The Lonely Old Tree

Behind Agha Bozorg’s garden stood a very old tree. When I was younger, my cousins and I climbed its branches and played there for hours. Agha Bozorg had a rule for every trip to that garden: on our first day, we had to sit beside the tree, drink tea, eat cookies, and rest. I knew he loved it, but I didn’t know why. Years later, the tree came to mind and I asked him its story. “That old tree has a thousand stories,” Agha Bozorg said. “It has only one story of its own, but it tells a thousand different ones.” “That’s a deep way to see it, Agha Bozorg. Will you tell me more?” “For years people have come and gone beneath it. That tree has listened to the troubles of thousands without saying a word. It has never told anyone else’s story. It has kept thousands of people’s secrets and witnessed their tears and laughter. “It has seen days and nights, snow and rain and spring. Everyone sees it differently. For one person, it’s welcome shade from the sun. For another, shelter from the dark and safety from jackals. Someone else might see good timber for a bench in the yard. Someone sees an ear that listens without judging. Someone sees a landmark that guides them home.” “How do you see it, Agha Bozorg?” “It’s my strongbox of secrets, a diary I may never write.” “So you’ve always talked to it?” “Yes. I knew it would keep my secrets. It was my safest friend. Even if it burned one day, it wouldn’t sell my memories, my words, my story, or, better said, me, for a sip of water.” “Then why did you make us visit it on our first day at the garden?” “Because it’s waiting for us.” Today, far from my homeland, far from a part of myself, I feel that my Iran is that lonely tree, holding millions of stories in its heart. One person sees Iran as shelter. Another as a strongbox of secrets. Someone else may see only a source of oil and possessions. One person will sell it cheaply, without love; another, like you and me, will pay any price to take it back. My compatriot, a part of my own flesh, my friend, my brother and sister: our lonely tree, our homeland, is not well. Yet even now it opens its arms with grace to offer you and me comfort. Give me your hand. Together we can set it free, then sit happily in its loving shade.