was a given that I would foot the bill when I was out with my friends. I used to spend money like it was going out of style.

The third year of high school was a tough one for me. During my four years of high school, I interacted with a lot of my classmates, but that went on mostly during the school terms. The friendships that were made in school did not last long; they were just short-term friendships.

One classmate that I was in touch with for the entire four years at high school, who was called Kaveh, was originally from Tabriz, a city that is in the northwest of Iran. People in that city speak Turkish, and it is the very same city that my grandfather was from. Kaveh was a simple, shy, and quiet guy who came from a simple family. His father owned a toy store together with his uncle. I never met the rest of his family. Kaveh was a great classmate. He was not a super-student but he was a successful one. He and I studied together a lot and quizzed each other constantly. He was smarter than I. He used to make good notes from the course material to better prepare for tests, and thanks to him sharing those with me, I did well in my exams as well.

During those four years of studying together, not once did he ever ask to ride my motorcycle. He neither asked to borrow money from me, nor did he let me pay for something for him. He was an honourable guy who worked in a glass factory every summer so as to have his own money for the following school year. He did not come from a rich family.

At the start of the new semester, one had started to feel a little older. I was in my third year of high school and as such, I was very proud to be successfully, halfway through the high school. One thought made me particularly happy. Considering that I was not a fan of school or studying, I was happy that there were no universities anymore. The fact was that all colleges and universities were shut down after the revolution. The regime was afraid of new uprising and historically, the university students had always had a role to play in every uprising. Therefore to avoid any future problems, the regime did not let the universities to open up. All the former university students who were sitting in limbo either joined the military or went to work in the black-market.

After the revolution in Iran, any guy who had not completed his mandatory military service could not get a job, buy a property, or get married. So life was hell for those who did not want to serve in the military out of the fear of ending up in the war-zones. Considering the escalation of war, there was a huge requirement for troops in the front lines. There was active recruitment of even students at primary, secondary, and high school levels to join the religious military called Basij.

Nevertheless, I was glad that there was no more studying after high school. I remember how I used to think to myself that after high school, I would be free like a bird, yippee. One can be so childish at times. In front of my relatives, however, I used to pretend to be upset that universities were closed down.

### Part-28

Somehow I managed to finish the third year of high school hanging by the skin of my teeth. Why by the skin of my teeth? Because I took a two-month break from school right in the middle of the winter semester. I had bought a new motorcycle, a Suzuki 1000-cubic, only a few months after I had sold my other motorcycle in such a big hurry.

The fall semester had gone uneventful, but right in the beginning of the winter session, we started a major renovation at our house as a result of which, we had to live in another one of our properties further north of Tehran. I convinced my father to let me carry on the job after school. But in fact, I cut classes for two months and did not go to school at all. The schools could not care less about students' attendance anymore. It was not like the old days when someone would call the parents and ask where a student was.

In order to buy my Suzuki 1000, I got my dad to give me sixty thousand toman. He gave me the money under the condition that I go with my mom to buy the motorcycle and put it in her name. Out of pure stupidity, I trusted a new friend called Gholam, who worked at a fast-food restaurant, and left the money with him. The reason I left the money there is that I was going to purchase the motorcycle from a mutual friend of Gholam and me, who was called Ehsan and who also worked at that restaurant.

The way it happened was that I went to Gholam the very same day I got all that money from my father. With a pocket full of money, I was so happy that I was going to buy my new and big motorcycle. When I got to the fast-food restaurant, I even saw the owner whose name was Mirza. Mirza, the owner, was an older man and, from what came to light later on, a mobster who was into smuggling weapons and narcotics and was involved in prostitution. I got to know all of that a few months after I had broken contact with him when I saw his picture along with supposedly one of his prostitutes in a newspaper. As per the newspaper's article, they were both arrested and executed. At any rate, that day, Mirza was on his way to another city with another guy who was his friend and a woman. Mirza and I were not unfriendly with each other, but for some reason, I was a bit cautious with him. We had sat and drank together a couple of times. He was not a drug-addict and he used to always advise me not to ever use drugs. In any case, he turned around that day and asked if I wanted to tag along with them and I thought why not. On my way out then, I gave the money to Gholam and asked him to put it in the restaurant's cash-register until the following day.

We got on the road and we were stopped twice by the revolutionary guards before getting to the other city. Mirza who wore a pilot uniform and carried a fake military ID card, told the guards calmly on both occasions that he was on his way to a military base with his wife and two friends who wanted a ride to the same city. The guards bought his story both times.

We got to the other city. His friend was not home and he did not have a key to get in. He decided to check into a hotel. Mirza drove the car into a ditch and let mud cover the car as much as possible. Then he and the other guy went and dipped their feet in the mud. Then we drove off to the hotel. At the hotel, he told the receptionist that he was heading for Tehran but since the car ended up in a ditch, he was exhausted and could not drive in the middle of the night. He convinced them that he was in the military and he was travelling with his wife and two of his friends. The hotel had only one room with five beds which we got. I could not believe how easily people were fooled. In hindsight, if things had not worked out, there would have been flogging, imprisonment, or even death-sentence due to Mirza's background, which was all unbeknown to me at the time.

Once in the room, I came to realize that Mirza and his friend wanted to have sex with that woman, who was not older than twenty. I was appalled when he even asked me if I was interested, to which I responded no. In the interim, I was worried about a school exam that I had to take the following day. So using that as an excuse, I asked Mirza if he would drive me back to Tehran early in the morning. I guess deep down inside, I did not feel comfortable being around them. Although, at times, I had caused headaches for myself and my family, thanks to my parents' advice and open discussions, I was fully aware of certain things. To have sexual relationship with someone for a momentary pleasure is not worth suffering undesirable consequences like, sexually transmitted diseases, unwanted pregnancies, and extortion. There was no telling how such situations would pan out in a country where laws were so strict that one could even be stoned to death.

So the day after I was back in the classroom writing my exam, which did not go well. But that was not a big deal since it was only a mid-term test. In Iran's education system, there are three opportunities to pass a test. The marks from all three exams get added up and once the average is calculated, it gets inserted in the report card as the final mark. Therefore, if one had got a low mark in one or a few courses during the first or second examination, one could still make up for that in the third exam in order to pass the course.

After I took the exam, I went to Gholam to get the money back. He said there was a break in the night before and the money was gone. Since I had no idea what to do, I did not dare tell my father the news. However, since I was supposed to go with my mom to the ministry of transportation to register the motorcycle's title, my mom noticed that something was not right. I finally explained to my mom what had happened. She informed my father, and a friend of my father, who worked in the criminal investigation department, took Gholam in for questioning.

After a month, it became clear that Gholam had taken the money and had used that money to pay for his wedding, which had taken place the following day. I was aware that Gholam wanted to get married and that he did not have money to do so. It was naïve of me to have trusted someone who was in need of money with a large sum of cash. Gholam and his fiancé had been together for a few years. She was a teacher who also took care of her old father and mother with her meager salary.

My parents did not want to put him behind bars so, they came up with a plan for him to pay back the money in installments. Gholam only paid the first installment and then nothing more. My father let him off the hook since he did not want to cause him any pain. I, on the other hand, got money from my father again and bought the motorcycle.

Those two months of skipping school was the reason I did badly in my mid-term test, but I managed to compensate for that in my final exam.

I kept in touch with Mirza for only a short while and mostly from a distance. On a couple of occasions, I had got together with him and his friends, some of which used to smoke dope. I have never tried it and will never do so either. I never felt the need to try anything like that in my life. My friends came from all walks of life, and I believe I must have had a guardian angel looking out for me. I have my parents to thank for not ever getting into drugs, alcohol, or misconduct. They were caring parents who were open to talk about different issues and give us sound advice. Even if some of my so-called friends were not the right type, I always managed to keep my eyes open and stay away from them.

I was free to go anywhere I wanted and I got a lot of money from my parents. The same was true in my siblings' case. We had everything we wanted. But one thing I did not have was a sense of business, which is perhaps something that one is born with, or one acquires growing up in a business-oriented environment. My father was surely not a businessman. He had inherited his wealth. Same went for my mom. For when we had to leave everything we had behind us and start anew in Sweden, we could not make any money in any business we got ourselves into. Back in Iran, I lost money every time I made a deal. But back then, I was only a kid. When I bought my Suzuki 1000 with the money my father gave me for the second time, I promised myself that from then on, I should be more careful with spending money.

I was upset with what Gholam had done and wanted nothing to do with him. After the whole ordeal, I broke contact with him completely.

During the third year of high school, I did not have any major problems except for having to read a bit more to catch up with the material. That year was over and there was only one more year to go. After that, I would be free from school or at least, that is what I thought.

That summer, I came up with new ideas. I wanted to buy a new motorcycle again, but not just any motorcycle. I had seen a different Suzuki that was custom-built hence, very different. I could trade in my motorcycle and pay the difference in order to buy that one.

I used to ride to the Caspian Sea a lot with a group of friends who had motorcycles. There used to be five or ten of us going each time. We used to go through a lot riding our motorcycles. One big problem was the fear of the guards and the officials of people riding big motorcycles since they had been attacked by some motorcyclists who were anti-regime. Clearly it was easier to maneuver on a motorcycle in tight streets and traffic jams in a city of nine million. The regime therefore, tried to come up with any which way they could to stop people from owning big and fast motorcycles. For me, it had become routine to be either stopped and checked by a revolutionary guard, or be taken to their station. The police force had no powers and could not do anything. It was the revolutionary guards who had all the powers and could do whatever they wanted. To avoid being harassed by the guards, one of my friends, who also had a big motorcycle, had to seek help from his uncle who was high up in the new regime.

One evening, a few friends of mine and I rode our motorcycles to somewhere north of Tehran. As usual, there was a lot of traffic. We had to veer off constantly and go in and out of lanes. We came across another group of motorcyclists, six of them to be exact, who were heading the same direction as us. It did not take long before we decided to go together as a bigger group. We decided to go to a trendy pizzeria north of Tehran. One of them in that group did not have his motorcycle registration on him, so, he opted not to come with us. After all if we were stopped by the guards, he would have got into trouble for not having his registration on him. We, however, convinced him to come along and if there was any problems, it could be sorted out by contacting the uncle of that friend of mine who could take care of the issue.

We rode to the pizzeria and parked our motorcycles in front of the store. We went in and placed our orders. We had not even got our orders yet when two military vehicles with two squads of armed guards showed up and in a blink of an eye, every motorcycle was surrounded by two guards. We all rushed out of the pizzeria toward our motorcycles. When I got to mine, the guard asked if that was mine. I nodded and asked what that was about. He demanded to see my ID card and the motorcycle's registration. I handed those over to him. He told me to get on the motorcycle and follow him to the station. For that matter, everyone was ordered to go to the station. It appeared that if we had not come out when we did, they would have confiscated our bikes. Behind every rider sat a guard with his rifle pointed at the rider, just in case anyone decided to run off. Unfortunately for us, one of the riders in that second group managed to flee by doing a take-off which knocked the guard off the back of the bike, at which point he rode away in a high speed. That made the guards sticking their rifles in our faces and warning us that we would be shot if we tried anything like that. In any case, I was not scared. I felt confident. The only thing I was worried about was them confiscating the bike.

We rode carefully to the station. Station, what a station! It was a first-rate bungalow that was confiscated from some poor guy who had either fled the country or had been executed by the regime. A huge house with a big outdoor swimming pool in the backyard. Modern and fully furnished with everything one wanted. There, we went through a lengthy questioning session as to who we were, where we came from and so much more. In the interim, my friend finally managed to convince them to let him make a phone call. He called his uncle. After hanging up with his uncle, he turned around to us and told us that we were going to be rescued. About forty minutes after his phone conversation, his uncle showed up accompanied by another guy, and he asked to speak with the revolutionary guards' station chief. After their conversation, we were let go and we got our motorcycles back as well.

The uncle, however, could not provide any assistance to the other group we had met on our way. Inevitably, neither the uncle nor we had any knowledge about them or their backgrounds and naturally, no one wanted to stick their necks out for people they did not know. I felt really sorry for them particularly, the one who did not have his registrations on him. He had claimed that the motorcycle's registration had got burned in a fire. Who could prove or deny that? We had no choice but to leave them.

After that incident, I found a great contact, which was my friend's uncle who happened to recognize my mom. He was a pilot and had flown with my mom a few times. As a result of that, he offered to help me whenever I needed help. Now, I had someone in my corner who was a heavy weight. It was lucky to have him as a contact since I did get pulled over a few times by the guards after that night.

One time at an intersection, the guards were stopping everyone riding a big motorcycle. I, along with some other motorcyclists, was taken to their station again. It was another magnificent detached home that was probably confiscated from some other poor guy after the revolution. Feeling pretty safe that I had a great contact, I acted a bit tough. I asked why I was there and demanded an explanation. The guard did not bother answering my questions and told us all that our motorcycles were the property of the state and that we should get lost. I was so livid that I shouted back at him, "Who do you think you are? You won't get to keep my bike for more than 24 hours." He replied, "I see, do you think we still live in the damn Shah's time that one could get away with murder by relying on his or her contacts?" Laughing mockingly at me, he went on to say, "No, I'm sorry; your Shah is dead now as is the case for the old regime." And while screaming, he said, "Get lost now." Realizing that I could not get through to him, I left the station.

I had to be thankful that he did not put me in jail or accuse me of being anti-regime, anti-revolution, anti-Khomeini or something along those lines. He could have easily put me under arrest if he wanted to and have me killed, no questions asked.

The following day, I contacted my friend's uncle and we planned to meet at that station at lunch time that same day. He asked me not to get into any arguments with the guards and wait for him by the entrance until he got there. He got there right on time and we went in. As per the previous time, he asked to see the chief of the station. Guess who that was? Right, the same person I had mouthed off the day before. Had I known who he was, I would have quietly left the station and called my friend's uncle instead of being loudmouthed with him. In hindsight, I realized how he could have done anything to me and get away with it, specially since I was by myself. No one knew where to even look for me in order to find me. At any rate, since I was in there with somebody who was a somebody, I could not help but have a smirk on my face. I thought it was quite ironic and amusing that he was now going to have to eat his words and be yanked off his high horse. After all, the regime that he supported was just as corrupt as the one before it.

I saw how he ground his teeth when he saw me with a guy who held a high position in the new corrupt regime; a regime which he so proudly held in high regard the day before. In order not to make matters worse, my friend's uncle asked me to leave the room and let them speak in private. I do not know what he had said, but I know that in a matter of minutes, the guards' chief came out of the office and told one of the guards to fetch my motorcycle. There were a lot of motorcycles in the yard including the one belonging to me.

### Part-29

No matter what, I am also a part of the same nation. I am an Iranian who, in certain respect, is of the same roots as my fellow countrymen. However, I truly feel sorry for my fellow countrymen. I do not feel sorry for my country since I am not patriotic. I believe we as people have only one planet earth to live on, period. The fact that we have divided it up, have created borders, and have been and continue killing each other over that is just as sickening as killing each other over money. I admit, I am an idealist, I know that. I have always dreamt of a perfect society down to its finest details. Like everyone else, I have my dreams about love in life, about society's welfare and well-being, and the like.

One afternoon coming home, I ran into a panhandler, an elderly man who held a small girl in his arms. He asked for money, but I did not have any to give him. I passed by him without even giving him a second look. A few steps later, I stopped and thought how good I had it in life. I turned around, went back to him, took off my wrist-watch that was expensive, and gave it to him.

There have always been plenty of panhandlers in Iran. It is uncanny that a country so rich in natural resources would have so many living in poverty. I, often, do not understand the greediness of people particularly the politicians and those in power. All statesmen in Iran stole so much that it landed them into trouble. In my ideal world, countries share everything with other countries. The natural resources belong to the world and not one person or one government like in Iran.

Imagine if we human beings did not do all the senseless things that have been and continue to be done like stealing, cheating, fighting and so forth. Would that not be a worthwhile wish? But unfortunately, it seems that it is in the nature of human beings to be so. We use and abuse everything. Religion serves as a means to abuse others. No one has seen God, and according to the common belief, no one is going to be punished in an earthly fashion for committing a sin. Punishments and rewards are claimed to be handed out after death. There are many contradictions. On one hand, God is forgiving, merciful, loving and so on. On the other hand, God is unforgiving and severe in the punishment of sinners by having the sinners burnt in eternal fire after death. A contradictory picture of God. Which one is God? A compassionate or an avenger? Regardless of the reasoning put forth by one, there will always be an opposite set of arguments presented by someone else. As an example, all religions start in the same fashion by having a prophet who brings God's message to people. However as soon as the prophet is gone, a religion starts to branch off into different factions. Why is it that people do not see God to be the same from one religion to another? Why can't people understand that they don't need to kill each other over their differences based on religion?

In Iran, Shah used religion to sway people to see things his way. This can mean that he fooled people to live in a different fashion, or perhaps a certain fashion. Same strategy was used after the revolution. A few years after Shah's regime had collapsed, people had still not got used to the new way of living. However due to the outbreak of war between Iran and Iraq, not only people's focus was shifted, but the regime had also found a means of silencing people through their constant reminding that country's safety was priority one.

I commenced my fourth and last year of high school proud as a peacock. Now, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. All I could think about was being free after high school was finished. Before the start of the school year, I sold my motorcycle. I was lucky to have sold it when I did since later on, rumors had it that big motorcycles were to be confiscated and owning them was to be banned in its entirety. The reason had to do with not just the attacks on regime personnel but also the number of robberies that had been carried out by those riding those types of motorcycle.

Exactly one month after I sold my motorcycle, a total ban was placed on those types of motorcycle in Iran. For me, I had no motorcycle or car when I started my fourth year high school.

Kaveh, my gentle, honourable classmate, whose help made it possible for me to manage my courses without the need of re-examination, was also back at school after the summer break. A three-month-long summer break during which I enjoyed myself and had fun at home and on vacation, when all the while Kaveh had to work in order to pay for his schooling expenses. Where was I? Why did I not think about that then? Why did I not help him? He who helped me. He who was an honourable friend. I claimed to be an idealist, that I wanted this and that, or wished to do this or that, but in reality, was I blind? Maybe I still am.

Kaveh and I got along well as study partners. Now that we were in our last year of high school, we were seniors at school. But for all that, there was not much to jump up and down for.

Also in my fourth year, my friendship with Morad became deeper. We went out together all the time and got to experience a lot of great times. One thing that came to haunt us though was an event from a summer day two years earlier.

I had my first big motorcycle then. Morad, a friend called Homayon, and I were riding on the motorcycle around the streets. In a high speed, I turned in to a street, where there was not a lot of traffic, and drove toward a group of young people who were playing football right in the middle of the street. They immediately split up to let me pass except for one of them who could not make up his mind as to whether he should go left or go right. At that point, it became confusing as to which way to go so, I tried to maneuver the bike the best I could in order to avoid hitting the kid. Despite my best effort, my bike had got so close to him that his leg had come in contact with the bike's crash-bars, which was made of heavy metal and the very same thing that had saved me once in my accident with a BMW on the highway. Due to lack of any visible or palpable impact, I obviously had no idea what had taken place and since I was speeding, I kept on going. I also had no idea who those kids were and they did not know who we were.

Two years later which coincided with my last year of high school, Morad came to me one day and while reminding me of that bike ride two years earlier said, "Ali, do you know who we passed by that day on the street?" I responded, "No, who?" He told me that one of those kids happened to be his classmate's brother, who was a boxer. Morad then went on to tell me that during a conversation with his classmate, the subject of motorcycle had come up. At that point, Morad's classmate had mentioned that his younger brother was once almost run over by a no-good motorcyclist who had left the scene. From what he had told Morad, the kid had suffered a fractured bone, but it was nothing serious. However, the brother had told Morad that if he ever got his hands on that motorcyclist, he would return the favour. Both Morad and I were saddened by what we learned and at the same time scared. We never dared breath a word about that to anyone.

It is regretful when one cannot go back and make up for an unintentional harm caused to someone earlier in life. It was, at least, comforting to know that it was a minor injury.

### Part-30

Not all my friends were of the same age as me. I had even friends who were much older and had wives and kids. I could easily get along with anyone. I always liked being around people and believed that one could have hundreds of friends. But that was wrong. One does not need hundreds of friends; rather, just one good friend is all that one needs. What is the point of having many crooked friends who are cheaters in one way or another? Or have so many who stick around as long as there is something in it for them? Friends who do not come to one's support when one needs them? Not all my friends were true friends.

