But Real

Following a custom Agha Bozorg taught us, I read to my daughter every night before bed. Then, as she puts it, she closes her eyes, makes a wish silently in her heart, and goes to sleep. Last night, when she’d finished wishing and opened her eyes, she said, “Dad? Would you like to know what I wished for?” “Sweetheart, every father wants to know his child’s wish. He’d do everything in his power to help her make it come true. So what is it?” “To get on a plane and go to Iran.” “What a beautiful wish. You’ve never seen Iran. Why is that the thing you want most?” “Because... because you’d feel better.” I can’t describe what I felt. I was full of longing for the soil of my Iran, full of faith and hope for my homeland’s freedom, in love with every inch of it and with Iran’s Shah, Reza Shah II. While I was lost in thought, she said, “See? See, I told you. As soon as I said Iran, it was like you went away somewhere.” “I asked what you wished for yourself.” “I told you. Iran.” Iran. Iran. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah.