The sound of rockets hit my ears at a rooftop dinner table. Someone asks my son if the sound of rockets terrifies him. Ray replies, “No, we have gotten used to it somehow.” Then, he changes his mind and says: “The sound of the rockets is far away. If it were close, we would have gone inside the house.”

The night sky is bright with stars. The family gathers around the dinner table and greets each other in another language, so calm as if the rockets never existed. 

“Mom?”

I opened my eyes.

“Mom?”

I sat up on my bed, my toes touching the floor. Was that Ray? Why is the floor so cold? What the hell? Was I dreaming about that documentary about the Gaza Strip?

“MOM!”

Now I’m sure it is Ray.

“Coming!” I say.

***

“Mom? Can we go to the lake today?”

“We can go if you want.”

I hope the police won’t be there.

“I hope the police will be there!” Ray said eagerly.

This is Iran. We feel unsafe when we see the police. Such a silly paradox that we’ve gotten used to it. I’m reminded of the child in the documentary, the one from my morning dream. 

This is the Middle East. Feeling unsafe is normal, but what is a normal life anyway?

***

Our shadows stretch toward the lake as Ray and I run in the faint light of the sunset. The wind pulls the baby hairs on my face. I suddenly stop and open my hair clip, let my hair dance freely in the wind. 

The looks of frustration and futility on me are so uncomfortable, my exposed hair a sign of resistance to this patriarchal government. I stare straight into the eyes that look at me. I need to show I’m confident, even if I am not. 

It’s ok. We all need time. They will get used to seeing it. They have to get used to it.

Damn, the police are there. Good thing they are far enough. The child from my dream also felt safe because the sound of the rockets was far enough. Oh, my morning dream is still haunting me.

“Let’s go that way to feed the ducks,” Ray says.

And we will get so close to the police. What if I got arrested? I can’t trust them with my son! Come on, do not be afraid. Courage is replicable.

“Let’s go,” I say.

***

That night Ray is lying in his bed waiting for his bedtime book. I think about the lake and my hair free in the outdoors. Sometimes we take off our hats, sit, and just watch the game, but sometimes we stand up and hit under the table. That’s the moment we feel alive. We find out this journey – no matter the end – is worth trying.

I lived a dream today. when I ran with my exposed hair across the row of armed police, accelerating the already rampant pounding of my heart, I felt alive.

I also have a dream, Dr. King.

Some dreams require blood to be shed.

I turn to Ray, and say: “Let’s read Rosa Parks tonight.”