Once I took Darius and his friend home. The three of us stopped by my place so I could get changed. There were three one-hundred toman bills sitting on top of the television set, which I did not notice but apparently, one of them had as the money was taken while I was getting changed in my room. Later that evening, my mom asked me about that money. I, who immediately realized what must have happened, lied to my mom and said I had taken that. But how was I supposed to demand that back from my friends?

People are truly different. Some have it really good, some not so much. I had it good as well, but not when it came to choosing friends.

Darius's friend of many years, the one who had taken the money from the top of the television and with whom I now had more contact than Darius, was called Navid and came from an almost poor family. He lived with his elderly mother, sister, older brother, and his uncle in a rental apartment in the south of Tehran. They had a simple life. Navid used to pretend to be a tough and gutsy guy, but at the same time, he was wise and competent. Through him, I made more friends who lived in a foster home. In the north of Tehran, there was a foster home where children who did not have any parents used to live.

The foster home was supported by the Queen in the former regime. On the surface, it was a good place which provided Shah's regime with a lot of positive propaganda, but in reality it was a hellish nightmare for the children. The staff were mean to the children and tormented them in different ways. Later, it got worse for the children. After the revolution, there was no longer any financial support given to the foster home. The children, who were my age, were forced to fend for themselves. The building was run down and the children had to live there. They lived in poor conditions. The place was dirty and smelled of urine. I do not know why I kept in touch with them for a period of time. Some of them were clever and smart. I used to hang around with them, and through them, I adopted dogs, great dogs. They were not dishonest contrary to many who had it better in life. But I have no recollection of helping them even though I could.

To help others was something my father liked very much. I remember the amount of travelling we used to do around the country during Shah's regime. Something we could not do after the revolution since adults were so swamped with every-day despair that travelling was far from anyone's mind. Whenever we travelled somewhere, my dad used to visit the poor areas in those places and give money to people. He was content in life and wanted to share his happiness with others.

We used to travel a lot since my parents loved that. Every weekend, we were in some part of the country where we would stay for a few days. I remember those trips like it was yesterday. Traveling at nighttime, it was so dark on the roads that one could see the stars. Or many times, when we were the only ones driving at nighttime whereby the moon would light up the road in the desert. Those were wonderful times.

After the revolution, people were no longer in the mood to travel like they did before. First of all, the roads were no longer safe. Second of all, it was unsettling for people when they would come across the numerous guard stations where their cars would get searched. Last, there was so much going on with the guards making everyone's life miserable that no time was left to rest and enjoy life. Moreover, people's attitude had changed as well. I remember that after the revolution, the place most visited was the Caspian Sea and not any other part of the country.

I was almost finished with my last year of high school. During the last months of that year and through Morad, I got to be put back in touch with the girls who were our classmates when we were in the eighth grade. Those with whom we went to a mixed school before the revolution. The interesting thing was that they were already finished with their schooling one year earlier. We, on the other hand, I mean Morad and I, who had to repeat one school year, still had the last semester of our last year of high school left to do.

Morad was a bit of a Casanova. He was always chasing girls and now he was in love with a former classmate called Parisa. She was from a rich family who lived dangerously. Her family were Baha'i, a religion whose people were being persecuted after the revolution. Baha'i is a religion that comes after Islam. According to the Koran, Islam is the last religion. So, any religion proclaimed after that is considered invalid and its followers are subjected to persecution. That was not the case at Shah's time. There were even ministers and others who worked at Shah's court who were Baha'i. But in the new regime, strict Islamic rules were in force. As a result of the new rules, a Baha'i was imprisoned, tortured and ultimately, executed.

Parisa was in touch with many other girls from our old school, as was the case for Morad and I. We did go meet the girls, but we did not tell them that we were still in school. Eventually, we started to throw parties at home, the majority of which was, of course, held at my place.

Over time, I had given up my feelings for Arezu, Omid's sister, and of late, I had caught sight of someone else who happened to be the same age as me. Farkhondeh was a classmate of mine whom I had not noticed back then, but now that she was older, she was gorgeous. I had fallen for her, which was always the case for me. But we saw each other and were together like two friends.

I loved to party. Our house was huge with a big garden and tall walls so, the noise from our parties was pretty much kept indoors. Moreover, I used spend a lot of money when it came to throwing a party. Our private parties became more frequent with time. At my parties, there was everything possible like good food, snacks, all sorts of liqueur and alcoholic drinks, music, and a large space for dancing, which was mostly tango. If it was not for all the money that my father used to give to the local guard station in our residential area as hush-money and a few contacts he had in high places, we would have got into a lot of trouble with having booze at home and partying.

The school was finally over and we were done with studying. I felt free like a bird. Our gatherings and parties went on for a few months as did my love for Farkhondeh. I was so in love with her that I wanted to marry her right away and I even asked my parents for permission. They did not say no, but asked me to think it through and check with her to see if that was indeed what she wanted as well, or whether it was just me. Following my parents' advice, I asked her and found out that she was planning to go to Germany to study at university.

It was easier for girls to go abroad back then since they had someone back home who could support them financially. The airport was back in operation after few years of being shut down, but not everybody could leave the country. The only thing we could do was to get our driver's license, which we did during the last year of high school.

### Part-31

Now that we had no more studying to do, we became idle. Summer was over and schools had commenced. I and many others like me, who were done with their studies, had nothing to do. Now that I no longer had to go to school, I automatically wanted to go there on the first day of school. That was the only day in all the years of schooling that I got up voluntarily, got dressed, and went gladly to school. Once there, I saw a few classmates of mine who had failed their exams and thus, had to redo the fourth year all over again. Funny, that was what they had thought I was there for as well. It must have been puzzling for them since I did not have any problems getting through all the other years of high school. So, they were a bit curious as to why I had ended up back at school. Nevertheless, I went and sat in the classroom with them. The first lecture was history. When the teacher came in, he looked at everyone in the room and said how sorry he was to see a few who were back in the same grade for the second time, particularly someone whom he did not expect to see there. The person he was referring to was me. I continued to sit there and enjoy every minute of the lecture. I was free and no one could force me to listen, study, or do homework anymore. When the lecture was over, I went up to the teacher and thanked him for all the past years, while at the same time, explaining why I was there before he got a chance to ask me anything.

That day was the only day in my entire years of schooling that I enjoyed school and the learning environment. Now I was unemployed and in actual fact idle. What was I going to do? The war had become an intimate part of the every-day life. Tehran was not in danger of being attacked and people were busy standing in different queues for buying the basic necessities of life.

At first, I was feeling a bit upbeat so, I bought an American car. A few of my friends and I used to drive around in that car and pass time. It was now a little bit more cumbersome for us to be out and about. Due to the ongoing war, there was a requirement for more soldiers and now that we were no longer at school, there was no excuse we could put up in order to fend off the guards.

Rumour had it that the guards were grabbing guys right off the street and shipping them directly to the front lines. I had let my beard grow to look more like the guards and be able to move about easier in the city. In Shah's time, one could correctly identify a person who belonged to law enforcement agencies or police force, but in the new regime, anyone with beard and a military-style camouflage-jacket could be taken as a revolutionary guard. Looking the part as a result of growing a beard, I found it easier to go out and get around.

A friend of mine was once driving my car, and besides me, there were a couple more friends in the car as well. We drove around in the city when a car with high speed passed us. There were four young guys in that car. My friend who was behind the wheel decided to tease them. He sped up and once he caught up with them, he pulled right in front of them, like in the movies, and blocked them from driving away. The four of us came out of the car and that scared them to death. They had assumed that we were guards. We searched through their car and looked at their IDs and the car's registration in the same manner as the guards would have done. To have been able to pull such a stunt goes to show the enormous chaos that existed in the country. For four ordinary young people like us to come across as menacing to others and be able to stop and search a car just because we looked like the guards. They did not even dare to ask us who we were or ask to see our IDs. They just apologized and tried to be as courteous and non-confrontational as possible. Morad and I were a bit worried about the real guards passing by and noticing us, and what we were doing. What were we going to do then? It was indeed dumb to pose being a guard. But it went as it went. They got to be scared a little bit and then, let go.

I had got my high school diploma and I had no other goals to pursue. I, along with Morad and Homayon, had even got our driver's licenses already when we were in our last year of high school. I had even got my motorcycle license during the same period of time. What then, was I supposed to do next? Initially, it felt great that the high school was over and there were no universities to attend, but after a while it became boring. It was tedious to sleep till ten o'clock in the morning, kill time with friends doing absolutely nothing meaningful, and come home late every night. There was certainly no fun in any of that at all and there was nothing one could do about that.

Young guys who were not in school ran the risk of being drafted in the military. My friends and I were of the military service age. Moreover, we could not do anything before we did our mandatory military service and got our military service certificate. In other words, we could not conduct business, that is, buy or sell anything; we could not get married; we could not get a job; and, we could not travel abroad because all of the foregoing required a proof of military service. So, we were prisoners in our own country. It did not take long before my friends like Morad, Ramin, Homayon and Darius started their mandatory military service one by one.

By that time, I had made a new friend called Ahmad with whom I used to get together. Ahmad was from the north of Tehran. Ahmad looked like a real tough guy, but the minute he opened his mouth and he spoke, one would, at once, feel at ease. Ahmad was a type of guy who had never worked a day in his life and had it quite easy in life. He was always dressed elegantly and wore jewelry and gold chains. It was good for him that the guards never harassed him based on that. His father was an air force pilot at the rank of colonel who had died long ago in an air crash. His mother was a doctor and she was the provider for the family. He only had one sister. I had started going out with him a lot more ever since all my other friends had started their mandatory military service. I did not have a car anymore and the only thing that I had at that point, was a small Suzuki 80 motorcycle. We used to go around in the city a lot with that. Ahmad was taller and heavier than me. So, it was not easy to keep the mini-motorcycle in balance with a heavy load at the back.

One evening when I was on my way to my cousins' place, who lived in the west of Tehran, I rode fast on my motorcycle all the way from the north to the west of Tehran going through streets that were jam-packed with traffic. As I got closer to my cousins' home, I crossed over to the opposite bound of the street in order to get to their home on time. Before I knew it, I hit a young man who out of the blue appeared between the cars out of nowhere. Legally, it was my fault. I was riding against the traffic. So, the guy who had at that point, crossed the road halfway through had been, rightly, looking in the direction of the traffic. In effect, he had no reason to look the other direction since nothing should have been coming at him from that direction. He was thrown a few feet on the road and it was lucky that he did not get hit by another car. I knew it was my fault but since he was also jaywalking instead of using the pedestrian crossing, I tried to use that as an excuse and blame him for the accident. That made things worse. Motorcyclists are not popular in any country; so, I was immediately confronted by people who had quickly gathered around us. The young man contacted his wife and handed me the phone. After a short conversation, I gave up and took the guy to a hospital to get some x-rays done. That took up a lot of my time, from eight at night to two the next morning to be exact, and it cost me five thousand toman. But thankfully, there was nothing wrong with him at all and we parted like friends that night. Slowly but surely, I started to get tired of living like that. Particularly, since we were more frequently harassed about anything and everything.

The universities opened up finally and my sister and I took the university entrance exam. The exam itself went well, but what did not go well was the family background check. The university was meant to be for the followers and supporters of the regime and not the nonconformists like us, who used to have connections to the previous regime. The fact that we passed the exam with flying colors did not make a difference, we were denied entrance based on the background check. The criteria for passing the background check was based on, among other rubbish, one's support of the regime, or one's support of the war efforts, or a proof of death of a relative who had died in support of the regime or in war, someone who was commonly referred to as a martyr. For us whose family was rich and was a somebody in the former regime and who never set foot in a mosque or similar places, the chance to be admitted to the universities were as good as none, if not lower.

With time, life had become more demanding. The regime had established itself in the country to the fullest. People had to tighten their belts harder and harder. Harassment and insults against others were openly carried out. We were visited by the guards a lot more than usual. The guards who were ordinary people before felt like they had a right to harass others since now they had a weapon in their hand. Since the first Islamic prime minister, Bazargan, and even the later on elected president, Banisadr, had lost their popularity, my family lost much of its safety net.

I was stuck and unable to do anything until the mandatory military service was out of the way so, I thought there was no other choice but to enroll in the military. A truly bad decision. I reported myself for mandatory military service without saying anything about it to my parents. I was just tired of not being able to do anything. I wanted to free myself and be able to live. All my friends had done the same. How long could I have waited? There was no end in sight as far as the war was concerned. Moreover, I remember how my father reacted once when I told him I was going to enroll in the military, which was a couple of months earlier. My father gave me a hundred thousand toman to get me to change my mind, have fun and forget about doing something like that until he could find a solution. It is natural that parents want to stop their children from risking their lives, but what were we supposed to do? To find someone high enough who could be trusted was not easy. We were not popular and we had no contacts in the regime. The abuse of power and bribery was as common in the new regime as the one before it, perhaps even worse, but now there was a question of who could be trusted.

I did not wait; I had made up my mind. I spent the hundred thousand toman in a few months and still went ahead and enrolled in the military. It was a warm day. I went to a base which was a few blocks away from our home and saw a lot of young guys standing in the line up to register. I went ahead and joined them. I got in the office finally, went through a quick medical check-up, got my papers according to which, I had to report to another base in two months for allocation. I came home and told my siblings about it. My sister hit the roof and got furious of how dumb one can be since that was like committing suicide. When my mom came home later in the afternoon, my sister told her the news before I got a chance to do so. I heard them talking downstairs so, I came out of my room and listened to what was being said. I went downstairs and saw Mom standing in the living room crying. She was beside herself. For her, it was like she had already lost me. I tried to calm her down by saying how it was necessary for me to do so in order to move on with my life. I went on to say that it was also going to help keep the guards at bay and keep their pestering to a minimum. However, nothing I said could calm her down. On the other hand, I did not say a word to my dad. Dad only got to know about it a few months after I had started the mandatory military service.

In the short time prior to starting the military service, I went out a lot more than usual, however this time, it was mostly with my family.

### Section 2 - Between life and death in war
Part-32

Before I knew it, came the day to report for allocation. Once there, we were ordered to gather around and get into groups of fifty. I remember watching my family standing behind the gate, looking worried and in tears specially my mom, who was crying inconsolably, anxiously waiting to see where I was going to be sent. I had a hard time understanding their worry even though, I had no idea myself what kind of hellish life was awaiting me. All that seemed to matter at that point was a sense of adventure and excitement. The group I belonged to was assigned to training in a base in Kerman.

The day to be shipped to Kerman crept up really fast. The train station was loaded with soldiers, their families and friends. My family gathered around again to say farewell, wishing me good luck, and telling me to come home alive. I could not bring myself to look at my mom's face; I had betrayed her and caused a hellish life for her. She could not stop crying and was not able to hide her sorrow. She was mad at the regime, and damned the regime and its war. She wanted to say what was on her mind, but there were Khomeini's guards everywhere and one had to be very careful not to say anything derogatory out loud.

The train started to pull out of the station and I could see from the window of the train how my mom was running on the platform alongside the train to see me one last time.

The base was located in the middle of the desert, long from the city of Kerman. Kerman is a city in the southeast of Iran that lies on the edge of a desert. The city is quite fascinating itself with so many historical edifices. Once upon a time, Kerman used to be the capital city. It is an old city with quite a lot of history behind it. One cannot help notice the different lifestyle there verses the one in Tehran as soon as one is there. The city is not that big and the streets and alleys are much smaller than those of Tehran. High-rises or greeneries are not something one finds there. Date-palm trees and citrus-trees are everywhere in the streets and gardens. Life seems to be simpler and more fun there though, in comparison to the big cities. Kerman is famous for its velvety black sky which is filled with diamond-like and shining stars at night. There, it feels like the sky is so close to the earth that one can reach up and pick stars out of the sky. At night time, one is sure to see comets all over the horizon. The best saffron and cumin come from Kerman. The carpets made there are also famous around the world.

The base I was sent to was known as a relaxation-place, since it was said to be a quiet and simple place. And it truly was so. I got to experience exactly that in the three months I was there. There I had it so good and easy that I gained forty four pounds and by the time I was finished there, I weighed two hundred and ten pounds.

When my father got to find out what I had been up to, he started to actively look for someone who could move me back to Tehran. But I did not want that. Now, I wanted to stand on my own feet. To be young and to be going through puberty. I wanted to prove that I could manage things on my own. This, considering I was the first and the oldest son and much spoiled. I got everything I ever wanted, no questions asked. My parents provided me with a life of luxury; everything that others would dream of I got as soon as I mentioned it. I was really pampered and did not know anything about the hardship in life. I never had to worry about money or have to work for it. I had no idea how to provide for myself and better put, I had no life experience. Everything was served on a silver platter for me. Living like a prince in his little castle. Now, I genuinely wanted to change my life-style and take my own decisions regarding my future, get a taste of the real life without my parents' help and money.

Those three months went well and uneventful. I got a five-day leave after my first two months there. I flew to Tehran. As soon as we got to Tehran's airspace, I noticed the pollution. It looked darker outside as if a black cloud had descended upon Tehran. There had been many complaints about the pollution in Tehran, but not until one lived in some other place with better air quality that one could properly feel the difference.

When I got home, everything appeared different to me. The house looked small since I was stationed in a big base with large bedrooms that had sixty beds in them. So, dimensions had a different meaning for me. The city and people looked more interesting and I was noticing how people lived more so than before.

During my five-day leave, I ate all sorts of food and met a few friends like Darius, Morad, and Ramin who were also on leave.

I was visited by my parents a lot when I was stationed in Kerman as well. They used to fly out to see me at every opportunity they got. In those three months, I made a lot of new friends at the base, who were now more than friends since we lived together in the same place and were together day and night. So much happened during those three months, most of which was funny.

### Part-33

One time, we wanted to escape from the base and go to the city of Kerman. We did not succeed but at least we did not get arrested either.

We had a lot of free time, almost every Thursday afternoon we were off. We used to go to the mall, eat, do some shopping and go to a movie. Since we were in military uniforms, it was easy for us to go around the town freely. No one hated the soldiers. We were after all, going to war. We were going to defend the country and who knows what else.

After the three-month long basic training, came the time for another assignment. I got the misfortune of getting assigned to a commando parachute troops. Their base was located in the city of Shiraz. The day we got split up in Kerman was a sad day for everyone in our group. Everyone felt down. We human beings are as loyal as dogs. We bond with someone after a period of time and we find it difficult to separate from that person and let go.

The following day, those of us who were supposed to go to Shiraz got on a bus and headed out. Shiraz is a well-known city for its culture and poetry. Great poets have come from Shiraz. A nice city with many historical and cultural sights worth seeing.

Now it was hell to pay. Now came the physically demanding training. I, who had gone up quite a lot in weight, had to get up at four o'clock every morning and run like a gazelle around the camp ground and then do a lot of other physical training. We even learned how to parachute.

It did not take long before it was our group's turn to actually jump out of a plane for the very first time. However, we did not get to go through with it since the plane we were to board had crashed in the salt lake in Shiraz during the last group's turn doing their first parachuting. I did not know if I was to thank my guardian angel or damn the destiny since that put a spin on everything and instead we were assigned to the front line.

One afternoon, we were put on the bus to be transported to the front line, Sumar, which was in the southwest of Iran and near the Iraqi border. It took all of eighteen minutes to get there by bus. Riding in the bus, we talked about a lot of things. Everyone was nervous in some way, but we just did not want to show that. Even when one of us got to display a little anxiety, he tried hard to control himself. I was surely as nervous as everyone else, but I too tried to keep my fear to myself and hide it from others. This was no longer a joke or something funny to be sure. This was quite serious since we were painstakingly aware of where we were going. We had no idea how many of us was going to get out of this in one piece. All I prayed for was to survive the madness intact. I remember thinking that in case of an injury, I would have rathered die than to end up being disabled for life.

We got there. We got off the bus at the edge of the road and got on a military truck travelling in a convoy with five trucks in each group. To ride in that truck was the worst ride I had ever had. We were bounced around every time the truck's tire landed in even small potholes on the road.

### Part-34

After a few hours, we got to the first unit where we got to be registered in and issued our rifles and helmets. When we got there it was already dark, so, we had to spend the night in a shabby foxhole together with a soldier who was stationed there. He was different. I do not know how, but he was different.

We were given dinner that night. It was rice mixed with tomato paste and meat. The rice was sticky and the pieces of meat were big and dry. It was hard to tell what kind of meat it was whether it was dog's or that of a rhinoceros. While we were eating dinner, another soldier came in and the two of them started chatting. Based on what we overheard from their conversation, we got even more frightened. They talked about how one soldier had lost his foot going on a mine and how another one had died, and stuff like that which we rookies were not used to hearing. I remember how we looked at one another in total disbelief every time they talked about a massacre. Both those soldiers were injured but not injured enough to be medically released from the military. They had instead been assigned to serve the remainder of their mandatory military service in the rear party looking after supply. One of them had a gunshot wound to his face and the other shrapnel in his back.

