My gracious Parisa,
After another day of roaming the city, tired and heartbroken, I return to the quiet corner of my home. When I look at the clock, a fire burns inside of me. It is Friday, 8:30 pm. The clock’s hands are a reminder of this excruciating pain. Two weeks have passed since that cursed eveving in Vali Asr Square, when I shook your hand for one last time. I wanted to say “don’t go!” I wanted to scream “stay!” but, there was a lump in my throat, and there was anger, pain, and tears, and I just could not bid you farewell.
I am sitting deep in thought about these days and the events that are happening to me, to you, to us, to Iran. Your face, your calm face, and your carefree laughter come to mind. It is as though you are next to me. With your penetrating look, in a melancholic song, you address my heart: “Are you sleepy?” and tears, drop by drop, slide down my face. And that lump is choking my throat with its heavy hands. It is as though I hear a whisper, short, deep, calm.
“With a flood of tears, to sleep, I found my way Thinking of you, in vain, I’d long and pray
To the vision of your brow, I lost my cloak I’d drink to the corner of the altar, old and gray.
Your face, like a vision, in my mind would form and fade I kiss the face of the moon from far away” *
With me in this trip filled with menace, I flip through the pages of my memory. Do you remember the first time we met? You came with Shiva. It has been a year since then. A year with lots of ups and downs. A year filled with joys and difficulties. A year full of smiles and tears.
It was the committee’s meeting. I was sitting alone at the table when you two came in. And this was the beginning to an acquaintance of a person “whose presence gives hope to the possibility of goodness;” “a person who hid her own troubles with a smile just to see smiles on others’ faces,” and a person whose calm romanticism could drive you mad.
A person who at the early years of youth, while everyone seeks joy and pleasure, would brace the pain of looking after the children in Ameneh Orphanage, and later in the establishment she founded herself. A person who spends her young years teaching disabled kids.
An individual who has founded along with her friends “Cultural Centre to Support the Children engaged in Child Labour.” A person whose name has been interwoven with the women’s movement, from the cultural centre to “Zanestan” to the campaign. Someone who sincerely and quietly brings to the front all that she has at her disposal. Someone who believes with all her heart in human rights, and whose heart is filled with love for people and for humanity. What a great fortune it is to live, be friends, and work with you.
Someone who is a source of pride for human rights reporters.
My companion and soul mate, at your depository of words, there is a piece which I really like:
“…and my only wish was to be a bird so that I could sit at the windows, and every time a house’s spirit was going cold, every time someone screamed, or had tears in his/her eyes, I could go in and sit on their shoulder and take their pain away with me without saying a single thing. I would have liked to be able to bat my wings and push the warmth through the window into the houses.”
Now, that bird with its beautiful voice has been trapped in the narrow cage of oppressors. You know that it is hard to bear your presence in prison while I just roam around this ruined city which has lost its rhythm. I wish I were a bird too, so that I could open my wings and sit at every single window of this cursed land, to chant your song in the ears of men, women, and children. I would have told everyone to be alert a little more. At the feet of that colossal snow-covered mountain, there is a castle which has been made by hideous hateful vultures to silence the chant of swallows and the love songs of canaries. They have raised a strong fortress to “smell your mouth, to make sure you have not said ‘I love you,’ so that they could investigate your heart to make sure no flame is lit.
A dark fortress, with tall walls and many cages, a place where Satan is indulging in intoxicated celebration of our grief. Would a day come when this establishment of tyranny collapses, and peace and joy spreads? Oh bird of enchanting song, I hope you stay and behold The joyous day when there shall be no cage in the world My generous and complacent Parisa, I don’t know how you feel right now.
Have you been mocking the sour taste of solitary confinement or are you transferring the warmth of life to all your cellmates? Whatever the case, I know that the prison, however narrow and petty, cannot conquer your grand spirit which is filled with life, love, and kindness.
Life in our time is an endless campaign against vices and vulgarities which occupies the precious moments of our lives. And in this struggle, sorrow is the pirate hired by the army of evil that crosses our path to rob us of love, confidence, and faith. However, I am hopeful that such sorrow will not find its way into your kind heart, for you know and understand the real meaning of love, the sweetness of confidence, and the calmness of faith.
I know it is hard to tolerate being away from those you love, but please know that bearing your absence for those who love you is much harder and more bitter that “life has come to an end now that we are separated.” When the grief make a pass at the bride of love, let your translucent tears, which your strength of character have kept at bay and away from those around you, like a dam, turn into a flood and drown the pharaoh of sorrow. Even though all the birds’ wings are bloodied, the songs all tearful, the stars all extinguished, remember that the fire of love of flight, the excitement of singing, will undoubtedly shine moonlight on this dark night.
Although the dark night has cast its shadow over the country, be brave for the dawn is near.
My lovely Parisa,
What villain could know you and still imprison you? What scoundrel can see the grandiosity of your spirit and still interrogate you? What illogical person could see the purity of your heart and subject you to inquisition? What phony can see your honesty and still insist on his preposterous claims? What ignorant person can see your open mind and be proud of his own disdainful state? I am shocked at the endless arrogance of these beggars who suddenly became nobles, and these slaves who have turned pompous, I am stunned how they sacrifice their dignity and their fate to protect the power of their masters who follow Bani Omayeh [the dynasty who was in power after the prophet’s death, and was against Shiite’s saints killing many of them], and pretend to be followers of Ali? I wish destiny was just, that fate was fair.
O bearer of wine! Give a cup filled with justice so that beggar be too ashamed to do malice
Since you have gone, I constantly struggle with myself. It is as though my hands seek a lost one whose roar sanctions freedom and whose whisper degrades tyranny. Tell your captors not to scare us with their chains and cells, not to speak with vulgarity and threats, not to harass the families of our allies, and not to seek obstinacy for such daggers have no use in our corner. Tell them that I will stay, even though I am reluctant to do so.
I will stay until I could experience the warmth of your presence. It is the hope of seeing you again that keeps me going.
I will stay so that once again I could see, embrace, and commend Saeed Kalanaki (the essence of passion), courageous Shiva, loyal Koohyar, well-spoken Saeed Jalali, Mehrdad (the embodiment of hope), and Saeed Haeri (the epitome of modesty and grace).
In this cold January, there is no Saba (morning breeze coming from the east) to deliver my message to the comrade. I hope there is an iota of conscience or humanity so that it may deliver this letter to you.
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