The School Gang and Agha Bozorg’s Room Under the Stairs

Bear with me and read this story. I’m sure every one of you has experienced something like it, especially here on X. The war had ended about two or three years earlier, and life was gradually settling after the destruction it left behind. I remember visits to Abadan, where the grief and dust of war still clung to people and the city’s walls were scarred by shrapnel. We had moved a little farther from Agha Bozorg’s house. To spend time with him, when my family and my uncles’ families visited on Thursday nights, I and one or two of my cousins would stay overnight. The move had put me in a new school. It had a heavy atmosphere. At first I thought I felt that way because I was a stranger with no friends, but it only got harder. The kids in my class had formed cliques, and getting accepted was harder than any exam. I thought that was simply how this school worked, and that, as a newcomer, I was behind everyone else. It was as if I believed I understood less than they did, and had to do anything I could to make them let me into their group. Things got worse when the teachers praised me and my work. That only seemed to make the other kids more hostile. I thought I had to become like them to get into their gang and protect myself from the hurt. There were other children outside the cliques, of course, who just carried on without caring. I withdrew into myself instead. Alone, I kept replaying the day: the things they said, the ways they belittled and mocked me, the slaps on the back of my head, their laughter. This went on for months. I thought they might accept me if I did things for them. I helped one with his lessons and sometimes wrote another’s homework. They had worn down my spirit. One night while I was staying at Agha Bozorg’s, I lay there with a lump in my throat and decided to tell him. I told him everything, from beginning to end. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You aren’t alone in this. You’re neither the first nor the last person to feel this pain. It will toughen you.” Then he said, “Since you can’t sleep, come help me tidy the next room. The children have messed up the bedding.” I quietly helped him put it all away. My mother usually did it before we left, but that night her sister had fallen ill and she’d gone to help her. When the room was tidy, he said, “By the way, do you know why the room under the stairs is always locked on Thursday nights?” “No.” “Come with me.” We went downstairs, and he opened the door to his favorite room: his painting workshop, with bookshelves full of books all around the walls. “See how neat it is?” “Yes. It always is.” “That’s because the door stays locked. No one can make a mess of the room or move your things if you don’t give them the key. “When you leave the door to your heart and mind open to everyone, you let them come in and turn everything upside down. They can tear your books and your thoughts, break the lovely vase on the shelf of your heart, and scatter the bedding of your memories. “You’ve given those children the key to your mind and spirit. You’ve let them crush your sense of who you are. I’m not saying they’re blameless, but you have given them that power. “Remember, you don’t need their acceptance. You didn’t go to school to join a gang. You went to learn, and this is a great lesson in itself. “Don’t give the key to your heart to just anyone. People come and go. Schoolmates are with you while you’re at school. They rarely remain in your life. If they do, it’s because you’ve become good friends, not because of school.” My compatriot, my dear friend, a part of my own flesh: I’m sure this has happened to all of you, especially when you first arrived in the virtual city of X. You were alone, hoping to be accepted as you pursued your purpose. Remember, we are here for love of our homeland and our Shah, and to walk on the right side of history. If we take the right road, the right people will walk with us. Let’s not give anyone the key to the heart that beats for our homeland and our Shah. Let’s not let their games push us into despair and make us give up. We’ve hit rocks on this road many times and been wounded. We thought it was over, that the road ended there. But once our vision cleared, we saw that the road continued around the rock. Remember, no right road is straight. It has twists, turns, and hardships. Don’t let a few rocks take away our hope. Long live Iran. Long live the Shah.