Early next morning, we got on another truck, leaving that place in a military convoy and heading to the front line. We got off at a first-aid medical unit where forty or fifty men worked. I and another person were the last ones to get off the truck and join the rest of the group. As soon as we got off, the truck took off and left us standing there. Immediately thereafter, a few soldiers showed up and looked at us. They then, looked at each other and while snickering, one of them shouted, "Look, civilians. Look at a bunch of rookies," while everyone laughed mockingly at us. I and other soldiers looked at each other in sheer terror. We were totally taken aback by our surroundings. I kept thinking to myself what the hell I had done to myself and my life. Who were these people? Why were they so deranged? What had I got myself into? I felt an utter and complete sense of regret which was too late then. I did not have the foggiest as to how I could ever get out of there.

We found ourselves in the middle of the desert. There were only two colours to be seen namely, the earth colour and a grass-green colour. Everything looked strange. One could hear shots being fired and grenades exploding from every corner. I felt frightful and felt like throwing up, but not to lose face, I pretended to be calm and together. The group supervisor, a sergeant, showed up and asked the other soldiers what they were looking at, and, in a sarcastic way asked if they had never seen people before. He then, turned around to us and told us to step into his dugout.

We got in. It was a hole that was dug out on the face of a mountain for protection. The walls were covered by blankets and in front of the cavern there were piles of sandbags stacked up on top of each other all over so that there was only a small opening for the light to get in. The floor was also covered with thick blankets. We sat down. They were about to eat breakfast. It was us, the sergeant, and a few other soldiers who lived in the same bunker. To top it all off, it happened to be a dark, cloudy and rainy day. I sat in that room-like hole riddled with anxiety and horror deep down inside. I could feel the quivering in my body. With the sound of every explosion, I either ducked or jumped out of sheer panic. Ironically, those who had been there for a while were calm as if nothing was going on. For them, the sounds of war had become an intrinsic part of the everyday life, so, nothing to get excited about. When there were fires shot from the Iraqi side, they knew what exactly it was and which direction it was coming from. The sergeant told us not to worry, that we were going to get used to it after a while just like they did. He then went on to say, "Eat your breakfast; it might be your last one!" That must have been funny to him and his bodies since they all started to laugh. But for me and other guys who were newbies, it was anything but funny. If I had not got the picture before, I certainly realized the kind of hell I had got myself into at that juncture. Now, I was determined to get myself out of that horror of a place at whatever cost.

### Military service

Many think that military service is good for a person. Is that really so?

Ask that from those who did serve in the military. The answer can vary from one case to another. I got to do my mandatory military service when the war between Iran and Iraq had started.

After one graduates from high school, there is a sense of gladness over the completion of the first stage in life. One thinks he or she is somebody now with an insignificant diploma that does not get one anywhere.

The joy is short-lived because that is when one realizes that in a country with so much political upheaval and one that is embroiled in war, there is not much possibilities for young men to get somewhere in life except for joining the military.

In a situation where a man cannot get married, get into business, or travel abroad before he is done with his mandatory military service. For a few months, I had a lot of fun with my friends, travelling around in Iran, and other cool stuff.

I saw my friends who were of my age enlisting in the military one by one. Soon, there were not many friends left to hang around with.

Furthermore, to go out was not without its risks since the regime's guards were arresting young men and sending them to join the military right off the street.

The war needed more and more soldiers. Therefore, one day without telling my family beforehand, I went to a base and signed up to do my mandatory military service.

Then there were a few months of waiting around to get the joining instructions, which usually takes three months. My family was not happy with my decision. But what choice did they have? Mom's sadness was plain to see.

At last, came the dreaded notice in the mail. I went to a base to find out what my fate was going to be.

There I met a lot of other draftees. One of them happened to be a distant relative of mine. Poor guy had for many years lived in England. After the revolution, his parents had thought it would be better for him to come back home rather than staying in England and living, according to them, like a hippie.

Now that he was in Iran, he was forced to do his mandatory military service. He was not happy about that, but he had no choice. He was there along with three of his friends.

So right from that point, we got together and created a little group as friends.

People assembled into groups of about forty and an officer notified each group of where they were being shipped to.

I saw a few surreptitiously switched groups in order to be left in Tehran or end up in that city they wished to go to. I did not care where I was going to land. Our group got to go to Kerman.

To do the military service, one is, first, sent on a three-month basic training somewhere. Subsequent to the completion of the basic training, one is assigned to another base.

The first base was in the southeast of Iran in a city called Kerman, which was far away from the front lines of the war. It was a different experience and a good time. We got there by train.

My entire family together with my grandparents, uncle, aunt, cousins and many other were present at the train station the day I was being shipped out.

No one was happy, least of all, my mom.

Personally, I felt a bit of anguish to leave everything behind me and go to a big, confined place called military base. To leave a life of freedom and go into a strict environment cannot be anyone's dream.

Nonetheless, that is life. That is also a phase in life that one must go through even if it is not by choice.

I said goodbye to everyone, and together with my distant relative and the three new friends I had made that day got on the train heading to Kerman.

We left in the afternoon and arrived in Kerman in the morning the next day.

On the train there, we kept ourselves busy with chitchatting and joking.

When we got to the train station in Kerman, one could feel the calm and fresh air that the city had to offer. With its ever growing population and the worsening of pollution, Tehran's air is not that great for one's health.

Kerman has a clear night sky. The stars are seen clearly and they appear so close that one feels to be in the sky. Meteors and shooting stars are common phenomena at night time.

One night when I was on night patrol, a big meteor crossed Kerman's sky. It was so bright that it felt like it was daytime. The meteor shined for minimum thirty seconds. It sparkled around like a fire ball traversing the sky in a straight line. It was amazing to see such a natural phenomenon.

The three months went one after another and there was not much thought of war or anything else. I had a lot of fun going to the city of Kerman on my leaves and visit the sightseeing around that city.

Despite all of that, the longing for family and the feeling of being homesick were quite palpable more often than not.

People, however, have a tendency to adapt to their environment. I remember vividly the first night I was at the base, I dreamed I was back home. At four in the morning when it was wake-up time, I woke up not knowing where I was. The first few minutes, I was disoriented and had no recollection of the fact that I was in the sleeping quarters of a base among forty other soldiers and we were all sleeping in double-bunk beds in one room.

After three months of so-called training, we all got to be sent to different bases. It was at that point that I got separated from my friends. It was sad to say goodbye to people one had lived with for three months.

But that is how it went and we were taken to our next destination by different buses.

I got to go to a different city. That city was called Shiraz. A city famous for its cultural background and poetry. Great poets have come from Shiraz. A beautiful city with so much historical and cultural sights to see.

With Persepolis.

The new base was right in the middle of the city. So, it felt a bit more like being in a jail-cell because one could see the hustle and bustle going on in the city around the base but only from behind the closed gates. Also being there was much tougher than in the previous base.

This base was dedicated to the elite commando regiment and paratroopers. A demanding training program and a lot of physical activity were what went on there

We started training at four o'clock every morning until seven after which, we had to go for a quick breakfast, and then get on with the daily morning ceremony.

During our stay there, we were supposed to parachute out of a plane. Therefore, we were taught the basic techniques in that regard. But immediately before our turn to do the parachute jump, the plane that we were supposed to board had gone down with a group of paratroopers in the sea near Shiraz.

As a result of that everyone else's practice jump was cancelled. Shortly after that, we were informed that we were being shipped to the frontline. To get there, they put us on buses.

A long bus ride that started in the afternoon from Shiraz all the way to Sumar which was a part of Kermanshah province and which is located in the west of Iran.

It was a heavy atmosphere. There was a sense of unrest. The one who sat beside me in the bus was a sensitive guy. He tried to keep it together, but signs of anxiety were written all over his face.

We chatted about anything and everything. I could feel how worry he was. He would have given anything to get out of that place alas, he had no choice but to be there and carry on.

The bus ride took almost twenty-four hours. We arrived in the afternoon the next day. When we got off the bus, we were divided into smaller groups and taken by military trucks via dirt-roads to the rear echelon supply company.

Since it had already got dark, we spent the night in a military bunker, that is, a big pit in the ground with a metal roof. I was there with three other who were like me and two soldiers who had been stationed there for some time. The artillery rounds could be heard loud and clear.

The horrendous sound of gun-fire disturbed the quiet of the night in regular intervals all throughout the night. The two soldiers who were there when we got there, had received injuries while serving in the frontline and were therefore assigned to the rear echelon as supply drivers.

Despite all that had happened to them, they had a good sense of humor. They asked us about our bus ride there, where we were from, what our backgrounds were, and the like. They must have sensed our feelings of bewilderment and trepidation.

How easily we jumped every time we heard a big bang. That must have been funny to them since they laughed every time we panicked. They did try to allay our fears though, by telling us that in a matter of a few days, we were going to get used to it all.

### Part-35

Exactly at breakfast time, a soldier that was standing sentry got hit by a grenade. The sergeant ran outside and someone else called the medics.

That night, I got my first sentry duty. It was not that dark that night thanks to the moon that shined like a fluorescent lamp above us in the sky. But that was scary enough. For a short while it was dead quiet. That was when one did not know what was going to happen next. One was always scared of a surprise attack. Above all, everyone feared the attacks by an Iraqi group of thirteen who were notorious for ambushing the sentries, cutting their throats, and killing as many as they could. The Iraqis had a large supply of weapons and ammunition. Iranians had a lot of soldiers. The Iraqi army was armed to the teeth while the Iranian army was well filed with soldiers and the revolutionary guards. The revolutionary guards wanted nothing more than to become martyrs so as to end up in paradise afterwards. They were guaranteed a place in paradise after death by means of a plastic key which was made in Thailand and given to them ahead of time. They all wore their plastic keys around their necks in the hopes of landing in paradise by sacrificing their lives and reaching martyrdom.

After all, the mullahs, predominantly Khomeini, had filled people's head with the belief that the war was between the Shia Muslims (Iranians) and the faithless Iraqis. Even though, Iraqis are Sunni Muslims which happens to be the more prominent faction of Islam. Khomeini had told people particularly, the guards and those taking part in war that the war was important, and that their courage and sacrifice would lead to Islam's triumph. The guards who were of different ages and were, for the most part, illiterate and from small villages believed that the plastic key they were given was truly the key to paradise hence, a sure guarantee of getting into the paradise after death. Besides that, the religious leaders had brainwashed the guards and those in the Basij into believing that in case of their death in war, their families would be sent for pilgrimage to Mecca, or to Syria to visit the holy sites there. Moreover, the families were to receive monetary rewards, household articles, and food items which were hard to come by and no one could find in the market. As such, the guards had a lot of incentives to eagerly want to become martyrs.

The regular military soldiers were more level-headed than the guards. The soldiers in the military were the ones who wanted nothing to do with the war and therefore, tried to avoid becoming martyrs. The guards were pioneers in idiotic and risky tactics. Their recklessness and hotheadedness were putting our lives in danger. One such example was during launching an attack. As soon as one was close to the enemy's camp, they would scream out, "God is great," and then run toward the camp. What kind of an idiot would do that? By so doing, Iraqi forces were fully alerted of an imminent attack well ahead of time, which made it possible for them to shoot at us. Therefore, we always ended up with a large number of losses in each attack.

The first two weeks were excruciating. The saying that one shits one's pants out of being scared is what we got to literally experience there. But after two weeks, one started to change. A change that flew in the face of all that one had learned and had grown up with. To see dead bodies, injured and wounded soldiers were no longer a nauseating scene. To hear so much firing from all sorts of weaponry was no longer a ruckus and terrifying. Day and night, in light and darkness, one saw the same thing, that is, the dead and the injured, and one heard shots whizzing by at all times. The only contact with the civilized world one had was through correspondence by letter which was few and far between. There was no time to sit and write even one letter sometimes, let alone writing long ones. One was grateful for the occasional chance one would get to jot a few words down, but over time, it was not fun to write anymore. With time, one took distance from all that was normal for nothing was normal anymore. That was at least the feeling then.

### Part-36

In the third week, I got called in by the sergeant. He said that I was considered for an early promotion to the rank of sergeant. I knew that I was going to get promoted, but did not know when. Everyone had to take a test at the end of the three-month basic training in Kerman, and those who had done well in that test and had a high school diploma were to get promoted to higher ranks. In Iran's military system, there are three types of sergeant namely, first, second and third-class sergeant in descending order. I thought that I might get promoted to the third-class sergeant on the account of my test result. But now, it seemed that I could be promoted to second-class or even first-class sergeant. We were a group of forty-five soldiers with one second-class sergeant. Among them, I was the only high school graduate while the rest were folks from the working-class who came from small towns and villages and who had little to no schooling. People who always struggled in life and lived a simple life.

I was pleased with the news that the sergeant gave me. I knew that living in the lap of luxury with all its comfort and glamour was over for me. I was now stuck living an atrocious life in a pile of dirt and mud. But at least at a higher rank, I could avoid all the hassles that came with serving as a regular soldier.

I had to take two weeks of training in order to become qualified as a sergeant. To that effect, I was sent to the rear which was the very first place we stayed at when we had arrived there. During those two weeks, we learned a lot of rubbish and learned how to handle a number of weapons like mortars and bazooka. It was during my training there that I met a few from my old group with whom I had gone from Tehran to Kerman and then Shiraz and finally, to the wonderland wherein I now found myself. One among us trainees got to lose his mind and fall apart completely while handling a bazooka. He was scared out of his mind and talked about committing suicide. When aiming for a tank with the bazooka, he screamed and broke down crying. Like a lost child on the streets, he yelled, "I want to go home. I want to go home. Please let me go home!" It was heartbreaking to see a young man in so much pain and suffering for the sake of others. That was after all, not our war. That was a war between Khomeini and Saddam. The people from those two countries had no feelings of ill-will toward one another. Nevertheless, the poor guy was sent back to the front. Everyone knew that his days were numbered.

At the end of the two-week training, we were sent back to the front. On our way to the frontline, we met the lieutenant in charge of the troops who congratulated us and wished us luck. Once back on the ground, everyone called me Sergeant Ali. I felt proud of myself. Now I was in charge of forty-five poor souls. At least I was smart enough not to let the rank get to my head and start acting like Rambo and to portray myself as a hero like in the movies. To the contrary, I used the opportunity wisely to assemble my group by choosing a number of experienced soldiers who had been serving for a while and were active, competent, and smart. Since we were in war with the Iraqis, I chose soldiers who came from cities like Abadan and Ahvaz. The reason was that soldiers from those cities were familiar with the desert; they understood Arabs much better than the rest of us; and above all, they could speak Arabic. It was prudent of me to pick my group in that fashion since I myself did not know a thing about the desert, the language, and the situation.

I had thirteen soldiers in my group, with whom I went on reconnaissance every night. The other sergeant was transferred out. Now I was the only sergeant in my group. I realized from the get-go that what counted in the frontline was to be friends with everyone. That was not the case when we were at the base where people of higher rank got to behave more authoritatively. I had heard horror stories of how in the fog of war, one could get shot in the back by someone from his own side who did not like him. I was not an idiot who would jeopardize his life based on foolish pride. So, I told my subordinates where we stood. I told them in all honesty that I did not have much experience, but I was gladly willing to learn from their experiences.

Out of that gesture, my men and I felt closer to each other. It also helped that I was more educated than them and could help them with various things. For them, I had become the wise man. It was as if we were a tribe and I was the head of that tribe. I had the overall responsibility and therefore, it was incumbent upon me to address any issues we faced. I was revered by my subordinates to the point of being seen as a guru. It felt great. It was at that juncture that I realized I could do a lot that would be helpful and fun for my personnel. It was thanks to my knowledge in, albeit, banal matters that earned me the necessary respect in order for me to lead forty five people. I know many of those who walked the same roads during the same time as I was there and lost their lives. May they rest in peace.

I became so famous that the officer in charge of the troops knew my name. I remember once when we as a division moved back for transportation. I met an officer at his bunker, who was sitting with a few other officers. As soon as he saw me, he said, "Sadeghian, how are you doing? We've heard a lot of praises about you. You seem to be a knowledgeable guy." I did not know what to say except to thank those who thought so highly of me.

### Part-37

I was busy. I could only get a few hours of sleep during the day. I was a part of the recce group. There were thirteen of us who used to go on recce close to the enemy lines to find out what they were up to. We had to conduct our recces from one o'clock to four o'clock in the morning. It was a dangerous undertaking even though it did not feel like that at the time. In the frontline, we were half a kilometer away from where the Iraqi forces were from the west and one kilometer from the front. Most attacks on us were launched from the west side.

One night, we all came close to dying. As per our routine, we were out on a recce. All of a sudden, we noticed an Iraqi recce platoon who were passing by to our right and were within a hundred and fifty feet from us. The pitch-black darkness that night as a result of the cloudy weather was what saved us from being exposed and noted by the Iraqi forces. The only reason we became aware of them was via the night-vision goggles that one of us had. As a matter of fact, that guy happened to be the one from the city of Abadan, whose skill-set saved us that night. As soon as we knew of their presence in the area, we became dead silent and let them get farther and farther away before we quickly turned around and headed back to our post. We also managed to radio in the news to the command post so that they could be prepared for what was coming.

Three months had gone by before I got to go on my first leave for fifteen days. In effect, one got to take fifteen days of leave every forty days of serving in the frontline.

I, who had got used to all that desolation which had finally become the norm, did not ask for leave myself; rather, according to the rules and regulations, it was mandatory for me to take leave. One of the major drawbacks of being in war is that one's animalistic instincts take over in the fight for survival. The place I was in was indeed a hell to live in. There were blood and corps all over the place. There were a whole lot of people who had taken leave of their senses and were killing each other for nothing. It seemed like there was a sense of joy in killing for some. One was no longer that normal, enlightened person who once upon a time, had a spouse, children and a city life. The wretchedness had more or less impacted those immersed in it. Why do I say "more or less?" Because for certain people it had become fun to kill. Certain people had let themselves be influenced by the environment and had changed by virtue of relying on weapon and power.

A twenty-five-year-old guy from a small town was serving in the military for four years and still, did not have enough of war. No, he wanted to voluntarily stay on. He enjoyed using his weapon as often as possible in order to wreck other peoples' lives. He was tall with short hair and was well-built. He was a real Rambo, but empty-headed. Such were the side-effects of war and violence.

Another reason some soldiers opted to carry on serving in the military beyond their mandatory service requirement was the pay. A soldier earned sixty toman per day. So, the monthly earnings of a basic soldier was 1800 toman which could easily be put into saving, not to take into account the free food and military uniform. For many, that money is what they desperately needed to send to their families or older parents. That was not a lot of money, but it was better than nothing. For those of us who had a higher post or rank, the pay was higher. The higher the rank, the more money one would make. I certainly had no use for that money. Particularly, since it was blood money and nothing else.

In order to leave the battle zone area, one had to go almost one kilometer to a station where all those who had been granted leave were to gather. From there, one had to get on a military truck, travelling in a convoy, back to the roadside where one would board a bus to the first nearby city, which in my case was Kermanshah. After that, one would travel as per normal, that is, by buying a bus or train or plane ticket and heading to wherever home was, which in my case was Tehran.

### Part-38

As long as I was surrounded by the mountains and the desert, nothing looked odd, but the minute I got off the military truck at the roadside, everything looked strange to me. I was overwhelmed by all the colors that were around me which differed from the only two colors that existed back in the frontline. For few months, the only colors I had seen were green and earth color. Now there were other colors like yellow, red, orange, blue and so forth. I took those colors in like it was the first time in my life I was seeing them. I felt so happy and told myself, "Look at the yellow car, the red sweater. . ." It was really weird. It felt enormously engaging to meet different kinds of folk, men, women, children, young, old, different shapes and looks. To see buildings and towns with their calm and peaceful surroundings. To hear other sounds like cars, buses, motorcycles, radio and television. It is truly impossible to describe the feeling.

I first took the bus to Kermanshah which is in the west of Iran. It is an ancient, historic city that is also the capital of that province. Once upon a time, Kermanshah was even the capital of Iran. The entire province and particularly, the city of Kermanshah were heavily impacted by war as there were almost daily bombings leveling the cities in that province. Despite that, people had no choice but to carry on with their day-to-day activities like going to work or school.

From Kermanshah, I took a taxi to Tehran. The farther away from the war-zone area we got, the less signs of war one could see and the more peace and harmony one could find.

At two o'clock in the morning, we reached the big square called Shahyad in Tehran, which is located near the Mehrabad airport. There is a monument in the square which was renamed after revolution to Azadi which means freedom, but who saw any freedom in all the years? The square was built during Shah's time and the tower in the middle of the square is an arch-like monument and is a symbol for Tehran. One can see the entire city of Tehran from its roof and inside it there is a museum that displays the history of the country.

I had not got a wink of sleep during the entire ride. I could not and nor did I want to. It was so exciting to be awake and appreciate how good life felt. I wanted to treasure that feeling and experience for the rest of my life.

I was seeing my city in a different light. The street lights were all lit. The city was shining like it was daytime. The stores' shop-windows shined in all different colors and were of different designs. I thought to myself how that was possible for things to be so different in two different parts of the same country. In one part, hell had broken loose and in another part, life went on in peace and quiet with no care about the fight between life and death. I took a taxi home. On the way, I was busy the entire time looking at the stores and streets that we passed by. I stared at everything. I could not yet relax. What an enormous difference that was so obvious to someone who had not experienced a normal life for few months. It felt as if that peace and that freedom that people enjoyed were all thanks to me and all others who were busy keeping the enemy at bay and tossing them out of the country. Even though I knew that the war was just a farce and neither Iranian military nor Iraqi military was going to win that nonsensical war. For the regime, the war was nothing more than a plot to divert people's attention away from what it was doing; and for other countries, it was a means to test their new armaments and make money at the expense of people's lives. The taxi came to a stop. I paid the taxi driver and got off.

I now stood by the crossing at our street. I stood there for a few minutes, looking around, and reflecting on life and being alive. It was so nice hearing the cars go by. Such a nice feeling it was to see all the lights on and so much brightness in the middle of the night. How wonderful and refreshing it was to be able to stand there without the fear of getting hit by enemy's fire. It was so liberating and comforting to know that dying was a remote thought in one's order of the day.

I got my life back is what I told myself one day when I came close to being hit by a grenade. A sunny afternoon, I was in an observation post and I was looking at the area through the binoculars. I was so careless that I was standing outside the turret holding my binoculars. One of the more experienced soldiers saw me and came frantically over and said, "Ali, if Iraqi soldiers see you, they are going to throw a grenade at you." He told me that and left. Taking heed of what he said, I immediately followed his suit. I owe him a debt of gratitude since he saved my life. The moment I left that spot, the entire observation post was leveled by grenades. Had I waited a few seconds longer, I could have died. I had a feeling that I was born again. That I got to experience life.

### Part-39

With firm steps, I walked slowly down our street, looking around, looking closely at the houses as if I wanted to register every bit of detail about them in my memory forever. I did not know if that was going to be the last time I would ever get to see that. I got to the house, our house. It was peaceful and quiet everywhere. No light was on in any of the houses yet as everyone was still sleeping including my family. Nobody knew I was coming home. I had not informed anyone of that. I did not even know myself when I was going to be granted leave.

I opened the door and stepped into the front yard. I closed that big, heavy, thick metal-plate door quietly behind me so as not to wake anyone. I walked up to the main entrance of the building. I opened the door carefully and went in the main entrance corridor, got to the living room and turned the light on. So far, no one had woken up. All the bedrooms were on the second floor. So, no one had become aware that I was in. No one was waiting for me. After about half-an-hour, my aunt came out of the guest-room and noticed that the light was on in the living room on the lower floor. She had got scared and while tip-toeing, she had gone to my mom's bedroom to wake her up. They gently came down the stairs to take a peek when they saw me going through my duffle bag in the living room.

Mom was ecstatic. She rushed down the stairs crying. I was happy to see her. She woke everyone up. My father, who by then had found out about my military service, was incredibly happy to see me. We sat and talked. For the most part, it was me talking. I talked about war and what had gone on during the earlier few months. It felt wonderful to sit and relate my story for the whole family and see how intensely and enthusiastically they listened. I felt like a real hero and no longer like someone who was spoiled with no clue about life's hardship. I explained happily how we survived one day after another and what dangers we faced and managed to deflect.

I had pieces of shrapnel and ammo on my person that I showed to my family. I was particularly interested in the shrapnel. That was from the grenade that the Iraqis had launched at me the day I was on watch duty at the observation post.

I had not slept a bit up to that point. I could not sleep even if I wanted to. I was so energetic and excited that I wanted to get a move on and go out. It did not take long before the daylight broke out and welcomed me back. Now I wanted to go out and meet people. I wanted to see the streets and alleys filled with people in action. I wanted to see the real life. I longed for being out and interacting with people, everyday people who were busy with their usual daily affairs. I wanted to go to a bakery and smell the freshly baked bread, that wonderful aroma that lingered around the bakery store. I wanted to see the grocery stores with their fresh and multi-color vegetables. I wanted to see the schools and bus stations that were filled with people who were heading to their jobs or classes. I wanted to hear laughter and see smiley faces on people who probably were not even aware of what a luxury it was to be free and live without fear of dying every minute of every day. I only had fifteen days of living a normal life, an opportunity that was not guaranteed to recur. Death hangs over every soldier's head and no one knows when and how that might strike.

### Part-40

It was seven o'clock in the morning. I took a shower and put on my civilian clothing that I could not wear for months. I went out around the city, looked at anything and everything as if I had never lived in that city before, and as if I had been in war all my life. It felt like I was the odd one amongst those people. Seeing children walking to school, people waiting for bus, storekeepers opening their stores one after another, the city waking up and coming alive, and the sun shining over the city with its golden rays. Everything seemed important and fascinating to me. I felt how badly I longed for that life, that delightful life, which was far from the misery, death and destruction.

After a few hours, I came back home and called my true friend, Ramin, to find out how he was doing. He was also on leave, so, we met shortly after we spoke on the phone. He had a car. We went around and met up with a few other friends. By one o'clock in the afternoon, the lack of sleep finally caught up with me as I felt exhausted. I was so tired that I fell asleep in the car or better put I passed out. So, I got back home and went straight to bed.

In the evening, my entire family had gathered. Mom had made a lot of different dishes. She knew that what we got to eat in the military was as horrible as getting shot at, specially since I had mentioned what they were feeding us and how we had it over there. For us, the tomato paste was a delicacy to put on our rice. To us, the tomato paste was as good as having a stew. There were always small grains of sand in the food and it felt like we were chewing on sand instead of rice or meat. Everything including water felt chewy under one's teeth.

I had my suppers at home but for lunches, I wanted to eat out. I wanted for the most part, to be out and see the city. Given that in the frontline, we were confined and could not move about freely, I was now more eager to move about than before. From the first night, I woke up in the middle of the night not knowing where I was. I had constant nightmares about the war and would wake up by seeing myself getting shot at in my nightmares. For a few seconds after waking up, I would feel disoriented. The repeated nightmares at night would leave me sitting up in my bed shaking, and all sweaty, and confused as to where I was. My father gave me four thousand toman the day after I had got home. I thanked him but told him that I had money, but he insisted and told me, "A young man needs money to have fun."

My family and I took a trip to the Caspian Sea that first weekend. During the day I took in all the sceneries and at night, I took delight in seeing the stars. That was indeed a happy time. However, I knew that it was not a long-lasting one. That was only for fifteen days and not forever. I had to deal with the fact that I was to return in a few days. Already after a couple of days of being home, it felt dreadful to have to leave and go back. The fact is that the sense of normalcy was now shifted back to being home while at the same time, living in a war-zone felt abnormal. I had lost a lot of weight as the result of all the training at the base and subsequently, massive physical activity in the frontline. I had toned up quite nicely just like a real commando soldier. But in a matter of one week, my figure was changed due to all the good home-made food and eating out at restaurants.

Before I knew it, there came the day that I had to return to the frontline. My parents did not want me to leave. I had no choice though, it was what it was. I was torn myself not knowing whether to stay or to go. That was a gloomy day for all of us. I was on the verge of tears for having to go back and face the same misery again. Everyone followed me to the train station. Dad, Mom, my siblings, my grandparents, uncles and aunts, everyone came. That was a dark day for my parents. There are such episodes in life that make parents age fast. I heard from my sister how my mother cried every time she was reminded of the military and war somewhere. I headed back to hell with a heavy heart.

### Part-41

When I got back to the war-zone, I found out that my division had moved back to the rear and was replaced by a different one in the frontline. Our division was slotted to go to another frontline somewhere else. It took me a few days to get back into the groove of things and start living in a primitive fashion. At least, we were spared from death for the time being. We had dug new trenches and foxholes, and settled down for a while in the rear echelon removed from the mayhem of the frontline.

There were new regulations in force now. We had to put up with the Islamic military association. We were forced to pretend to be true Muslims and participate in the daily prayers. At the same time, we were under constant air-bombardments by the Iraqi fighter jets. The word martyr applies to one who dies out of one's conviction. Also, one who endures suffering based on one's conviction is called a martyr. However, I came to learn a new meaning for that particular word.

One night the roof caved in in one of the bunkers and killed two soldiers who slept there. The day after when everyone had woken up and discovered their bodies, the two dead soldiers were called martyrs. Their death was used as a big propaganda in the war against Iraq. In essence, those soldiers died out of military's negligence to provide sufficient funding to kit different outfits with proper material and equipment. Nevertheless, that was how it went for martyrdom.

We moved to another frontline and we were back in the killing zone. I could never have and I would never have been able to kill anyone and as such, it was fortunate for me that during my entire time in war, I never did. After all, I never participated in any major offensive attack. Also, I was always cognizant of where my weapon was aimed at since I abhorred shooting at anyone or anything. As a person in charge of a group, I was no longer tasked with sentry duties and fighting like the lower-rank soldiers did. Those of us who were leaders of some sort had to learn first-aid and the like. In the interim, seeing the wounded and dead soldiers was a horrific and heart-wrenching experience, and the images thereof are the ones I can never erase from my memory.

The weather in the south and the west of Iran was warm and I did not see any snow. Instead, what I saw was hail where every hailstone weighed a couple of pounds. A sudden rain would quickly turn into hail with heavy hailstones. One had to immediately take cover so as to avoid getting hit and injured by the hail.

One afternoon, I was at an observation post way up on top of a ridge and was busy watching the flat land. All of a sudden, I saw a helicopter that turned up out of nowhere. It was a spy plane. It was not that close but close enough that I could see the two crewmen. Out of pure reflex and for the first time, I aimed my machine-gun at the helicopter and emptied my entire magazine without them budging at all. The helicopter was bullet-proof. I called the control tower and informed them. The helicopter turned around while other soldiers fired shots at it. Finally, one tried to bring it down with a bazooka, but to no avail. The pilot was very skilled and managed to avoid getting hit by performing evasive maneuvers. I was lucky not get shot at by the pilot. I was a sitting duck for him. The helicopter was equipped with light machine-gun of fifty caliber. They did not take any shots at anyone since apparently, they just wanted to check out the area. If anyone had brought down that helicopter, that person would have been given a month of leave.

As a strategy to encourage soldiers to succeed in defeating the enemy, extra days of leave was granted for anything one could hit or shoot down. Hitting a tank was worth two months of leave, a military truck convoy would equate to two weeks of leave and so forth. It is a good thing that same did not apply to killing an Iraqi soldier.

It felt like the next period of leave came up quicker. Forty days of being in the frontline did not feel as long of a time as it did the first time around, but surely, it felt a lot harder and much tougher every consecutive time. To be in war is appalling. To kill in order to live is terribly atrocious. I can never forget the scenes of war. Why does one take another's life? So many lives wasted for nothing. And those who survive it get to live with all those ghastly memories for the rest of their lives. There are no words to explain the horrors of war. As a little boy, one gets to play with toy guns and other war-related toys. But the reality's dark side comes to light when one holds a real gun and aims that at another person. A gruesome story of innocent lives lost. That was the story. Injuries to one's soul were extensive. The depression that ensues afterward, making one wonder about life. When one sees lifeless bodies one after another all around oneself, one's conscience grabs a hold of one and one becomes aware of how fragile life is.

There was a rumor that a large-scale attack was in the planning stage, which got everyone to panic. In all large-scale attacks, Iran had incurred massive number of fatalities. During my time and wherein I was stationed, we never launched any big or centrally planned attacks that would affect me. But those with longer periods of service talked about their participation in earlier such attacks. I heard that one week prior to launching that specific major offensive, the guards and the volunteer fundamentalists were going to come to the frontline to join the military personnel. Every night, people were saying different prayers. According to the rules of engagement, during an attack a soldier was not to capture any prisoners under any circumstances; rather, to kill them before dawn. So, one was given the right to kill until dawn. Apparently, capturing a prisoner would have meant assigning a soldier to watch the prisoner, which would have meant a decrease in manpower hence, diminished strength in an attack. How could one commit such coldblooded murder? How can one kill another soldier who is captured and asks for his life to be spared? How some in their own group lost self-control and were driven to the brinks of the madness. How the air was filled with the smell of blood and the soil was painted in red. I did not want to be a part of that. I refused to be involved in that. How could I get out of that? Moreover, what was really the likelihood of coming out of such major offensive alive? Could I come out of it unscathed or was I also doomed to join the martyrs? Was I going to also turn into the kind of soldiers people were talking about, who emptied their entire magazines shooting Iraqi officers who had pleaded for their lives? No, I did not want to take part in that attack, but what was my alternative. In the absence of an opportunity to get out of there, I was stuck.

I got to go on leave one month before that major attack was supposed to happen, and that was only based on the rumors since no one knew the exact date, which was kept as a big secret. I went home and spent my time at home all the while, preoccupied with the thoughts of the upcoming attack. As always, my mom did not want me to go back; rather, she wanted me to flee; she wanted to have me smuggled to Turkey. Since I knew that this time the situation was going to be deadly serious and I might not come out of it alive, I finally agreed to go along with my mom's suggestion. I was skeptical as to whether my mom was going to succeed, and I was afraid that I would have no choice but to head back to that horror of a place.

As it turned out, my mom had got to hear about a smuggler through her friends, with whom the arrangements were made and all that was left was my say-so. As soon as I agreed to it, the smuggler was invited over to our place and I got to meet him. He was a young guy in his thirties from Kurdistan. The word smuggler is degrading and mostly associated with drugs and all things negative. To the contrary, he was someone who would help people get out of the country for money. His name was Soltan. From the money he got, he had to pay the majority of it to his middlemen. He set the departure date for the following day. I was to ride a bus to a city in the northwest of Iran in the vicinity of the Turkish border. He was to receive me there and then take me through the mountains over to Turkey.

The night before my departure, I stayed home with my family where we had our last supper and later on that night, I went to see my friend Ramin. He was the only friend of mine who knew about that. We went for a ride around Tehran and then, to a popular place along the northern hills in Tehran called Tajrish for a last visit. One never knows how things pan out and if one would ever get to see one's country and hometown ever again.

Tajrish is one the most fascinating areas in Tehran, with a narrow and curvy graveled road and small rivers, brooks and waterfalls. There, people can go mountain-climbing, skiing in winter time, or simply frequent many of the cafes and restaurants there to grab a bite to eat, drink tea or coffee, and smoke hookah. The place is always crawling with people, day and night, summer and winter.

We climbed up that hill a little bit and I stood and watched my hometown from up there for the last time. I was a bit excited that I was going overseas. I did not want to go back to war any more. I knew I would not survive the attack. At the same time, I was heartbroken over fleeing from my country and leaving everything behind, that is, my family, my home, my friends and everything that was memorable to me. Ramin, who was on leave and did not have much time left from his military service, consoled me by saying that I had made a wise decision to leave the country. I was both happy and sad. I thought it was interesting that in Turkey, there were discos, pubs, music and dance since those things were not forbidden there. I was glad to be dodging the horrors of war and all that misery in Iran. I was sad for I did not know if I could see my family, my neighbourhood, my city and my country ever again and if so, when. To avoid suspicion at the checkpoints, my mom and Ramin came along with me. That was when I was once again reminded of what a great friend Ramin was. He looked like the guards and if someone did not know him, they would have easily mistaken him for a fanatic Muslim, a real fundamentalist.

I let my beard grow and wore a guard-like outfit. I also took my membership card in the high school Islamic association, my ID-card from the training I took a few years back with the guards' military, as well as my leave-pass from the military. All of that in case we were stopped on our way and if there was a need for proof of identity.

### Part-42

The departure day came. During the daytime, I called around and visited relatives and certain friends to say goodbye, but not because they knew I was leaving the country, but in their mind for returning to the military. They thought that my leave was over, which in reality it was. In other words, there was only one day left of my military leave.

In the afternoon, I said goodbye to my family. We ordered a taxi from home. The taxi showed up and my mom, Ramin, and I got on it. The taxi got on the way and I turned and looked at my family and my house for the last time since I did not know if I would ever get to see them again. My siblings and my father were standing by the entrance door and waved at me, which was a sad scene. We got to the bus station. We got on the bus heading for Tabriz.

On the way there, which took thirteen hours, we passed by a few control station or check points, where the guards who were nomads or from small villages controlled the cars and buses. To them, buses were of great interest to catch people who were heading to the border to flee the country. After all, I was not the only one doing that. Ever since the revolution, there were many who had left or were busy getting out of the country in that fashion. There was particularly one control station that had gained quite a reputation as it was the worst one of them all. It was called three-crossing Khoy. It was at that spot that many had got caught and captured. At every control station, cars and busses were stopped randomly and all passengers were checked out. However at three-crossing Khoy control station, every bus and car was stopped without exception and carefully inspected specially the busses.

It was five o'clock in the morning when we got to that infamous control station. It was almost dark. All passengers were sleepy and many were asleep. The guards climbed aboard and looked carefully at the passengers. The three of us were not sleeping but pretended like we were. My heart was pounding and my stomach was in knots due to stress. Despite that, I tried to control myself and not show it. Mom was dressed exactly like a real Islamic woman with all sorts of veil that were customary to wear. She had a big shawl on her head, long pants, thick black socks, and gloves underneath her chador, which is a one piece long and loose cloth that is an outerwear and covers one from head to toe. It was mandatory for women to cover themselves and dress as such. She pretended to be sleeping and had her face covered up with her chador. Ramin, who had a beard and wore a jacket that resembled those of the guards, pretended to be asleep as well. I was sitting by the window with my mom to my side, and Ramin was in the aisle seat of the same row at the other side of the bus. We were scared, but we had to keep it together, and we also had to pretend as if we did not know each other.

Yet another time I was saved by my guardian angel. The guards did not notice us and left the bus with two guys they took in for questioning. The bus was allowed to pass. Thank goodness that it went well. I got through the first hurdle.

An hour later, that is, six o'clock in the morning, I got off the bus. I walked away from the bus without turning and looking at my mom, and without saying goodbye to her and my friend. That was what we had to do in order not to raise any suspicion or to attract any attention to us. It had now got a bit brighter. The dawn's reddish-gold color adorned the blue sky high above the surrounding mountains and pierced through the cold morning.

I met Soltan immediately thereafter, and we took off in a big hurry. Mom and Ramin went further on the bus and were to get off at a little road-side restaurant to have breakfast. In effect that was a part of the plan all along as they were to meet Soltan and me at that little restaurant. Now the time had come to say my goodbyes to my mom and my best friend. A friend who had risked his life for my sake. Mom was on the verge of crying but she tried to fight back the tears at least, in front of me. Soltan wanted to get going as soon as possible and did not want to hang around too long. We parted and I followed Soltan.

First we got on a van and went to a little village. In the car, Soltan asked me to give him all my papers, ID-cards, and any money I had on me. I trusted him; after all, my life was in his hands. After arriving at the village, we got on horses and rode through mountains to another village. So far, there were no hazards and everything went well.

Around two o'clock in the afternoon, we got to a little Kurdish village at the proximity of the Turkish border. All was quiet until Soltan got the word that the guards were in the village and going door to door and searching every house. We had to hurry and hide ourselves behind a hill until the danger had passed. It appeared that everybody in the village looked out for one another and had each other's back. They were Iranian Kurds, and I was in the Iranian part of the Kurdistan at that point. Once the situation was resolved, we continued with our journey toward the border.

When we got to the border of Iran and Turkey, I met a few Kurdish people who lived in the caverns in the mountains. I also met a few other guys there who wanted to flee the country like me. Soltan handed me a bag and a bundle of money. I hid the money in my pants' inner pocket. As of that point, we were handed over to the Turkish Kurds. I thanked him and said goodbye to him.

