The Fishing Boat and the Stormy Sea

One winter day I went out into the alley to play with the other children. But everything was different that day. They were there, yet as soon as they saw me, they said goodbye to one another and went home. One had an exam, another had guests. Each had an excuse. I was puzzled. Everything had been normal the day before. I went to Mohammad’s house and knocked. His mother opened the door. “Is Mohammad home?” “He has homework. Go home yourself. Don’t you have schoolwork and a life of your own? Are you always hanging around the streets?” I was stunned. Why was everyone acting this way today? I lowered my head and started home. Then I saw another of the boys. Relieved, I called out to him. He changed direction and ran away, though not toward his house. I went home with a lump in my throat. What had happened? I thought I’d call Reza. Maybe he knew. He answered. “Hi, Reza,” I said. “You make me sick. Don’t call me again.” The next day I went to school. When I entered the classroom, I saw that the boy who sat beside me had moved to another seat. I said nothing. The day passed. On my way home, I went to Agha Bozorg’s house. I hesitated, then knocked. He opened the door. “Come in. I’ve just made tea, and we have some zaboon pastries. We can have them together.” I told him what had happened, and I began to cry. “I haven’t done anything, but everyone is treating me badly. They’ve all stopped speaking to me. I don’t know why.” He gave me a little smile and said: “In the old days, when I went fishing with Khalu Abbas, my uncle, the sea sometimes grew rough and stormy. Once the rain came down hard and the waves grew so heavy they lifted our fishing boat high and slammed it into the water. Each time, we thought the boat would break and we’d drown. “‘Khalu, we have to turn back quickly,’ I said. I was terrified. But as calm as could be, he switched off the engine and tied a rope around my waist, then another around his own. “‘Why have you turned it off? We have to go back!’ “‘Sometimes you know you aren’t strong enough,’ he said. ‘Then you have to cut the engine and wait. Stay afloat so you aren’t hurt, or are hurt less, and still have the strength to make it home. “‘Wait for the sea’s anger to pass and the moon to come out from behind the clouds. Fighting the waves won’t help. Be still and hold firm. The storm will pass.’” Sometimes we have to be quiet so we can stand on our feet again. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah.