An Iranian in Exile

An Iranian in exile writes from the heart. This may hurt a little. The last days had come. I was preparing for a forced departure, and I had to leave my Iran and my family behind. On one side was a grief that filled me at leaving my homeland; on the other, fear and anxiety because I didn’t know what awaited me. Agha Bozorg was sad, too, though he tried not to show it. The day before my flight, I went to say goodbye. As always, the courtyard door was open. I went in and saw him sitting by the window, looking outside. He never told me why he sat for hours watching the courtyard and the gate. I guessed he missed Khanom Bozorg, and perhaps he was watching for his children to come. I entered his room. His back was almost turned to me, and he didn’t look around. Before I could say hello, he asked, “Have you come to say goodbye?” “Hello, Agha Bozorg. Yes.” “Will you promise me you won’t come back?” “Won’t come back? Why?” “This land smells of the dead.” “But I’ll miss you. I can come visit every year, or every other year.” Do you know what he said? “Waiting is the worst pain in the world. If you say you’ll visit, I’ll suffer day and night until the day arrives. But if you say you won’t, I’ll only miss you. I’ll know you’re safe where you are, and I’ll have some peace.” He was right. Waiting hurts so much. “What about hope, Agha Bozorg? People live on hope.” “Whoever told you that was wrong. Hope isn’t enough. It has strength, but eventually it runs out. “Belief is stronger than anything.” “Go, son. Go, because I believe you’ll succeed. Knowing that makes me feel better.” My fellow Iranian, part of my own flesh, I believe in my king. I believe in Iran’s freedom. I believe in “Long live the Shah.” That belief helps me bear the cursed wound of exile. I believe in the reign of Reza Shah II. Long live the Shah forever.