Agha Bozorg’s Lamp of Hope

I remember that Agha Bozorg always left the lamp by his porch on, even during the day. That light never went out. Toward the end, after he developed Alzheimer’s, he marked the switch so that no one would turn it off, whether he himself forgot or a guest reached for it. One day I finally asked him, “Agha Bozorg, don’t you always tell us not to waste things, to make sure we don’t leave a tap running or a light on for no reason?” “Yes, I do.” “Then why do you always leave that lamp on?” “It’s called the lamp of hope. I want it to stay lit so that if someone is in the dark, lost in the alley, or even lost inside himself, he can find himself in the light. “There are days in life when your eyes are open but it’s so dark you can’t see. Then you don’t know, and can’t see, that someone may be there to take your hand.” “What if the person is blind?” “A blind person’s inner sight and other senses are keener. They feel heat and cold more clearly than you or I do. When they reach the porch, they’ll feel the warmth of that lamp and know someone is behind this door, someone with a hand to offer a bowl of water or a cup of tea.” “What an interesting name you gave it, Agha Bozorg.” “I know there may come a day when I’m gone. This house may be sold soon afterward, or torn down and replaced with apartments. If that fills it with children’s noise again, I’ll be glad. “But remember this: even if you’re the last person left in this house, leave the lamp of hope on. Even if no one lives here, let the light of hope shine.” My friend, my compatriot, a part of my own flesh: you and I may be here today and gone tomorrow. But even if I’m no longer here, keep the lamp of hope for Iran’s freedom burning. Light triumphs over darkness. You, I, and the generations after us live by hope. We all deserve an Iran of warmth and dignity. May the lamp of hope in your heart burn forever. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah forever.