Following the Turkish Kurds, we rode horses to Turkey. Once there, the Turkish Kurds took my bag and since I had no idea as to what was going on, I did not care. The only thing I cared about was to reach the first border town, which was called Van, and to report myself as a refugee to the Turkish police force. We were quite a ways from that though. It had now started to get darker and definitely more dangerous to be wondering around the mountains in the dark. But according to their plan, we were to hide during the daytime and travel by night. As such, we carried on when the darkness descended upon the mountains. It was cold in some places and warm in others. We had to climb up and down the mountains nonstop. At times, we ran into other Kurds and the locals. At other times, we ran into people no one knew and had the good judgment of keeping away. Soon came the daylight, and it was time to rest. We were dead tired and had aches all over our bodies due to wondering around and horse-back riding all night long.

We came up to a stable where they told us to stay and get some rest. I do not know how long we waited for them since I fell asleep while still standing up and waiting. I do not even know how long I slept. I only know that I was so exhausted that I fell asleep standing. It was cold, dark, and the smell of horseshit filled the air something awful. Finally, they came and took us into one of the villager's house. Thank goodness! We got good food, which comprised of rice, grilled sheep meat, and yogurt, and we got to sleep in clean sheets and proper beds after we were fed. We were completely passed out during the day. Late at nighttime, we grabbed a bite to eat and hit the road again. We got on the horses and began to ride.

Suddenly, we saw a little log-fire that shined its light onto two people sitting by the fire. They were barely about nine-hundred feet from us. We were ordered to get off our horses and walk. I was a bit scared. I thought to myself what we were supposed to do if those two men were armed and happened to attack us. The risk of being left behind was also humongous. Despite all of that, we had no choice but to do as we were told. In that area, there were many smugglers, delinquents, and the like. So, there was a genuine fear of being attacked or getting assaulted.

Luckily, no incident took place that night and we got to the main road. Once there, they gave me back my bag and handed us over to a couple of other guys. From there, we got into a car and drove to the city of Van.

We were, at last, at Van early in the morning the next day. We were driven to a hotel and left in a room to rest. Then, we changed our clothes, took all our belongings, and headed to the police station. Out of the four of us, three could speak Turkish since they came from the Turkish-speaking part of Iran, that is, Azerbaijan. The police were rude and condescending. They swore at us, they humiliated us, and they were mean to us. But at least they did not beat us up. Many police officers used to hit Iranians, who sought refugee status, and lock them up. I was cursed at a lot in Turkish, which rolled off my back since I could not understand Turkish. One of those who could speak Turkish became our translator. The police force had already leased a hotel for Iranian refugees there in Van. As such, we got to reside there.

It was in that hotel that I got to meet at least twenty other Iranian refugees, who were more or less my age and who had left war or prison behind them. I realized the magnitude of refugee wave that was coming out of the country. Among us, there were people who had escaped from military service, war, religion, and politics. In addition, there were those who simply were looking for a better life somewhere else. I had thought that I had seen a lot and gone through a lot in my life, but after meeting those people there, I began to realized that I had not seen anything at all.

### Part-43

I used to talk about some horrible stuff that had happened to me when I was in Iran. A case in point was the accident I had with my mom's car, not the one with her Mustang rather, another car she got later, which was an original, first generation, Pontiac Grand Am.

One night, I took my mom's car and went over to Morad's house. I did not yet have a driver's license then. Morad was home with two of his friends. The four of us got in the car and were on our way to visit another friend. On one of the streets, a bottleneck was created by two cars that had parked on different sides of the road in such a way that they were blocking the traffic from getting through in both directions simultaneously. My car was big and wide, and I went through not realizing that there was a car coming from the other direction that was also trying to get through the bottleneck at the same time as me. To accommodate that car, I moved closer to one of the parked cars and my side-mirror scratched the parked car. The owner of that car, who was standing around, saw that and screamed, "What are you doing? My new car!" My friends told me that I had scratched the entire side of that guy's car with my side-mirror, which got me to panic. I had every intention of staying, but Morad stopped me and told me to step on the gas. I do not know why, but I listened and got out of there. At the first major intersection, I turned while turning my lights off. I drove eighty kilometer per hour when I suddenly saw something strange ahead, but I did not give it much thought. I saw how two spotlights shined on the side of what appeared to be a parked car. Morad, who had also noticed the lights but understood exactly what they were, yelled out, "Stop!" I pressed down the brake pedal with both feet immediately and without hesitation. My car came to a stop after a few feet skidding on the road. We were really lucky that night. What lied ahead of us was a brand new black Italian car, Alfa-Romeo Julietta, that was making a U-turn in the middle of that street. Due to the color of that car as well as my headlights being turned off, I had failed to see that car from a distance. Luckily, we did not get into a collision; otherwise, the other driver would have been fatally injured. The hood of my car would have hit the driver's door on impact. That night, we parked the car on another street, waited a few hours before we got back in the car, and drove home. We were scared though. Later on, we used to joke about it as if it was something cool we had done.

It was those kinds of toys that for a boy like me were something very cool and exciting. But in Turkey and on the run, when I saw those people and I heard their stories, I understood that I had really not seen or done much.

I met a family who had left the country because of being Baha'i. We stayed at Van a few days. In the course of those few days, we were visited by a few supporters of Shah and his prime-minister, Shahpour Bakhtiar. They wanted to recruit new members as Shah's supporters.

Later on, we went to Istanbul. The same day that we were to go to Istanbul, I came down with massive pain as a result of kidney stones. To remedy that, I drank a few beers to quiet down the pain. The trip took a few hours. We got there in the evening and were housed in an awful hotel in the south of Istanbul.

So far, I had not spent much of my money. I had a lot of money on me, but I was cognizant of the fact that I was not home anymore and therefore, I had to be wiser with my money and more careful. In Istanbul, my parents knew a few people whom they had asked to look after me. I called home already from day one and informed them of our situation.

In Istanbul, I called those acquaintances and got to move from that awful hotel to the northern part of the city.

In that short period of time that I was in Istanbul, I realized how unskilled I am. I was not happy with myself that I could not do anything. I had no education that I could put to good use, nor did I know any trade in order to make a living. I thought to myself that I was a spoiled kid and that I needed to change. As such, I made a promise to myself that as soon as I settle down somewhere, I would learn a trade.

In Istanbul, I got to meet other Iranians, with two of which I became good friends. Their names were Arash and Kamran. They were two teenage guys from the same family, who planned to go the U.S. Arash was a smart boy. He read a lot and could do a lot. Kamran was great, but he was not as smart and in many respects, he was still a child.

Eventually, I moved to their hotel where the three of us shared a big room with three beds. We passed time in different libraries since that was Arash's interest, went to movies, concerts, and museums. We ate out most of the time. We rarely, cooked anything back at our hotel. Life, however, was not any safer for us in Turkey than it was back home. Istanbul was full of Iranian refugees and one could see them anywhere and everywhere. However, we were actually scared of each other. There was a risk that some of them might be spies for the Islamic regime who were there just to get to know the refugees. There were many Iranian refugees who were caught by Khomeini's spies and taken back to Iran or killed on the spot. The Turkish police knew about that, but they preferred to turn a blind eye to what was going on and not do anything about that. Even though we lived in the state of constant fear, we still felt free. Turkey was not as rich and modern as it is today. People were poor, and those days it was the junta that ruled and one could see police and guards everywhere. People lived under strict control. During that period of time, Iranians were allowed to get new passports and travel abroad.

### Part-44

My mom and my youngest brother Iraj flew to Istanbul to visit me and to put my temporary life in Turkey in order. My mom described the threats and the intimidation they endured at the hands of the revolutionary guards who had come to our house looking for me. Now they had got more reasons to hassle my family. That was unsettling for me to hear how hard my family's life had been. But mom ensured me that everything was going to work out and there were no worries.

My mom and brother went back, and we still did not know where I was going to end up. She had planned to stay in Turkey for one month, but due to certain set of circumstances she could not stay more than a week. She went back earlier in order to get money for the second smuggler to send me somewhere in the world. But where? We did not know and had no idea about the rest of our flee. Since they were heading back to Iran earlier than the date of return on their plane ticket, my mom and my little brother had to take a bus to Iran.

I had heard from my parents that Sweden was a safe country, which was also accepting refugees. We lived in Turkey for six months. Arash and Kamran's plan to go to the U.S. did not work out and they could not go there. Therefore, the three of us turned to a smuggler to arrange for us to go to Sweden.

On our way to Sweden, we stayed in Bulgaria for a few days, which was still a Communist country. Everything was under harsh control. The city was quiet and people looked emotionless. They were destitute, and the zest for life was a thing of past in that country. There was prostitution all over the place, selling one's body for a warm meal. We felt awful seeing how the elderly worked at either cleaning the streets, or worked in gardens and market-places. The food at restaurants was simple and tasteless. Nevertheless, we had a very good time there. We got to live in a good hotel and we ate good food.

After a week, we went to the former East Germany, which was not better than Bulgaria. It was the same story and the same miserable life. It was saddening to see so much misery and control. It seems that as days pass, politicians become greedier and more punishing toward their countrymen and even the ones who voted for them.

In retrospect, that was the same thing that was going on in my old homeland. People had chosen mullahs in the hopes of having a better and freer life than what they had at Shah's time. And look what they got instead.

At any rate, so far we did not run into any troubles. Everything went well since the bribes were paid to the police and the customs officers on our behalf by our smuggler.

In the then East Germany, we took a wrong train and landed in the wrong city and hence, another port. We asked a captain how we could get to Sweden. He told us he could take us as far as Denmark, but we did not want that, we wanted to go to Sweden.

### Section 3 - Life in exile in Sweden
Part-45

That same evening, we headed back to where we had come from and the next morning, we took the ferry to Trelleborg. Already from the time we left Turkey, we knew we were on the run from Iran.

In Bulgaria, I did something stupid. When the customs officer wanted to look through our bags, I told Arash loudly, "He thinks we have heroin on us." The customs officer did not of course understand what I said except for the word heroin. That was enough for the officer to check Arash and me a lot more carefully than the others. In the former East Germany, the customs officer knew exactly where we were going. The reason is that precisely in 1984, it was allowed for Iranian refugees to come to European countries.

After leaving Bulgaria, we could not sleep properly. Those were stressful days before coming to Trelleborg port in Sweden.

We got off the ferry and reported ourselves as refugees to the police. The police took our pictures and they took down our names and other information. They took our passports and ID-cards, went through our belongings, and after a few hours, they took us to a two-bedroom apartment where five other newcomer Iranian refugees were already living. So, there were now eight of us in that apartment. We recognized two of them since we had met them in Bulgaria. The rest were new faces for us. They were not happy to see us and to share that apartment with us. It had already been too crowded with five people in a two-bedroom apartment, let alone eight people.

During my journey out of Iran, I got to see a lot of new things. We were in three different countries for either long or short time whereby we got to experience the way of life in those countries. We got to meet different kinds of people. I got to look after myself in a foreign land. I got to be more sensible and find out who I was and what I could do. I got to meet people from other parts of my own country, something that might not have happened while living in my country. We Iranians were, and still are somewhat uninformed about our own country, its history, geography, and culture, among others. I am glad for my part that we travelled so much across Iran and learned so much about different parts of Iran.

Way back when we talked about going abroad or relocating from Iran to the U.S., my father always told us that if one wanted to grow and learn about life one should learn about their own homeland first. Then, one could take advantage of what life had to offer and move to other countries. Few had a good education. The mass media was not able to better inform people even under Shah's time. It took time before I found out how precious life was. To live, to be able to express oneself, and to be able to grow in different ways.

Those were the answers I found in the course of fleeing my country. By wandering through the mountains and meeting those who lived in villages and had never set foot in a city to seeing places where all lived well and in prosperity. Sweden, a country with about nine million people. A country that in a short amount of time and with a lot of hardship, hard work, and patience managed to go far. A country without major natural resources, in comparison with countries like Iran, but with people who by using their common sense launched their country from pure poverty to the status of a well-developed industrial land. Emigration out of one's country was no longer a hot subject. In the past, Swedish people had left their country in the hopes of a better life somewhere else, and now it was the opposite, in that, other people were flocking to Sweden to seek refugee status and find freedom.

That day I reached the Trellebory's port, I did not know what kind of people I was going to meet. My understanding of the police and the authorities was completely different. What I had seen in my own country, Turkey, and the former East Germany had me believe that the law enforcement agencies were of pretty strict nature. Although I had lived a short while in England, I could not get a comprehensive picture of the society there due to my young age.

### Part-46

The apartment in Trelleborg was a nice apartment in a residential area. When we got to the apartment, it did not take us long before we went to bed and slept for twenty-four hours. We were exhausted. We had finally reached our destination after a few rough days. We were in such a deep and sound sleep that we did not hear others in the apartment. The only thing I recall was the two policemen who came to the apartment that night to check and make sure we were there. We were not prisoners and we did not feel like one. Everything was new for us, the city, the people, the stores and warehouses, the buildings and parks.

The Swedish language sounded strange to us. At that point, we did not know the different dialects that exist in different parts of Sweden like that of Skane verses that of Stockholm. So while living in that city, we heard a lot of "gh" sound and not much else. We used to joke around about how we were going to learn the language as if our own mother tongue was any easier.

Eight people from different parts of Iran had to live under one roof until their fate was decided by the authorities in Sweden at which point, they could move on to a new and different place. In our group, we had people from Tehran, Tabriz, Shiraz, and Kurdistan who had their own viewpoints and different backgrounds. Some had left the country due to political persecutions, some for humanitarian reasons, and many as the result of war.

The one who was from Kurdistan was a young man of twenty years old who belonged to the Kurdish national military and who had killed many in the war between the Kurds and the revolutionary guards. He had made an admission in his first interview with the Swedish police of how many he had killed or tortured. I still do not know if there was any truth to that or not, but one had a feeling that something did not make sense in his statements. He was deported back to Iran two days after our arrival. One night, two police officers showed up at the door with his deportation order and asked him to pack his stuff and follow them. We had no clue he was going to be deported, but once he was gone, one of those who had been living there for the longest while told us that he knew for sure that the guy was going to be deported. How he knew and why were a mystery to us.

We lived in that beautiful port city for twelve days. We had a lot of fun there. Already from day one, we were interacting with the youth in that area. In our area there was a recreation hall with a pool table and a party room, which was used as a disco every night. We got along well with the youth in the area. They used to come over to us in groups of five or six. Young boys and girls with whom we could speak English in order to communicate with each other. They were just as curious about us as we were about them. Some of us got themselves girlfriends as well.

To kill time, we used to cook food, go around the city, or play cards. The weather was cloudy and rainy for the most part, but we did not care much about the weather. It was autumn and more precisely, it was September 1984. We had no prior knowledge of how the climate was like in that part of the world. We also did not know at the time that the weather was the main topic that people talked about all the time.

After twelve days, it was time to move. We were moved to a refugee camp. But where? Leksand. Dalarna has a great landscape and sceneries with an almost intact nature removed from big cities' greenhouse gases and air pollution, unfriendly and unsympathetic inhabitants, and void of diseases that run rampant in big cities like stress and anxiety. From the seven of us living in that apartment, six of us got to move to Leksand in Dalarna. The one who was left there was also the same one who had been living in that apartment the longest and from what we gathered, there were some problems surrounding his application that was not yet sorted out hence, the requirement for him to stay put there. The six of us, who were all young, got to take a train across the country to get to our new place of living where we were to stay until our case was handled. The train ride took many hours. A trip to a location where the temperature dips down to minus forty degrees Celsius. A place where not a lot of people lived. A place that had for the first time received and welcomed new people of diverse origins, but had unfortunately regretted that later on, due to an unpleasant experience with a few bad apples.

We got to the train station there in the evening. A cheerful, young, tall, blond guy called Krister greeted us at the train station. He helped us with our luggage. We got on his minibus. On the way there, we looked around and all we could see were lots of trees and woods all over the place. He asked us about our trip and the like. Gradually, the subject of the Swedish language came up. We asked when we were going to study Swedish. He responded whenever we wanted. Since we were extremely keen and interested to get going as soon as possible we asked when the earliest possible opportunity was. He replied we could start as early as the following day. We became very happy to hear that and asked him to help us get started with that. He promised to make the necessary arrangements for us.

We drove up to a large and beautiful location where there was a big building with a multitude of rooms in it. That was in fact a hotel in Leksand that was rented by the ministry of immigration for the purposes of housing refugees. Earlier I made a remark about "bad apples," but why?

Well, because a week prior to our arrival, a group of thirteen refugees from Lebanon had relocated there. They had caused a lot of trouble and created so much problems for the personnel at the same hotel, and for people in pubs and discos around the city that people had already got tired of refugees. In light of people's previous encounter, they were of the belief that everyone from Asia and Middle East were birds of a feather and similar. The Lebanese there used to fight a lot. They had smashed all the windows and the furniture in their rooms on a daily basis. They were mentally stressed and were not feeling well.

In a way, one could understand them. The misery they had grown up with was nothing that they were used to from the beginning, that is, from birth. Beirut that was, once upon a time, called the Paris of the Middle East had turned into a real hell. We Iranians had never come close to what the Lebanese had experienced, that is, to be born in a war-zone. Few hear and taste the horrors of war, specially from the time of their childhood, grapple with losing their near and dear, and live in endless misery. That was something that was hard to grasp until one was impacted by it as well.

The hotel was now a battleground for the Lebanese against the Iranians. Now they had got a new means of unleashing their fury. But luckily, things did not turn out the way they had hoped. We Iranians were not in the mood to get into any fight specially, when we each had our own problems with which we had to deal.

We lived in a big building. I shared a room with Arash and Kamran. There were four beds in the room so, one was left empty. We got new clothes and personal hygiene products.

Already two days after our arrival, we started school. Krister and Karin, who were our supervisors at that location, were glad, but at the same time, surprised that we wanted to start school so early after our arrival. We apparently deviated from the norm, that is, those who had to be convinced and persuaded to start learning the language. We met Inger, our first Swedish teacher, in a premise at the other side of the city.

Leksand was a city with four thousand inhabitants. The hotel was located north of the city and the training school in the south. It took ten minutes to go back and forth between the two places.

Inger was a fifty-year-old woman who loved his profession as a teacher. She was smart and patient.

Teacher's role and the concept of learning had got new meanings for me already from my days of being in England. In contrast to Iran that had an awful school system where one could hit a student, the school system in the Western World and specially, in Sweden fosters friendship between teachers and students, and bans the use of physical punishment.

I also found the nourishment in schools to be different. In Iran, Shah tried to implement a food supply policy at schools, the significance of which went amiss by many who instead exploited that for personal and financial gains. More specifically, children were given milk and cookies or nuts and fruits along with other healthy snacks during the one-hour lunch break at schools for a period of time. The initiative proved to be unsuccessful since on one hand, a lot of food was wasted and thrown away by the students; and on the other hand, a lot of it was mismanaged or stolen by many who had a hand in the supply, delivery and distribution of that. It became obvious that people were not yet ready for that. The unfounded theories regarding nutrients and their benefits for different ages were put forth in different circles. The bottom line is that more knowledge needed to be had by the general public with regard to nutrition.

In Sweden, everyone drinks milk regardless of age. In schools, children receive milk and wholesome food. Furthermore, children are not locked up indoors; on the contrary, there are no walls or doormen in schoolyards to keep one in confinement.

I wonder why one could not remain in the classroom at pause time and was forced to leave the classroom and go to the schoolyard. Why were students subjected to physical punishment and why were students scared of school personnel? Inger was a woman with whom one could have a rational discussion without the fear of getting beaten up.

My first lecture, my first word in Swedish was "Hi, my name is Ali. What is your name?"

A few days later, we had new Iranian students from different parts of the country. Among them, there were three Kurds, three from the south of Iran, Bandar-Abbas, Abadan, Ahvaz, and Shiraz. One of them even got to become our new roommate since there was one empty bed in our room. His name was Hamid. He was from Tehran. He was also from a well-to-do family and had almost done everything I had. He had a titanium plate implanted in one of his legs as a result of a motorcycle accident in Iran, which he had to live with for one year until the bone had healed.

All the newcomers got to join our Swedish lectures and study the language with us. There was one problem however. Not everyone was at the same academic level. A few were illiterate which was the case for the three Kurdish students in our class. They came from a small village near the Iran and Turkey border, and by virtue of their proximity to the border, they had managed to get themselves out of Iran.

They were active members of a Kurdish group called Komole. Their mission was to fight the regime in Iran to achieve independence for Kurdistan.

Iran, a country with a large population and so many natural resources that could not even provide basic education for its people. Iran had, and still has, problems with illiteracy. A great majority in Iran are illiterate. The problem stems from the systemic negligence of those in power in different eras in addressing such fundamental issue in Iran. Now people in that situation had to learn a foreign language, a language that was as foreign to them as was their own native language i.e., Farsi.

That was a difficult task for Inger to wrestle with. On the first day, Inger greeted one of the Kurdish people called Sassan and wanted to teach him his first words. She said as per the norm, "Hi, my name is Inger. What is your name?" Sassan who could not understand, repeated verbatim what Inger had said. Inger responded, "No, no, I am Inger. What is your name?" He once again repeated the sentence word for word, which made people in the class laugh. Inger got upset that people from the same country laughed at someone from their own country. But surely, no one meant to be mean or insensitive, that was just something that came about spontaneously. Much to his credit, it did not take long for Sassan to progress in his studies with the help of his Kurdish friends.

Sassan was a pleasant guy. A real farmer who had never been outside of his own territory. He had never left the mountain. He had fled the country and had come to a land that was much more advanced than his entire country, and one that in comparison to his village was worlds apart insofar as culture and development were concerned. He was so hard-pressed to adapt to the western rules and regulations as well as their culture and way of living.

Sassan used to do funny stuff. He never meant any harm, but he scared people without realizing it. One day, he wanted to befriend a girl. He had seen others making contact with Swedes, and many who had got girlfriends and used to bring them to the camp. So, he wanted to try his luck.

We were sitting and watching television one night. Sassan came rushing in the television room and asked his Kurdish friends in Kurdish how one could buy wine there. All of us got in the conversation, and once, he got the information he needed, he disappeared. A few hours later, a police car showed up in the front yard and brought Sassan in the building with them. The police officers spoke with our supervisor while Sassan stood there in his best Kurdish outfit with a bottle of wine in his hand. He was the tallest among them even though the police officers were tall themselves. We did not have the slightest clue as to what had transpired. When the police was gone and the situation had calmed down, we asked him what had happened.

Through his Kurdish friends we got to know that Sassan had tried his Swedish knowledge a little too soon. He had followed a girl on the street. He had tried to shore up a conversation with her. The girl who had obviously not been interested had repeatedly told him to get lost. The poor guy who had no idea what she had said had followed her all the way home to find out her address. Afterward, he had gone to a store and had bought red vinaigrette in a pretty bottle, thinking that it was red wine, and had headed over to the girl's house. He had knocked on the door and stood at the door with the bottle in his hand waiting to see his new girlfriend. As soon as the girl had seen him at the door through the window, she had called the police. It had not taken long for the police to show up at the place and escort Romeo back to the camp. But why did it happen? Right, Sassan had thought that all the time she was telling him "Forsvinn," which means "get lost," she was saying "Forst vin," which means "first, wine." The two phrases in Swedish sound somewhat similar to one another especially to a beginner with an untrained ear. We killed ourselves laughing that day. I still find it funny every time I remember it. I wonder what he did with the vinegar?

### Part-47

I was in touch with my family via phone and writing letters. I asked my parents to send my siblings over since my brother Reza was starting to be badgered by the guards who were coming up with new ways to bother my family even more regularly than before.

After I was in Leksand for one month, two of my brothers, Reza and Madjid, arrived. They had gone through a lot of difficulties on their way to Leksand. Now I was not alone any longer. I had two brothers there. It was great. Reza and Madjid started their language training like everyone else.

We used to go to discos and around the city. But Reza and Madjid were not able to come to discos based on their age.

The Swedish climate was a new experience for me. Winter came with its minus thirty and minus forty degree Celsius. In the north of Iran like Tabriz and the like, I knew that the temperature could get to minus forty in winters, but I had never experienced that myself. It was not possible to walk more than a few minutes in that kind of weather. One of us got a frostbite on his ear when he went for a short walk, for which he had to see a doctor. The darkness was another thing we got to experience soon after we got there. At two o'clock in the afternoon, it would get as dark as night.

A few factors made one get to know Sweden. Some of them are pleasant others not so much. The weather was a depressing factor. The early darkness during the day was another factor. On the other hand, the freedom, meeting with people, and the country itself were pleasant factors that compensated for the bad ones.

September, October, November, December, yes, now it was Christmas again and the Christmas spirit everywhere. Since I used to celebrate Christmas with other Iranians at hotels, restaurants, and cabarets, this one was, for me, an authentic celebration of Christmas among the Christian people. Inger taught us a few Christmas songs, and we got a Christmas tree that we decorated. We got to taste the wonderful Christmas buffet. We got gifts, and drank glogg which is a mulled wine served with raisins and almonds, although not everyone drank that. There was someone who was a faithful Muslim who did not even drink cider. He did not want anything to do with alcohol or pork.

For the New Year's Eve, we went downtown and together with people, we watched the fireworks. There was a great atmosphere there, with so much snow on the ground and the trees covered in snow and ice.

### Part-48

I have to admit that there were periods of unrest and worry, and occasions where we were subjected to bullying, and a sense of hostility toward immigrants, but only at the hands of a few who could not break us but got themselves wrecked psychologically.

One night, we went to a disco. There were six of us. A few guys, who were clearly not from that city, walked into the disco, and sat themselves at a table. Right from the beginning, they were loud and rowdy. As soon as they saw us dancing with a few Swedish girls, they started bantering and talking rubbish. It was clear they wanted to provoke us into a fight. They succeeded to irate one of the guys in our group who was a professional wrestler and who actually went a long way in that profession later in Sweden. His name was Jamshid. He was well built and had a short, red, curly hair, and one whose ear deformity gave away the fact that he must have been into wrestling for a long while. He dropkicked three of those cheeky guys in a blink of an eye and the fourth one got his nose broken. The story made it to the local papers and Jamshid had to deal with the police. But since it was the other guys who had started the commotion and many had testified to that effect, it worked in his favour and no charges were made.

Every country has its advantages and disadvantages, its good and bad sides, and good and bad qualities. Personally, I think it is wrong to criticize an entire country or a nation. Every nation has its own way of life and standards. No nation is like another nation; rather, every nation is unique. But people can learn from a nation's good qualities to ameliorate their own.

In our time at the refugee camp, we bounded very well. Some things were good and some things not as much. It was good that we learned the language early on, but it was not good that we did not get to work after we got our residence permit. We wanted to get going and settle down in that new society. After all, since there was a mutual lack of understanding of the other's culture, and there was no familiarity with handling the situation of refugees, no one could make things easy for anyone.

After six months in Leksand, I, along with twelve other of my fellow countrymen, got our residence permit. Now the Swedish Immigration Board was going to move us to other cities. My brothers, who came a little later than me, could not come with me since their errand was not adjudicated yet.

The day came when we got our instructions as to where we had to go. We were to be sent to Malmo. It was a cold day in the month of April in 1985. We were promised by the officials at the Swedish Immigration Board that once at Malmo, we would get our own individual apartments and we could start our lives any way we chose, that is, to study or work.

### Part-49

We took the train in the morning and got to Malmo in the afternoon. First time in Malmo, a cold afternoon and lots of snow on the ground. We met the person in charge and got to drive to where we were supposed to reside, an area that was predetermined for us. I got to experience a new feeling. After six months of living in a small city, or better put a village, it felt nerve-racking to be in a bigger city and see so many people in motion. It was weird to feel that way. After all, I had come from a big city with a population of twelve million, and it was strange to be stressed out by the big city living in Malmo. It is ironic how one adapts so quickly to one's new surroundings and changes one's habits.

During my trip to Sweden, I had learned my lessons many times in those countries where I stayed for a while. However, I could have never imagined experiencing the terror of such words like racism, xenophobia, refugee, "black-skull," and the like. To go through that degradation is a horrible experience. Unfortunately, there is always a group of people in every nation around the world who express themselves differently.

We passed by the downtown and many fine areas until we came to a slum. We looked at each other. I was surprised to see that Sweden has such areas that resembled those in the south of Tehran. It was a dirty and rundown area.

The car stopped and we got off. I was not happy and I could not believe my eyes that the area was so filthy and the buildings were falling apart. There were thirteen of us who were to get an apartment and live like the rest of regular citizens. But that was obviously not the plan.

We were given two apartments, one of which was a one-bedroom and the other a two-bedroom apartment. We had to divide into two groups where seven people would have had to live in the two-bedroom apartment and the other six in the one-bedroom apartment. Furthermore, we were ensured by those in Leksand that once in Malmo, we could make a decision ourselves as to whether we wanted to work or to study. But it became apparent that we could neither work nor study, nor do anything else for that matter. We were just expected to live there and get social allowance until the municipality made a decision as to what we could do. That was it. We had been lied to by the authorities. They were not honest with us, and that led to dissatisfaction and protest. We did not accept that and rejected their proposal right offhand. We asked for what we were promised. After a few hours of heavy discussion between us and those in charge, we were reprimanded and given quite a tongue-lashing since as they put it, we "black-skulls" should have been thankful or go back home if what they gave us did not suit us. Those in charge were bitter and they were not willing to listen to us. We demanded to go back to our camp in Leksand.

Unceremoniously, they threw our luggage on the sidewalk and told us that if we wanted to go back, we had to do it ourselves. It was by then, ten o'clock at night. It was dark and cold. Thirteen young refugees without money and without anyone to turn to stood on the sidewalk with their luggage on the ground. We did not know what we were going to do. To take a train back would have cost a few thousand Swedish kronor (SEK). No one had that much money, or at least, that is what everyone thought. Even if we were to put our money together, it would not have come up to more than a few hundred. I did not want to stay and felt like my pride was injured by a few who deep down inside saw us as no more than terrorists and barbarians. Sure, there are a lot of things that happen in my country that are barbaric, but not everybody can be painted with a broad brush. Instances of barbarity do exist in the history of all countries. I was, nonetheless, determined to go back.

We, collectively, had a discussion about the matter. I listened to what everybody else had to say in order to get a better idea of where everyone stood. After all, I did not want to take the matter into my own hands and make a decision on behalf of the entire group. After half-an-hour when the cold had penetrated through our bodies and minds, the logic and pride were abandoned in favour of seeking relief from the cold. When one does not think long-term and does not put aside anything for a rainy day, one is defeated by anybody without a fighting chance. So was the case at that juncture. I, like many others, had money on me. But I was not about to waste money anymore like the way I used to do. I had learned one thing. I had learned that it was wise to have a little bit of money put away. No one knew what tomorrow was going to bring. Everybody had spent their money on cigarettes, disco admission fees, alcohol, and a lot of other silly things. On the other hand, I had saved my money since I did not feel the need to constantly go out and have a good time like the others, especially given that I had got all of that out of my system in my earlier life in Iran. Therefore, I had a few thousand on me just in case.

I noticed how the situation started to evolve, in that, the decision to leave was giving way to accepting to stay. Right then, I realized that people were done fighting and were perhaps ready to give up, settle down, and accept the handout. Like Robin Hood, I sprung into action and told them, "Dear friends! We cannot fold and accept the charity. They want to humiliate us and take away our dignity over and above what we already have lost. We have struggled hard to get here and we cannot let whosoever treat us like animals in a cage. Pull yourself together! We leave this place tonight." They looked puzzled. Some came up to me and asked how we would do that without money. I took out my money, showed it to them, and said, "Here, here is our way out. While you were busy having a good time in Leksand and spending your money like it was going out of style, I was saving mine for just such occasions. Times when one does not have anyone to turn to, and one is left to one's own devices."

I blamed them for that was their own fault. Many of them were active politicians who fled Iran. I was glad to have enough money on me, but at the same time, I was angry at them for not having learned anything throughout their journey. Not even those supposedly active politicians had learned to be more prudent and more prepared for such circumstances in life. That was, and still is, the reason that the country was lost. Our politicians and others who claim to be smart cannot even save themselves out of chaos. How would they be able to save anyone else?

All of a sudden, there was a sense of hopefulness and everyone was back in the mood for giving it all they got. I took command and gathered everyone around. We took a taxi to train station and bought thirteen one-way, second-class tickets to Leksand. We took the 1130 p.m. train. Everybody was grateful and glad that I had looked after them and helped them out. I was pleased, more than pleased. Now those civil servants could get a taste of their own medicine.

Early the next morning at eight o'clock, we arrived at Leksand. There was not a long way from the train station to our hotel-camp. The sun was shinning in a blue sky over the snow-covered city. It was cold, but the cold, we did not feel. We got to the hotel and were about to go in when we were met by the police. We were not allowed to go in. Apparently, they were waiting for us. The news about us had evidently become a hot subject at the hotel that morning. I saw how my younger brothers, Reza and Madjid, along with everyone else there were looking at us through the window. I guess we were classified as criminals now. That was really embarrassing. As luck had it, our Swedish teacher, Inger, came over to the hotel and as soon as she found out about our situation, she called a friend of hers who was a member of the Swedish parliament. In turn, her friend contacted the Swedish Immigration Board and demanded an explanation.

We got to settle ourselves at the Folkets Hus (trans. People's House)—Civic centre—since the manager at that refugee hotel, Karin, did not want us there. It took a few hours before an assistant from Swedish Migration Agency came over to where we were. That was the first time in the Swedish asylum history that a group of refugees had acted as such. Therefore, no one knew what to do. We had got the bureaucracy involved. Who was in charge and how could that be fixed? Which authority and which municipality should be dragged into that? The situation was not easy for anyone. We had our permanent residence and we had a right to decide about our own lives. We were promised to live like all the other people in the country. We did not want to live like animals. To share a room with five other people is like living in a prison. To have to live in a predetermined place as per other's decision is like being a criminal or mentally insane.

Same day after lunch, we were informed that Hallsberg would take us. The airing of our story in the local radio had roused both for and against feelings toward us. We took a train to Hallsberg and got there that night. We were placed in two hotels there. We were to live there temporarily until the Swedish Immigration Board could find a permanent location for us.

We got to live in Hallsberg for two weeks. We were visited by a few newspaper journalists as well as a few radio reporters. Our story had caused a lot of excitement. We had thrown a spanner into the works of a rigid and detail-oriented system that could not move a little to the left or the right. We spent two weeks in Hallsberg with no purpose and no work until we received an answer. Varnamo had accepted to take us. We settled down in Varnamo. There we got to continue studying Swedish language. We each got a room in a dormitory at the school. Everyday we gathered in a classroom from nine in the morning to noon. However, for some reason, I had been feeling sad and a bit down for the last few months. I was having nightmares almost every night. On the surface, everything seemed fine. I had contact with my family in Iran via phone and mail. But something was wrong. I was worried and was feeling down. I felt like crying without knowing the reason for that.

After few months, my youngest brother, Iraj, also made it to Sweden. Since I was living in Varnmo at the time, I could have him live with me. In the interim, Reza and Madjid got their permanent residences as well, but were not sent to Varnamo rather, to another city called Koping. That was the other blow one got to feel in Sweden. Why did we get separated instead of being reunited and be able to live together? We were brothers; we had no one else there besides ourselves, not to mention the fact that my brothers were still all minors. But that is what was decided for us. Iraj, who was not even older than twelve, was glad to be there with me, but he looked sad about something. I could see it in his face that something was not right. He was hiding something from me. One night, I heard him crying. He claimed he was just homesick and that was all.

It took a few months before I got to know why Iraj was so distressed. He explained how often the guards had visited my family and how much worse the situation had become back home. But what he told me about my father made me extremely worried. For a few months, I had not received any letters from my father. In addition, every time I had called home, I had only got to talk to my mom. Every time, my mom had an excuse for why my father was not around to talk to me, or why he had not got a chance to write. Iraj told me that my father had had an accident and had been hospitalized. However according to Iraj, he never got to visit him at the hospital. Furthermore, Iraj had seen my mom, my grandmother, and a few other relatives all dressed in black heading out the door to, apparently, go to a cemetery in Tehran. Iraj had got scared thinking that my father might have passed away.

As soon as I heard that from Iraj, I called home. My mom answered. I demanded to speak with my father. She started giving me the same old excuses as before. I did not want to beat around the bush so I came right out and asked my mom what had happened to my father. She tried changing the subject to get out of answering my question. I did not let her dodge my question and threatened to return to Iran if she did not tell me the truth. There came the blow. My father had died. The accident had happened six months earlier. He had slipped and had broken his hip. It had not taken that long after the accident that he had suffered a heart attack and had died. I fell in my chair. I could hear my mom crying at the other end of the phone. I tried consoling her while I myself was devastated and at the verge of falling apart. Now I knew why I had been feeling the way I was feeling for all those previous months. Now I knew the reason for my nightmares. My father had left us. My mom asked me not to say a word to my brothers before she got to Sweden herself. But I had no idea when she was going to be able to come to Sweden. At first, I did try to keep it from my brothers specially Iraj who lived with me. I lied to Iraj and told him that it was a cousin who had died in an accident, and that was the reason he had seen everybody wearing black and going to a funeral. But after some reflection, I decided to let my brothers know what had really happened. As such, I took Iraj with me to go visit Reza and Madjid. In the evening of the day we got there, I told all of them about our father. I believed they had a right to know that. Moreover, such news are always shocking no matter when one gets to hear about them.

The language training was over. During my time at that school, I studied Swedish, learned to play drums and so forth. At times, I had fun there and at other times, it was boring.

One of the boring instances was a Friday night when a few others and I bought a few beers and a bottle of whisky. We gathered in the school's pub and were having fun before two girls got our attention. The two girls drank so much that by the end of the night, they were passed out. My friends, who had got to know the girls, were worried about them thinking that they might die of alcohol poisoning. But as they found out, the girls had a high alcohol tolerance, much more than us. We were neither used to drinking a lot, nor could we mix different types of drink together. They had drunk beer, wine, whisky and vodka all evening and all night long. We were going to call an ambulance, but the girls did not think it was necessary and according to them, all they needed was just to sleep it out. So they slept in one of the rooms there over night and in the morning, they were feeling just fine.

That night, I had my brothers Reza and Madjid over at my place as well. We had a lot of fun the four of us. That was truly stupid that I got deprived of living together with my brothers. As a result, we got to travel a lot between Varnamo and Koping.

Summer of 1985 was over. Once again, it was time for the Swedish Immigration Board to move us to a new city. I chose Jonkoping. The reason for my choice was the advice I was given by my drum teacher who was a young girl from that city and who thought we would like living there. I asked that all my brothers be moved there with me as well. So, that was how the group of thirteen people, who challenged the immigration board and shored up media attention, got to be split up for good.

### Part-50

In September 1985, I was reunited with my brothers in Jonkoping. Arash and Kamran, two of my best friends since Turkey, stayed in Varnamo. We were given a temporary two-bedroom apartment in Oxnehaga, a district between Jonkoping and Huskvarna. The building was owned by the Riksbyggen, and it was to be demolished sometime in future. We were promised to get a bigger and newly renovated apartment as our permanent place of dwelling at the turn of the year. The apartment was bare and needed to be furnished in order for one to live in it. First, we were advised by the social services to go to a flea market and buy used beds, couch, and table. We had difficulty accepting their proposal. We were supposed to receive money in order to buy household items. After a few conversations with the social services, we got money to buy beds and sofas. Even though the apartment was not that big, there was not enough money to buy everything we needed in there. A civil servant from the social services was sent to us with money. Together with him, we went and bought two bunk beds, desk, two couches, a round table and a coffee table. For the kitchen, we bought table and chairs, but we got used dishes and other kitchen stuff from the social services. We did not have any television and not even a radio. So with my own money, I bought a used television set and a little radio. The apartment was small for us. There were four of us who had to share the two bedrooms. We knew Mom was going to come soon and wondered how the five of us could fit in that little apartment.

It did not take long before I started my Swedish for foreigners' course (SFI) at the Vocational Training Centre (AMU). My brothers started to study Swedish at a high school. My mom and my sister were still in Iran, but not for long. Mom came to Sweden in October 1985. My sister, however, did not get to come to Sweden and after a few hard months and futile efforts, she was forced to go to Canada and settle down there.

In Jonkoping, we got to know a lot of Swedish families. One has more interactions with people in a small city verses in a big city. People have a better relationship with each other in small cities. That was our experience in Sweden. Jonkoping is a religious city, but in an entirely different manner than that of Iran's religious cities wherein people are prisoners in a fort. We met a lot of friendly Swedish families including, one family who had lived in Iran for ten years and knew my homeland really well, and could even speak a little bit of Farsi. We saw each other a lot and had a lot of fun together. We got to learn about them and their culture, and they got to know us and our culture.

Once in a while, people from different religions would come knocking like Jehovah's witnesses, Mormons, and so forth, which was interesting and beneficial to us as far as learning the language was concerned. I was always honest with them and told them right off the bat that I did not want to take up any religion. I am not a devout Muslim, far from it, but I do not see any point in converting to another religion when I do not have much faith in the religion that I inherited. I used to tell the ones who came to the door that I only wanted to practice my Swedish and that was the only incentive for me to chat with them.

Since Jonkoping and Varnamo were not too far from one another, I used to see Arash and Kamran a lot. Things had calmed down a bit in life. Mom was now with us and we had accepted my father's passing. Our lives had started to take shape a little bit. Mom did not want to sit idle and wanted to work. She did get a job at a bakery. Now she got to get a feel for the life of those in the working-class. Someone who had an upper-class life and had maids and servants was now working the night shift at a bakery. She did not want to be idle and collect welfare. A short while later, she started her own business. I, on the other hand, took a metal welding course at the Vocational Training Centre (AMU) while my brothers were at school. At that time, I had no plans of going to university yet. I had promised myself to learn a trade first before I do anything else. Mom wanted us to get into university. However, I did not think the time was right for that yet.

I finished my welding course at AMU, and got a job as a metal welder at a factory. I had never worked a day in my life back in Iran. For me, that was the very first time I got to go to work. I got to meet people from the working-class. Blue-collar folks who lived a simple life and did not have peculiar notions of life like rich folks do. People who lived their lives and did not take anything for granted. As for the work place though, it was a filthy place. Since I did not know how things looked like in reality and had studied at AMU's nice classrooms and workshops, I had thought that the factories were of the same nice and tidy qualities. But that was not the case. I had got my job right after school. It was actually my teacher who asked me if I wanted to start working. Given that I was almost finished with my course at that point, I was offered a job at a factory immediately after I completed my course. I was to work as a metal welder at the factory that was subcontractor for Volvo and Scania, among others.

The first day at the job, I was shocked by the state of filthiness of the work place and the dirty work uniform that I received. I did not work more than six months in that trade and that factory as I prepared myself to go to university. I had enough of staying in such environment.

During the time I worked there, my mom bought a pizzeria, which she sold a few months later. It was cumbersome to run a pizzeria single-handedly. At the same time, she started having pain in her back and shoulders, which made it even more so difficult for her to run the business.

### Part-51

Sweden is a harmonious country; a country that not too long ago was so poor that its people emigrated in masses. As a tourist or on a short stay, one does not get a full picture of the society and the politics of a country that one visits. It is only when one resides in a country that one gets the whole picture of that country. Iran is a bigger country than Sweden and has a larger population than Sweden. However, Iran has not progressed to the same extent as Sweden.

Now I had been in Sweden for a few years. Now I had got to experience the good qualities as well as the bad ones there. The Swedish people are, by and large, peaceful people with calm temperament in comparison to Iranians. One does not see a lot of fistfights in Sweden as there are in Iran. In Sweden there are more freedoms that in such countries like Iran.

However, Sweden was not, and still is not, ready to have foreigners and in particular, refugees. Why not? Because when I came to Sweden in 1984, I belonged to the very first mass refugee wave that came to the country. I experienced first-hand how the authorities handled our cases. We did get a roof over our head, food and clothing, but for three years we had no say in where and how we wanted to live. The decision as to where we should live was made for us by those in charge. We were put on welfare until we ourselves asked to go to work or to study. We got food and clothes until we ourselves had to make it clear that we were not economic refugees, that is, we were not there for financial reasons. We wanted to work in the field that we had studied or had experience.

I do not mean to be ungrateful, but the authorities did not, in many cases, understand why we were there. The Iranians that I knew had no intentions of sitting idle and rely on someone else for money and food. Moreover, they had come to Sweden and chose to live in exile so that they could live and work in a safe and free land unlike their own.

I remember how my mom went through so much heartache just to convince the case-manager at the social services that she did not want to sit home and get welfare, that she did not need that and she wanted instead to be a part of the society and work and learn the language. It was not easy to get through.

I had finished my courses in language and in welding. I worked for a while as a welder until I realized that I wanted to move forward. That was something for which I had to fight. A few of my teachers at the AMU and later on at the municipal adult education school (Komvux) had advised me against going to university all the time. In their view, there was no difference in how much one made based on one's education level in the job-market. They believed that one lived just as comfortably irrespective of being a factory worker or an engineer. As for myself, it was not the pay level that was of interest; rather, the self-growth and social standing that were of importance. I had fought hard to get to where I wanted to be. All of that thanks to the support that I got from my family and the society. The Swedish society that gave many others and me the chance to go to school and get educated; something that was lacking in my own country.

I hated the schools in Iran, but I got to love them in Sweden. Many admit that the school system in Iran is in terrible shape. With regard to schools in Sweden, there are certain differences between different cities, differences in culture and processes, differences in attitudes and approaches. That was something I discovered when I moved from Jonkoping.

I was twenty years old in 1984. When I came to Turkey, I realized that except for a high school diploma, I did not have any meaningful skill or education to rely on. At that point, I had never worked a day in my life and did not have high education either. That was the reason I promised myself that the minute I get to wherever I was going to go, I would first learn a trade and then continue with my academic education.

I was lucky to go to a country that one had the freedom and the possibility to choose what one wanted to do. Sweden, a peaceful country with an open door for refugee seekers whose dreams and objectives are nothing more than to live a peaceful life in a peaceful country. Many call certain countries a land of opportunities when that, in reality, is not the case since in those countries, the opportunity exists only for the smartest and the brightest and not the average person. In Sweden, on the other hand, the opportunity exists for all with no exceptions. One does not have to be wealthy, genius, gifted, or have contacts in order to study in Sweden. In countries like Iran, it remains a dream for many to get into university. In Sweden, however, anyone who wishes to pursue education can do so and receive student loans and grants. The country has made it possible for people to have the financial security to do their studies without any worries. A country with a few million inhabitants, of which many are foreigners, has been able to build such a safe and secure society in many respects.

In my new country Sweden, I got to learn the language as soon as I arrived and subsequently, studied welding at AMU. My welding course was completed in 1985, and I got to work in that trade immediately after graduation.

At the same time that I was working in that factory, I was also studying in the evenings to prepare myself for university. Six months later, I left my job and instead started studying full time at the municipal adult education school (Komvux) in Jonkoping, and, subsequently, got accepted into the computer science program at the University of Orebro.

### Municipal adult education school (Komvux)

In order to prepare for university, I had to upgrade my high school diploma by taking a few courses such as grade twelve Swedish at the municipal adult education school. We had an elegant, well dressed, and sentimental yet, fastidious teacher who, deep down inside, had a distorted perspective of people with foreign origins. She kept that to herself though. On the surface, she was a kind person with a big heart. What got me to gain a better insight into her way of thinking was when she asked me why I was studying at that school. She asserted that my Swedish was good enough to start working. From her standpoint, I was wasting my time with studying at that school. She told me, unequivocally, that she would not give me a pass in my exams since, in her mind, I did not need that. When I explained that I was going to pursue education at university, she stated that in that case, I had to redo my Swedish language training from the lowest possible grade so that my Swedish was up to par for university studies. It was then that I realized that any further discussions with her in that regard was futile.

In the interim, I went ahead and registered for the national test in Swedish language that was to be held at the Linkoping University while, simultaneously, attending her lectures. I took the test and was ranked third among the participants in that test.

I remember the last day when I finished my studies at the municipal adult education school. The same teacher informed every student individually of his or her mark, and when she called me to the front, she told me, with a sad look on her face, that I had not succeeded to pass the exam and therefore, I had failed the course. She advised me in a well-intended manner that I had to start from scratch and take Swedish from the lowest level possible. I remember how I disappointed her when instead of arguing with her, I just showed her my certificate from the national test in Swedish language. Without uttering a single word, I left the classroom. As far as I was concerned, that was her problem to be so biased and intolerant of folks with different backgrounds.

People are very different from each other. In contrast to my Swedish language teacher, my English teacher at the same school was a wonderful person who went out of her way to help her students.

When I started my English course, she realized that my English was at a higher level. She asked me what my plans were for future. I told her I wanted to go to university. She immediately put my name forward for a special test at the municipal adult education school so that I would gain more time toward my other studies there. By means of a special testing, one can write a test in a course and, if successful, receive the course's certificate without having to attend the course. To top it all off, she also helped me a lot with English literature ahead of the exam. So unlike the other teacher who, mildly put, was mean, the English teacher was an angel.

Overall, I enjoyed my time at the municipal adult education school and thought it was great. To meet others, to get together and have fun were also a part of that epoch in my life.

In September 1987, I moved to Orebro to start studying at the University of Orebro. My mother sold her pizzeria in Jonkoping in 1988 and bought a townhouse in Tumba in Stockholm.

Life in Stockholm was totally different. It was truly a big-city living concept there. People stressing out unnecessarily, running after buses and streetcars, walking fast, eating fast and the like.

In Stockholm, if one wanted something, one had better get there first.

### Part-52

1988—Studying at the university

After completing my studies at the municipal adult education school, it was time for university studies. Before I commenced schooling at the municipal adult education school, I did not know what I wanted to study. My friend Arash, whom I knew from my time in Turkey and whom is younger than me by a few years, helped me make my choice.

Arash was very goal-oriented and smart. He learned Swedish in a matter of short time. We both got to come to Sweden together and stay in the same refugee camp in Leksand. Even when we relocated from Leksand to Varnamo we were together.

It was right at the refugee camp at Varnamo when Arash prepared himself for getting into university. I had not yet made up my mind at that point. Arash advised me to go for computer sciences. He himself was also going to study something in the field of computer sciences. According to him, computer science was a good choice with a future.

My brother Reza, who is three years younger than me, and Arash started their university studies one year before me. Reza studied Master of Engineering at the KTH University—Kungliga Tekniska Hogskolan (Royal Technique University)—in Stockholm. Arash studied at Linkoping University. Therefore, I could get good tips from both Reza and Arash with regard to studying in the field of Information Technology or IT. With a view to my future plan, I took all the courses I needed at the municipal adult education school in order to get into the IT field. I applied to universities the minute I was finished with my courses at the municipal adult education school. I got accepted at the Orebro University. It was wonderful to get accepted.

The first day I was to start at the university, I drove to Orebro from Stockholm accompanied by my mom and my brother Reza. There, I met my future classmates. One of them, called Kalle, helped me find a place to live. A really great guy who devoted his time to finding me somewhere to live. If it was not for him, I could not have found a place that fast in the same day I got there.

During the first semester, I lived in a two-bedroom apartment together with another student who was on the waiting list for a room in the dormitory. He was originally from Finland. A pleasant guy who was simply happy to go out and enjoy himself in parties and discos, while I was struggling with my studies.

I was a real crammer during the first semester. In our class, it was only another guy from Ethiopia and I who were foreigners. We had very friendly classmates. On Friday and Saturday nights, it was school's pub nights. We had a lot of fun getting together with our classmates during those events. For them, the two of us foreigners were something almost unique, after all, there were not that very many foreigners in Sweden back then as there are nowadays.

There is a tradition in colleges and universities in Sweden, similar to those found elsewhere, whereby students in the third semester become sponsors for the students in the first semester. The sponsors then, arrange a variety of fun events. The events vary from year to year and are not the same in nature. When it was our class' turn to partake in such activity as first-semester students, we were told that one of us had to get on a bus, walk to the back of the bus, take his pants down and moon the passersby. It was really lucky that I was not assigned to that task. The chore I got was a lot more fun. I was tasked to sit in a cardboard box and try to get the girls to come over to me and kiss me on my cheek. To think how I did and how many kisses I got! After all the activities were carried out, it was time for a big and well-organized lunch. We were supposed to go downtown for that. Everything was booked and everything was set. People sat according to a seating plan so that people interacted with new faces and not with those they always did. There were speeches at the table, singing of funny songs, and telling anecdotes and funny stories.

In the course of chitchatting with the ones at my table, the subject of New Year celebration came up. One of the girls at the table asked me whether we also celebrated the new year in our country, which she really did not know which country it was that I came from. I answered with a firm yes and explained in great detail that we celebrate New Year by lighting fire and dancing around it. I went on to add that afterward, we pick a person and throw that person into the fire. I was quick to mention that the reason we do that is to make an offering for the new year so that it would bring us good-luck and prosperity. As soon as I said that the others at the table who had happened to hear me went quiet. The girl, who had asked me the question, could not help but stare at me. She had really thought that I was serious. Suddenly, a girl who was sitting next to me shouted out that I was kidding and pulling their legs. She started to laugh which got me to laugh as well. At that point, they finally got it that I was joking. A sigh of relief could be heard in the air. It was perhaps funny that they believed such story just like that.

The school had commenced and one was hard at work to pass the exams. During the semester, I kept commuting between Orebro and Linkoping to meet Arash and get extra help with two of my subjects namely, programming and mathematics. The first semester was drawing to a close and since I had started to get a hang of studying, I found it easier to manage my schoolwork.

For the 88-87 New Year, I wanted to go home to Stockholm. My mom and two of my younger brothers, Madjid and Iraj, lived in the townhouse in Tumba. It was an idyllic area and we had a lot of fun there. We threw a lot of parties there. Madjid had completely renovated the basement into a party-room with a bar and disco lights.

I drove to Tumba in the middle of December and was going to stay home for two weeks. However after a few days into my stay at home, I decided to head back to school to get ready for a test that was to take place right after the holidays. I was struggling with an advanced mathematic course and I needed help with that. Reza lived in a student-room close to his university in Stockholm. He was swamped himself with the amount of studying he had to do for his own exams. So, I drove all the way back to Arash's place and got help from him. Therefore, I spent that New Year at Arash's place. I have always been a fan of partying and enjoyed going to parties. But I had to miss the party back home in Tumba due to studying. I was not upset about that since I knew I could always enjoys parties once I was completely done with my university studies. After all, it was my mother who always told us to study while we are young and once that is done, we could go on with our lives and go out, party, or do whatsoever without any regrets.

When the first year at university was over, I went to see my sister in Canada. That was a cool trip and I had a lot of fun. There, I met many celebrities and well-known rich people who lived in the lap of luxury. That trip for me was like a luxury trip. The school semesters went well one after another. While I was studying hard which was paying off in a big way, I also started to learn how to play the Persian drum called tombak, and the Persian sitar called santur.

I remember performing at one our school's parties by playing tombak. It was also interesting that a few of my classmates did not think I would do so well in school as I did. When we started our first academic year, there were fifty of us. At the time of graduation, there were only nineteen of us who successfully graduated. Many dropped out of the university right after the very first semester. I studied so hard and so well that I ended up teaching a few in my class and helping them before exams. That was also helpful to me since one becomes more immersed in the subject when one has to teach that to others. Moreover, I have always been fond of teaching. The same went for music. All the years that I have been able to play santur, tombak and daf, I have been teaching others how to play those instruments.

The day came when I had to do my examination project. I got to do that at the then national telephone company. It was a wonderful time to feel that one had finally come a step farther in life. While carrying on with that project, I was going to help a friend to find a summer-job.

One day when I was glancing at the employment office's newspaper, I came across an announcement for a computer teacher at the Rinkeby School in Stockholm. Just out of curiosity, I called and spoke with the school's principal. When he heard what I had studied at the university, he told me I was over-qualified for that job. However, he said that the district was looking for a computer coordinator. He gave me the phone number for the IT-director for the district. I contacted that person and discussed my academic background. He got very interested and asked me to fax him my resume. After a few days, he called me and told me to go over for an interview.

For the first time in my life, I drove to Rinkeby. A district that according to the media is notorious for crimes and the like in the city of Stockholm. Going there, I was terrified. My perception of that district, which was similar to that of others, was purely based on the reports in the media. From where I lived, I took the subway to the central station in Stockholm and from there I changed train and got on another subway train heading toward Rinkeby. It was on the second subway train that I noticed that the majority, if not all, are foreigners and the subway train was filled with odors from the scent of perfume to the smell of sweat and food. That is not meant as a criticism since I am a foreigner myself; rather, an observation of the differences between the passengers on that train verses the Swedish ones who were usually dressed casually, did not wear any perfumes, and sat quietly waiting to get off at their destination. People were talking with each other in different languages. It felt like being in different parts of the world at the same time. It sounded great. There was life on that subway train. At any rate, I was still scared. I had not let my guard down yet. Specially when I got to the Rinkeby train station, I was more vigilant so as to ensure nothing happened.

I went up the stairs at the subway station and came out in the Rinkeby's square. Suddenly, I saw groups of people at the square. It seemed like the whole world had gathered in a small square. People were talking to each in loud voices, joking, and laughing. The cafes there were filled with men who sat and drank tea or coffee at the same time that they played backgammon. A different scene even for me as a foreigner since I had, up until then, lived in small cities or in residential areas where we were the only foreigners in the area. Until that day, I had not seen such a big concentration of foreigners in one area. Despite everything, it felt safe and relaxing to the point that I even forgot my sense of initial fear. I even dared go up to someone and ask where the district office was.

I went into the district office and met the IT-director, the district director assistant, and someone from the human resources department. The interview went well and it looked like they were pleased as well. At that point though, I still did not have any serious plans to work; rather, I was contemplating on pursuing further education. In a sense, I went through the interview just to find out about the hiring process. When I left that office, I remembered that, as a matter of fact, Arash's brother, Ramez, lived in that area in a student housing. I called him up and then stopped by for a visit.

I was no longer scared. On the contrary, I was angry at how manipulative the mass media can be. How naïve we people are to believe a story without any proof. Rinkeby is a fine and good district. Crimes happen everywhere regardless of the area. There are good and bad neighbours everywhere. To stereotype everyone on the account of a few who commit crimes is shameful. Many times, one reads or hears about different statistics findings, which are twisted and blown out of proportion. For instance, the assertion that crime occurs more among foreigners than Swedes. The question is how many foreigners live in Sweden. How many Swedes are there? Are the two categories comparable? Well, that is the way it is everywhere in all countries. We are not better than others. Every nation has its shortages. Of course to a greater extent for some and for others to a lesser degree.

Nevertheless, it did not take long before the IT-director called me and asked when I could start working. I responded that I was going to be finished with my exam in one week and thus, could start working the following Monday. He told me to make sure to take a week of break in between also and start in two-weeks time instead. So that is how that went.

Now, it has been many years since that and much has happened. After elections both at the national level and at Stockholm municipality level, the organization has gone through many changes and restructuring. Many districts have merged together and new ones have been established. I have so far been very happy with this enormous organization. It has given me a lot like the chance to further educate myself, gain great work experiences, and work with people of different backgrounds.

Given that my place of employment was located in the north of Stockholm, I bought an apartment in Husby, which is another slum area according to the media. Despite all that is said about Rinkeby and Husby, I, who have worked and lived in those areas for decades, am happy more than one can imagine. Rinkeby and Kista were amalgamated into a, yet, bigger district.

An exciting time with so many big changes that solidified one's working power and capacity.

Stockholm city's municipality is a big organization. The municipality of Stockholm is divided into a number of districts. I started working as a computer coordinator at one of those districts called Rinkeby district public administration. I also studied while working. As a result of being a computer engineer and a computer system developer, I was involved in many different projects at the Rinkeby district public administration office. Over the years, I got promoted and eventually, became the assistant IT-director.

It has now been many years since I entered the working life. It has been educating, exciting, successful, and fun. Those were wonderful times. One could feel how one grew and climbed up the ladder of success one step at a time. It has been great the way things turned out in my life, after all, I managed to land a job in Stockholm municipality in 1991, which coincided with the same time as my graduation from the university.

### Part-53

About the music

As a means of relaxation from the information technology line of work, I have my music as my hobby. Even when I was in Iran, I was interested in music. I had a few friends who worked in the music industry. However as a result of music becoming forbidden in the first few years after the revolution, I could not get to practice music. I remember that when we were kids, my parents had registered my sister and I at the Iranian television children music ensemble. There we played melodica. At home, we also had harmonica, electronic keyboard, guitars, long-necked lute (tar), harmonium, and accordion, in which my sister was involved a lot more than I. Under junior, intermediate, and senior levels of schooling, we had courses in music at school. At any rate, we got to familiarize ourselves with music already from an early age. It is sad that our interest in music did not lead anywhere, especially since it was banned after the revolution. Therefore, it was a blessing that I got to come to Sweden where I could freely pursue my love of music.

I got back into music in 1985, when I learned how to play the drums at the Varnamo's school. Then it was the Persian drum (tombak and daf), and shortly after that, it was the Persian zither (santur) and a couple of years later, it was piano and electronic keyboard as well as the Persian flute (ney). To go back to music was not easy specially, if one did not want to start with oriental music. First when I learned how to play drums at the school in Varnamo, it was a girl who played drums at the school's music group who taught me the drums.

The problem was that once we moved to Jonkoping, I could not practice that anymore since it was not possible to play drums in an apartment. In the interim, my interest in playing the Persian drum, tombak, was still as strong as when I was in Iran. But I did not know how to find a tombak in Sweden. There were not that very many Iranians in Sweden then and no one was allowed to take a music instrument out of Iran. After all, music was banned in Iran.

As luck had it, I ran into a few Iranians who were into music. We became friends. One of them played tombak and also sang. I noticed that he had a tombak. His brother, who lived in Germany at the time, used to make them himself and I could buy one from him. So now that I had one, it was just a matter of practicing.

Since I could play tombak, I got to get together with many other Iranians who had come to Sweden in later years. Among them was one who could play santur. I was able to buy my first santur then through him. He knew an Iranian in Denmark who made santurs.

After that, I bought few other tombaks and santurs as well as Persian flute called ney, and Persian big drum called daf. Today, it is easy to buy good Persian instruments and bring them to Sweden or other countries. In order to learn tombak and santur, I went to different Iranians who could play those instruments. Simultaneously, I bought textbooks, cassettes, and videos to practice more and more.

When I came to Sweden, it was very difficult to find oriental instruments, Persian literature of different kinds and many more. Today all that is history. There is nothing one cannot find in Sweden; something that, I think, has contributed to Sweden's growth in terms of culture and general knowledge. How many in Sweden knew that Iran and Iraq were two different countries with two different languages and cultures? How many had listened to Persian or oriental music in the past?

Today's Swedish society is not comparable to the one I came across back in the early eighties. There are so many different oriental festivals and programmes of different kinds that exist today.

That is sad that many never get to experience peace and freedom in their lives. Good and evil exist everywhere but to different degrees. In certain countries, there is, relatively speaking, more bad than good. I am thankful to have found a better life after that unfortunate change of regime in Iran. Many lost their lives. Many became disabled and paralyzed in vain for the sake of the regime and in the hopes of realizing their dreams of living in democracy. People want to believe that the situation in Iran has become milder in the years following the revolution of 1979. But regrettably, that is just a dream and wishful thinking. For those of us who got to go through those first years of the revolution, there was nothing but bitterness and hardship that people endured and still suffer from even to this day.

I studied concurrently while I worked, and dabbled in music as a hobby. I had come in contact with many musicians and got to partake in many concerts and performances.

Throughout the years, I have acquired more and more knowledge in music for which I have a deep passion.

If I had the same knowledge in music that I have now, I would have probably chosen music as my profession. But it was not the case at that time. Moreover thanks to my mom's inherent strength and motivation, I have been able to make musical compositions of different kinds together with my mom. Sine in addition to being the first woman in Iran who got her pilot's license, she is also an author, a poet, and an artist. As a result, we could have a musical collaboration together where she would recite her poems with my music being played in the background. Also anytime she holds an art gallery or has a book presentation, I am always there to perform and play music. After so many years, I have a lot of musical composition, which are available both on my own website and my mom's website at: http://www.arya.se/Ali/Ali_Sadeghian.html.

When it comes to music, I would like to take the chance and thank all those who helped me in my endeavour, taught me, accompanied me in my performances, let me accompany them, and let me be in their trio, quarter, ensemble and orchestras.

So far there have been many including, Aref Ibrahimpour, Keyvan Saket, Javid Afsari-Rad, Vahid Tehrani, Gisso Shakeri, Bahram Bajelan, Ali Shakuri, Mahmoud Shafian, Farhad Hedayatti, Jalal Naghshbandi, Shahriar Bakhshipour, Hassan Moghaddam, Hamid-Reza Hamidi, Aref Shakuri, Anis Fathimoin, Hormoz Asadi, Emad Shakuri, Shahin Dehdari, Amin Mir-Shahi, Moshtagh Feyz Yabi, Masih Madani, Najmedin, Khaled Rashid, Hassan Nejatti, Hoshang Mohajeri, Hamid Roudbari, Kioumars Hamidi, Farhad Hamidi, Orjan Hulten, Nasim Al-Fakir, and last but not least, the music group Iranian Tones (Iranska Toner), in which I have been a member since 1997. At the same time, a big thanks to my teacher and friend Shapour Bastansiar whose help in honing my skills in music theory, and playing piano and keyboard were invaluable to me and very much appreciated by me.

### Part-54

1993-Wedding

Atelier Aline, Alireza Nehzati

September 1995, Ali & Faryal's wedding

So, there came the time to find a partner for life. The years were passing by and I was not young anymore. To find the right partner is something that one cannot do by oneself. The reason I say that is because I am of the opinion that destiny has a lot to do in that regard. No one knows what destiny has in store for one. To get married is like buying a lotto. Either one wins or comes up empty handed. Nevertheless considering that I had finished school and I also had a job, I thought it was a good time then to settle down. Parents always wish for their children to get an education, get married and have children in pretty much the same way they did themselves. As such, I remember my mom advising me to find a suitable partner and to start my own family. I knew she only had my best interest at heart, but I just did not know how to go about it. So, I asked her, like I used to in the old days, to help me find a partner. That perhaps sounds old-fashioned and strange, but it gives one a peace of mind and helps one not to exert oneself.

Out of the blue, an opportunity came about which was due to my involvement in music. I came in contact with a musician who played violin and composed music through my drum teacher in1993. At the same time, my mom was also taking music lessons in setar (long-necked lute) with an Iranian teacher.

My mom had tried many times, at different times in Iran and Sweden, to learn guitar, piano, singing and setar, but to no avail. After many tries, she, ultimately, admitted that she is a better listener than practitioner.

First time I met my future father-in-law was when I went to practice Persian drum with my drum teacher in Kista. He was there playing violin when we got introduced to one another. Since he lived at the same place as my drum teacher, we met a few more times at my drum teacher's home. As a result of that, we started to become more acquainted. Being so interested in music, I invited my drum teacher and his trio over to my place. That evening, Mom came over too and cooked wonderful Persian food, and my siblings came over as well. That night it was a lot of playing music, singing, dancing, and, all in all, having a great time till midnight. That night, we found out that my future father-in-law was also looking for a suitable husband for his daughter. His oldest daughter was already married and lived in Sweden. When he got to know my family and me, he became interested in introducing his daughter to my mom. But how was that possible? Of course, he was smart and did not come out and say it directly. Rather, since my mom was interested in learning Persian music and he was very well versed in music and played different instruments, he offered to help my mom learn setar.

One day, he invited my mom to his oldest daughter's home to meet them and also to take music lessons. That was the first time my mom got to meet his daughter and her husband, that is, my future in-laws. It became apparent that the gathering there was not about teaching music; rather, he wanted to show my mom his older daughter's wedding video.

Watching the wedding video, my mom got to see his other daughter, Faryal. Yes, the person with whom I now share my life, my wonderful, sweet, life-partner Faryal. My mom loved Faryal the moment she saw her in the video. Faryal was a beautiful, happy girl who, in the video, had been dancing in a beautiful white dress with a nice aigrette on her head that was adorned with a long white feather. My mom then had asked the father whether Faryal was married and had found out that she was not.

Shortly after that encounter, my mom along with Faryal's father and sister had been busy planning to somehow get me to see the wedding video hence, see Faryal.

As per their plan, I was invited with my mom over to Faryal's sister's home for dinner. Not too long after we got there, they managed to bring up the subject of their wedding ceremony in Iran and invited us to watch their wedding video. By so doing, they could find out if I was interested or not. Watching the video, it took no longer than few seconds for me to fall for such beauty like Faryal.

Faryal's father lived in Sweden, but had not received his residence permit yet. As a matter of fact, his application was rejected by the Immigration Board, and he was ordered to be deported; something that turned out to become a big problem for me later on. Under those circumstances then, he lived at a friend's house instead of his daughter's. Now that I had made up my mind, it was still a matter of finding out what the other party's thoughts were. The solution was then to send a picture of me to Faryal first in order to find out if she had any interest in marrying me.

Not long thereafter, we received a positive response. Faryal became interested as well from what she told me later. Apparently, her family and friends were all in agreement as well. Now with that out of the way, what remained was to meet in person.

One sunny day in June, Faryal's father came over to us. He called his wife in Iran and talked with her and Faryal. Then, he put me on the phone to talk with Faryal. I had butterflies in my stomach. Not just because of talking with Faryal, but because her father and my mom were standing nearby with happy looks on their faces; something that made it even more difficult for me to properly get a conversation going. Despite all of that, sentences just kept rolling off my tongue one after another.

After that first phone-conversation, I started to call her and talk with her for an hour every night. All the way from May 1993 to August of that year, we were in constant contact via phone. To date, every time I talk with Faryal on the phone, I am reminded of our phone-conversations back in 1993.

We made the decision to meet in Istanbul, Turkey, and get married there. My mom and I went from Sweden, and Faryal, her mother, her aunt, and her aunt's daughter came from Iran to Istanbul. I had no doubts in my mind that Faryal was the one I wanted to live with for the rest of my life. A petite, sweet, happy and pleasant girl of twenty-five years of age who had walked into my life. One who still brings so much light and happiness to every second of my life.

I had arranged for a rented apartment in Istanbul for all of us to live in, which is where they were staying since they got there ahead of us. My mom and I flew to Bulgaria first and had to change planes there heading to Istanbul. I was extremely impatient and all I wanted was to get there. When we finally got there and came into the apartment, I saw everyone but Faryal, who was hiding in another room and taking a sneak peek at us. Then, there was time to see Faryal in person. When she came out of the room, I felt like all the blood rushed to face and my heart began to beat faster. I just looked at her without being able to say a word. It seemed like I had forgotten all that I wanted to tell her the way I had thought about all the way there. Nevertheless, everything went well and we prepared ourselves to get married in Istanbul.

On the fifth of August 1993, we got married and later on that night, with the help of our Turkish friends, a little party was arranged in one of those beautiful beach-restaurants in Istanbul with live music and belly dancing.

A few days later, it was time to leave and go on our separate ways. They were to go back to Iran and my mom and I to Sweden, with the hopes that she would soon be granted her visa to come to Sweden. Given that I was a Swedish citizen and had a very good-paying job, we did not anticipate for the visa to take more than two months to be issued. But it did not go as expected.

It took until the sixth of December 1994, when Faryal finally got her visa to come to Sweden. The lengthy delay was caused by the fact that her father had received a deportation order. As a result of that, I ended up having to write countless number of letters to the Ministry of Immigration explaining that my marriage was not a sham. However, I was not being able to get through.

After much correspondence, I was called for an early morning interview on a snowy winter day in Linkoping. I borrowed my brother-in-law's car and got on the road in the dark, cold weather in order to get there on time. The person who interviewed me was unpleasant right from the word hello. I noticed how she was looking at me inquisitively. We went into an office. Her very first question was why Faryal's father had hidden himself. That came to me as a shock. I felt like I was back in Iran all over again. She carried on with her questioning precisely the same way that people are handled in Iran. I responded politely that I was not there about Faryal's father; rather, I was there regarding my wife's case. I went on to say that even if I knew the answer to the question she was asking, I was not there in reference to that matter, which was clearly not relevant to the case at hand. She ferociously accused me of either having got paid for bringing Faryal to Sweden, or that was just a ploy to strengthen her father's case for staying in Sweden, or I had been lured by them to get another one of their family members to Sweden.

I was mystified and wondered whether that was an interrogation with regard to my father-in-law's situation or an interview concerning my wife's residence permit. She said furiously that she knew very well what kind of people we were and that they were already on to us. Quite upset and exasperated, I got up, feeling dismayed that once again after few years, I had to relive my memories of living in an undemocratic country. Before leaving I told her, "You should move to Iran. Perhaps there, you will gain a broader view and deeper understanding of how people have to put up with the authorities. You can do what you want. I will bring Faryal here regardless of your interference."

Then, I drove back home. I kept writing to the Ministry of Immigration over and over again to no avail.

Faryal's father could not live in Iran. He was a musician and he lived for music; something that was no longer allowed to be an occupation in Iran. He felt restricted and silenced when he could not have the music as his profession and his enjoyment. Moreover, there was no life in Iran; no one was safe. He had taken up the subject with his wife and so, one day instead of going to work, he had simply fled the country.

His older daughter was already living in Sweden. She had married her neighbour's son who was a resident of Sweden. Therefore, Faryal's father had sought refugee status in Sweden. Now, my future and my marriage hinged on Faryal's father's case. Considering what was at stake and above all for Faryal's sake, my mom and I got more involved in the father's case. My mother worked, literally, as a translator and a personal assistant for Faryal's father. Mom helped him enormously to ensure he would receive a favourable decision. She did all that since she knew that my life had turned into a living hell because of what was going on, and I, indeed, was not feeling well any more.

All my efforts to hire lawyers and pay for legal fees, and all my own correspondence with the Ministry of Immigration did not yield any results. My life had, therefore, turned upside down, and I had lost my zest for life. It was not just I, but Faryal was also anxious and disquieted. She kept asking me what was to become of us if she was not granted her residence permit. She wondered if at that point, we would be forced to get a divorce. We talked extensively over the phone for one and a half years. In addition to the telephone bill that kept going up and up with every additional day that we were apart from one another, our feelings of uneasiness also became more palpable with respect to our situation.

At last, things turned out the way we had hoped. In October 1994, after five years of uncertainty, Faryal's father was granted his residence permit. It was a happy moment for both families and particularly, for Faryal and I because not too long thereafter, Faryal got her residence permit and came to Sweden. That was a huge relief and a feeling of gladness for both us. Now, after one and a half years of waiting, we could think about a real and blissful life together.

Since then, we have had a wonderful life together. At our wedding, we had about a hundred guests who were all happy for our sake. Finally, love had won over injustice. I am proud of my wife. She is not only beautiful, she is also considerate, loving, and wonderful. Moreover, she and my mom have a fantastic relationship with each other and care for one another; which makes life more exhilarating for me to have both my mom and my wife at my side without any issues.

### Part-55

There is no comparison between Stockholm and Tehran, which has seventeen million inhabitants. But Stockholm has just as many stressed out people as that of Tehran, at times, more stressed out than one thinks. However, Stockholm is well situated with its thousands of archipelagos and its beautiful environment. Greenery decorates the whole city all year round; something that one does not get to see in many of the cities like Tehran. Freedom is of the greatest value above everything else. The air is much cleaner that many other cities in the Asia.

It has now been more than thirty years that I have been in Sweden. I have learned a lot about life and others' cultures while at the same time, I ended up parting with my homeland and my culture more and more with every passing year. I am no longer that Ali who came to Sweden in 1984 with his values and ideas. I have changed. I have grown to a better person. I have got a taste of the freedom.

But what weighs on my mind is that I cannot visit my homeland. The country where I spent the first twenty years of my life. A country wherein I was born and grew up. A country in which my father died without me being there or even being able to visit his grave, visit my old home, visit my old neighbourhood. All that has had a negative impact on me. It is almost as if that period of my life never existed. All those years seem like a dream to me now. The ability to bring those years back to reality for me has vanished. I do not see those years as a part of my life. The remarkable thing is that in all my dreams, I see myself in my old home. Regardless of what the dream is about, I am always back at my old house in Iran. I know that such longings would disappear the moment I am able to visit my homeland. It suffices with one-time visit, for the soul tends to seek out and see the country's tranquility.

I am glad for having chosen Sweden. I was lucky that destiny brought me to Sweden which is my second homeland. Through living in another country, an industrial, developed country, I got to experience something that I could never have experienced in my homeland. Those were human rights, freedom of expression, social values, democratic political system and so forth. I do not like the politics that is practiced in my country. A type of politics that has no tolerance for a dissenting view and punishes the holder of that view with dead sentence. Religion has influenced the society so fundamentally that any progress has been stifled. A country like Iran with more than twenty million inhabitants has still not realized the value of coexistence. A nation full of hate, antagonism, and agitation. A people who are great at managing themselves on their own, but cannot work in groups and do not want to cooperate with others.

I am referring to those Iranians who cannot work in groups. We Iranian have no sense of group work. Our history consists of individuals who are always alone and doing well. Like kings, statesmen, athletes and so forth.

We Iranians are capable of reaching our goals but those are our own individual and private goals. Egoism has run rampant for centuries that we cannot do without that. Many of us are either highly educated or successful business people, but those we have reached by ourselves. Moreover, the minute I becomes WE, we switch to that of a destructive character. There are many examples of such awful and rotten attitudes among us.

Here in Sweden, there are more than ninety thousand Iranians. When one looks at the number of organizations that Iranians have established here like various associations, local radio and television channels, music and theatre groups and the like, one notices that Iranians are a group of foreigners who have the greatest number of associations of various kinds. Why is that? Well, it is because we Iranians are so different from one another that we cannot become united with each other about anything. Our political views are so deep entrenched that it leaves no room for two ideas to collaborate together. Based on my views, many might get the wrong impression that I put my people down or that I blame them. That is, however, not my intention; rather, it is merely an observation which I hope can shed some light on the issue here.

The Swedes are a good role model for cooperation and collective work in a society. So many good and diverse types of team work and group activity go on between Swedes on a daily basis. Two people can have two completely different political opinions but their common interest in music brings them together as one group, in which they work collaboratively together. Or another example can be seen in reference to two different political parties with two different ideologies who govern together in one parliamentary and democratic system. They do not kill each other over their differences of opinion. They do not torture one another to hold on to power.

There is even another side to the people from other countries, who live in Sweden. To be a foreigner is not advantageous in certain cases, in that, one looks different and in certain cases, one can end up being the black sheep. A dark-haired person with an accent and language barrier can often feel ostracized by the society. The word "black-skull," which is used to refer to us, was something new that I got to experience in Sweden. However, the notion of race superiority, that is, racism was something that I had already seen in my country. The Afghans who sought refugee status in Iran got to feel as outcasts in that society. At least in Sweden, one has a judicial system to rely on in the same fashion as every other citizen, but that is not the case in countries like Iran.

By no means am I an analytic. What I speak of and describe here are strictly based on my own personal experiences. They are my own experiences that I share here. I hope that one day, my people realize the value of democracy and cooperation. That they listen to reason and respect each other's views and ideologies. That they reach the level of rationality that is needed to let others come up. In my years of living in Sweden, I have come to grasp that we human beings are from the one and the same root, regardless of what one calls that. We should cherish the gift of LIFE that we have got.

### Dedication

We dedicate this book to all those who lost their lives in the war between Iran and Iraq.

To all those who suffered psychological trauma and physical injuries as a result of war, as well as those who became homeless and those who were treated brutally and inhumanely.

To all those women and children who were raped by the Iraqi soldiers and their lives were destroyed forever.

To all those who were captured and became prisoners of war.

To all those who were forced to flee their country as a result of war, the revolution, the country's dictator, and were, ultimately, forced to live in exile.

To all those who lost their loved ones, their integrity, their identity, their pride and their homeland.

To all the children who became orphans in the senseless war between two dictators, or more to the point, between two madmen who started a reckless and dangerous game, a war without no winners, no meaning, and no results.

They caused the loss of millions of lives and the destruction of two countries just to satisfy their own ego and nothing else.

Akram Monfared Arya

Ali Sadeghian
Previously published by Akram Monfared-Arya:

### I have participated in:

Kista Anthology, Kista district administration (2002)

Poetry on a string, Kista district administration (2002)

Documentary by Simone Aaberg Kærn, Danish pilot and artist (2002)

Life puzzle, Career choice and life's goal by Ebba Laurin (2004)

Women's lives in Husby: A depiction of gender, location & ethnicity by Carina Listerborn (2005)

Interviews on Swedish radio stations

UR, "Ramp om historia" programme

SVT, "Plus ekonomi" programme

Poetry online by Författares Bokmaskin (2006)

Poetry in one day by Författares Bokmaskin (2009)

TV4's cooking contest programme "Seven-thirty at my place" (2009)

Poetry in one day by Författares Bokmaskin (2010)

"Seven-thirty at my place" Cookbook, Bonnier Facts (2010)

SVT Dr. Åsa programme (2010)

### Would you like to know more about me?

Please visit my website at:

http://www.arya.se

Or refer to Wikipedia:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akram_Monfared_Arya>

Follow me on Twitter:

<https://twitter.com/#!/FlyingPoet>

Join me on Facebook:

<http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=1834267705>

<http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/profile.php?id=724582985>

I am a member of the Swedish Writers' Association, and

Visual Arts Copyright Society in Sweden (BUS)

For public speaking engagements, please contact me at:

arya@arya.se

