Pomegranate Juice and the Hatred Within

I remember being just as excited for Yalda Night as I was for Nowruz. My uncles and aunts would bring their children to Agha Bozorg’s house, and we would all be together. The atmosphere of Yalda was wonderful. You may not believe this, but for years I thought “the longest night of the year” meant several hours longer than an ordinary night. When I came home from school, Khanom Bozorg, my mother, and my youngest aunt were sitting on the platform by the garden in the yard, taking the seeds out of pomegranates. Dad had gone to the oil company store to shop, and I was sure he’d buy roasted chickpeas and raisins on the way back. Two watermelons and some fruit sat in the courtyard pool, cooling and getting washed. Under the konar tree they had spread a woven mat and set out bolster pillows, while Agha Bozorg and my uncle played backgammon. Then someone knocked. Khanom Bozorg called, “Come in,” and my friend and neighbor Mohammad entered with a big bowl of tarkhineh soup. His mother made it every Yalda Night. Sometimes the family came to join us; otherwise they sent soup over. Mohammad handed the bowl to my aunt and asked me, “Want to play in the alley with the other kids?” I looked at my mother. She nodded, and we went out. Before an hour had passed, I’d had a real fight with Mohammad and another boy. I came home miserable, my clothes covered in dust. “You’ve been fighting again,” my mother said when she saw me. “Come on, let me clean your clothes.” Afterward I went angrily to sit by the pool and brood. Agha Bozorg came over. “I don’t want to see you angry, especially on Yalda Night.” “I can’t stand Mohammad or that other boy. I hate them. They always gang up on me and bother me.” He sat beside me and asked my aunt to bring him a pomegranate. He handed it to me. “Squeeze this with all your strength and get the juice out.” I made a little hole in it and began squeezing it over a glass. I got almost half a glass. “Go on, taste it,” he said. “Does it taste like apple or watermelon?” I stared at him, took a sip, and said, “Agha Bozorg, it’s pomegranate.” “Then squeeze harder.” I did, tasted it again, and said, “It’s still pomegranate. I don’t understand.” “Exactly. No matter how hard you squeeze, you can’t get apple juice out of a pomegranate. What comes out is what’s inside: that red, delicious juice, sweet and tart. “If every little thing someone says or does makes you angry and makes you hate a friend you’ve had for years, it isn’t because of your friend or what he said or did. It comes from the feeling inside you. If you carry hatred and hurt instead of peace and kindness, any excuse will bring them out. “It’s like unripe fruit. There’s no sweetness inside; sometimes it’s even bitter. Care for it and it will ripen, grow sweet, and bear plenty of fruit. Neglect it and it will rot. “So look after what’s inside you. Let yourself ripen. Then people’s words won’t upset you so easily, and even if they do, you can let them pass. Don’t leave your heart steeped in hatred.” My compatriot, my dear friend, a part of my own flesh: in our struggle we have two choices. We can love our Iran and our Shah and fill ourselves with hope and awareness, or fill ourselves with hatred, quarrels, distractions, and noise. A few comrades and fellow Persian speakers argue; three corrupt people spread filth; you turn your head and see a message or tweet that makes your blood boil. Saying, “I hate this place and this atmosphere. I should leave,” does no good. The fight isn’t made up of only a few ugly incidents on X. The hatred and hopelessness inside us are what drive us toward disgust. But if, instead of thrashing around in quarrels and distractions or letting our hope fade, we think of Iran and listen to our Shah’s words again and again, the fruit inside us ripens. Love of country gives us the passion and strength to fight for our Iran’s freedom. An old proverb says, “A jug pours out what it holds within.” From the vessel of a true patriot’s heart and words should flow love for our homeland and our Shah, Reza Shah II. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah.