“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there” -Rumi
***
Spring 2025

“How on earth can you lounge out in the sun like a basking crocodile?” the man exclaimed, scratching his neck with a loud rasp.

“Summer hasn’t even kicked off!” He redirected his gaze to follow where the woman was looking.

The garden was enveloped in a peaceful stillness, occasionally interrupted by the distant bark of a dog.

“I’m leaving,” the woman said, sitting on an old picnic chair on the porch. Her eyes were fixed on the walnut trees swaying gracefully in the capricious breeze. Her voice remained steady, cutting through the thick tension that filled the air. She wrapped her fingers around the hot, gleaming metal handle of the chair, letting its warmth flow into her palm.

“Alright, go inside,” the man said. A dry laugh escaped him. He looked closely at her face, hoping to find a hint of humor, but there was none to be seen. The faint lines around her eyes appeared more pronounced, and her gaze felt empty. He desperately wanted to brush off her word “leaving” as something trivial.

“I’m leaving here, whether you come with me or not!” she declared. Having expressed her difficult decision, she needed to stand from the chair and walk confidently toward the door. However, as she rose, her skirt snagged on the rusty metal spring, causing it to close halfway.

“Do you need help?” the man asked, with concern, as the woman wrestled with her colorful beach skirt. She glanced up at him and again continued to struggle. “We ran with a backpack to a forgotten village, in the middle of nowhere, terrified of being buried under the rubble, and you suddenly thought that the fancy beach skirt was essential?” he said, annoyed. “Why would you buy something when you can’t even wear it in public?”

A piercing, tearing sound echoed through the tranquil garden. In a fit of rage, the woman violently kicked the half-open chair, sending it rocking slightly on its legs, and went inside, holding her skirt where it had been ripped.

***

25 years ago

“Do you even understand what he’s singing?” the teenage girl asked, tilting her head slightly as she pressed the Walkman closer to her ear. Sunlight filtered through the trees lining the street, casting dappled shadows across the bed.

“Raha! I’m talking to you!” she called out, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the acoustic guitar that filled the air.

“He is singing the names of several islands and cities. I recognized Kuala Lumpur,” replied the other teenage girl, softly chewing her nail. Suddenly, something caught her eye under the bed. While she was crouched down, her friend teased, ‘Seriously?You’re always nailing English class, but can’t figure out a simple song? Where is “Gustav Ipanema”?’

Raha emerged from beneath the bed holding a dried pomegranate and replied, “It’s the ‘coast of Ipanema’. It’s in Brazil!” Raha paused for a second to admire the dried pomegranate.

“I accidentally discovered it in my dear encyclopedia! Let me show you the picture of the coast of Ipanema,” said Raha as she rushed through the library.

“Isn’t this the same book we received as a gift at the end of last school year?” asked her friend, her brow furrowing in curiosity. Raha turned to her, holding the hefty book in her hand.

With a soft smile, her friend carefully placed the old Walkman on the bed, the cassette player creaking slightly as it settled among the pillows. She flopped onto the cool, red, and blue carpet below, joining Raha, who was already sitting cross-legged there. The room filled with the gentle sound of Enrique Iglesias singing from the device as both teenage girls began leafing through the encyclopedia. However, Raha’s mind was elsewhere, lost somewhere in the world, wiping warm sands from her ankles—perhaps on the coast of Ipanema.

***

15 years ago

The blue glow of the laptop screen illuminated Raha’s face, casting a pale, modern light against the traditional, intricate patterns of her bedroom rug. She took a sip of the drink on the desk and put the cup back in its place. The scent of cardamom tea wafted as she worked on her thesis, humming along to the Latin music playing on her laptop. Suddenly, the loud echo of the muezzin’s call to prayer filled the room. “Why so loud!” Raha shouted; her voice was more deafening. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored trousers—clothes that were too stylish to wear at home. She reluctantly realized she had to get up and shut the window.

Now that she was up and her attention had shifted away from the project, Raha reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette. Approaching the closed door of her room, she called out, “Mom!” When there was no response, she lit the cigarette and sat on the windowsill. Beneath the gentle afternoon light, an old pomegranate also rested in the corner of the windowsill. Raha reopened the window, and now she could hear the lively sounds of the street below.

The world outside her window was a blur mixed with hope for the future. It was the summer of 2009, and Tehran was suffocating under the weight of unresolved elections, simmering with the fierce, defiant hope of the Green Movement. Every street corner felt like a stage, every gathering a potential flashpoint. The air crackled with a dangerous excitement, a collective yearning for change that mirrored her private turmoil.

Raha looked at the green ribbon loosely tied around her left wrist. Yesterday, she had marched with her friends, their faces hidden by scarves and their chests swelling with a potent mix of fear and exhilarating defiance. She felt the tear gas burning her eyes, heard the relentless blare of sirens, and saw the eyes of strangers, filled with both despair and an unyielding will. In those moments, while yelling “Where is my vote?” and clutching her friend’s hand, Raha felt more alive and more real than she ever had while planning for her student life in Europe or envisioning herself in a white dress, marrying a man, and feeling the happy faces surrounding them.

The sound of beeping came from her laptop, but she ignored it and focused on watching the street outside her window. Then, her cell phone rang. She continued to ignore the attempt to reach her.

When all the sounds from her electronic devices were silenced, Raha dropped the cigarette butt into her cup of tea and returned to her desk. A message from Facebook popped up in the lower right corner of the screen. As she tried to ignore it, someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, her mother entered the room, panting, sweat-damaged hair at her temples.

“Are you smoking again?” her mother inquired with a mixture of concern and disappointment, as if her main conversation had momentarily eluded her. She paused, searching her thoughts for the words she truly wanted to express. “The Zanganeh family is still awaiting your response. I want to emphasize, as we always have, that we respect your autonomy in this matter. However, I urge you to make a decision that reflects wisdom and thoughtfulness and will make your father and me proud.” With a quiet sigh, she left the room and closed the door. Suddenly, the door opened again without her entering the room, yet her voice was clear: “By the way, smoking is very unattractive for a young woman. I hope you don’t do it in public, at least.” The door closed once again.

Raha moved the mouse and clicked in the lower right corner. “Hey! What’s up? Why aren’t you answering? You need to check your email – you’ve got a message from the university! All those Spanish classes we took will finally pay off for us, and it’s not just about showing off in karaoke! Haha! I just spoke to a friend who can help us find an affordable place to rent near campus. I’m so excited, and it’s going to be…” She clicked on the “X” to close the window and shut the laptop lid.

***
3 years ago

“Where are you, babe?” a man’s voice crackled through the speaker, laced with concern and urgency.

“I’m on my way to kindergarten. I think I’ll be there in a few minutes,” said Raha, her voice filled with frustration. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, glancing around as if lost.

“Sanat Square is teeming with people; the riot police stand at attention. Don’t go that way,” said the man, with an anxious buzz.

“Don’t worry, Reza,” her voice steady despite the tension surrounding her. “I’m taking the back alleys. I will call you later,” Raha replied as she turned the wheel and directed the car into a shadowy, narrow alley, the path with broken asphalt barely wide enough for the vehicle.

Raha realized she could not drive further, so she stopped and looked into the alley. It was an autumn evening, and darkness was beginning to settle in. Crisp yellow leaves had gathered in lively piles along the edges of the street. Their vibrant colors, a mix of gold and ochre, danced in the gentle breeze, creating a beautiful display of nature’s artistry.

A knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach as she thought about her little boy at kindergarten. To calm herself, Raha opened a video sent to parents, showcasing the day’s activities. The cheerful laughter of the children filled the car, blending harmoniously with their teacher’s playful rendition of “Walking, walking, hop, hop, hop.” This innocent joy struck a jarring contrast to the distressing videos of Sanat Square—only two blocks away from the kindergarten—that she had scrolled through on social media just moments before leaving the house. With the GPS disabled throughout the city, a sense of confusion washed over her, amplifying her unease as she navigated the winding streets and a tumult of thoughts. Panic surged inside her; without her usual navigation aid, she felt utterly adrift, uncertain how to reach her son.

Raha threw her cell phone on the front passenger seat and reversed. She cautiously backed the car away from the high walls on either side of the alley and saw someone in the rearview mirror.

Not just someone — a girl. She glided into the alley, her movements erratic, speeding up and slowing down as if someone were editing the footage in real time.

With each step, a shimmering trail of moisture trickled down the asphalt, leaving a glistening path behind her. She held a spray can in one hand and a piece of cardboard in the other — its edges worn, serving as a makeshift stencil.

Moments later, two men entered the alley. Their clothing was unremarkable, their fashion sense poor. Raha squinted and noticed the bulge in their pockets — something heavy, concealed. Her heart sank. Damn it. They weren’t just ordinary passersby; they were plainclothes officers. Trouble was about to unfold.

As Raha looked back, the girl spotted them and bolted. The speed of the scene she was watching shifted into fast-forward.

In the rearview mirror, Raha saw her closing in. She yanked the passenger door handle and pushed it open. Without hesitation, the girl leaped inside and slammed the door shut. The lock clicked, the mechanism whirring softly. For a few moments, the two women stared at each other. The girl, younger than Raha and perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, had dark hair that cascaded freely past her shoulders, unbound and defiantly wild. However, a blunt and uneven chop near her ear was bleeding continuously. The girl shouted, “Go, go!”

Raha shifted the car into gear and pressed the gas pedal down. The vehicle lurched forward, sending the leaves piled up along the side of the road flying into the air. There was a loud crunch as both side mirrors shattered when the car passed the narrow, high walls of the alley. Adrenaline coursed through the women, and their eyes widened in shock. Meanwhile, the girl opened the sunroof, climbed to her waist, and shouted: “Did my hair make you uncomfortable? Oh! Wait for the summer! I’m still alive, you bastards.”

Raha looked in the rearview mirror as those two men became tiny dots in her vision.

The young girl retrieved a cellphone from beneath her. The screen was illuminated, showing a man’s name alongside a heart symbol.

Raha picked up the ringing phone, her hand trembling slightly as she pressed the speaker button. A man’s frantic voice crackled through the speaker, tense and sharp: “Why aren’t you answering? I called you fifty times! Where are you?”

“I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me,” she replied, trying to keep her tone steady despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. “I got turned around, but I’m just about to find my way back to the main street. I’m only a few seconds away from Nik’s kindergarten.”

“You don’t need to pick him up anymore!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in urgency. “Just go home! His teacher had already taken Nik to her house. I’m on my way to get him! Raha, did you hear me? Go home!”

His words hung in the air, a mixture of worry and impatience flowing through their exchange as the reality of the situation settled in.

“Reza, don’t worry about me,” Raha reassured him. However, it was clear that he still wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I know you. If it weren’t for me, you’d probably be in jail or dead by now. Remember, you’re a mother, so act like one. I’ve canceled our appointment with the immigration office, so you don’t need to stick around. Go home!”

Raha, obviously anxious, muttered, “Okay,” before hanging up the call and placing the phone on her lap. She crouched down and reached into the dashboard compartment. Her gaze was caught by the dried pomegranate, lying there as if it were the spotlighted star on a theater stage, glowing softly in the dashboard light. Raha pulled out a box of tissues. Offering the box to the young girl, the girl took some tissues and pressed them against her bleeding ear.

Raha asked the girl where she would feel safe. “I’ll take you there,” she offered. The girl responded, “I’m not done yet. Let me out before you reach the main street.”

Once Raha felt they were a safe distance away from the plainclothes officers, she pulled over. The young girl, clutching the spray paint and stencil, quickly jumped out with a clatter. The young girl pressed the stencil against the rough plaster and began to spray. A soft hiss, a faint smell of chemical paint. Raha watched, mesmerized, as the black letters slowly bloomed:

زن

The girl shifted the stencil.

زندگی

Raha’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was it. This was the raw, unadulterated courage she had been searching for.

آزادی

Woman, Life, Freedom.

The words stood stark and defiant against the ancient wall—a silent scream in a silent alley.

The girl turned back at Raha in the car, who had one hand on the wheel and didn’t seem to be departing. She said, “Why leave? Stay and take ‘it’ back!”

Raha shouted back, “I’m not leaving!”

***
Now

“I’m leaving!”

Raha declared, her voice trembling with rage as she swiftly rummaged through her belongings, shoving clothes and essentials into her worn canvas backpack.

The stale, hot air in the small room did little to move, despite the frantic whirring of the ceiling fan. It groaned overhead, a mechanical lament against the oppressive heat that pressed down from the tin roof. Dust mites danced in the slivers of harsh afternoon light that cut through the gaps in the patched-ups curtain, making the suffocating atmosphere feel even heavier.

Reza stood in the doorway with a tense expression, stepping forward to close the door behind him gently. He then turned to her, ears perked towards the door. “Raha, please lower your voice. We’re all in this together,” he said.

“I hate this game,” Raha said, her voice trembling. “I’m exhausted from this endless survival game called living. We keep striving for the next level, only to find the rules have changed—rigged against us—just when we’re about to reach happiness. Today, we could have been somewhere else. Somewhere our lives truly matter. Nik deserves a future free from the shadow of war, where hope isn’t a distant illusion—a future that doesn’t keep getting postponed.”

She drew a shaky breath. “Reza, I’m tired of trying so hard—of being endlessly prepared for a life that never begins. I hate that I’ve spent years rehearsing the idea of freedom instead of living it. Because somewhere, in the back of my mind…”

Their eyes met. Reza, though, wasn’t listening. His gaze lingered on the strands of silver threading through her hair, more visible now than ever, as if time itself had inscribed its story there.

“I’ve always thought about leaving,” Raha whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bed. The old wooden frame creaked softly beneath her weight. Frustration laced her voice. “This is pathetic. I’m pathetic.” She pressed her palms against her tear-wet eyes.

“Are you on your PMS?” Reza asked, after some stretched seconds.

She burst into laughter, the bright and awkward sound echoing through the room. He watched her with a faint smile as her laughter grew louder and more unrestrained with each passing.

“Stop laughing! Stop enjoying at my expense! All I ever wanted in life was a loving family, and you’re wrecking it.” Reza called out, a teasing lilt in his voice as he leaned casually against the wall.

“How can you count this hysterical laughter as enjoyment?” she shot back. In an instant, her expression turned serious, a depth of emotion flickering in her eyes as she contemplated the weight of their conversation.

Reza stepped forward, worry clear on his face, and said, “We’re all each other has. We’ll be okay soon. You’re just upset, and I understand that. Raha, I’m here to help you.”

She stood up, her eyes blazing with anger, and cried out, “Want to help? Stop devaluing my feelings!” She placed the unzipped backpack on her shoulders and continued, “This life owes me a homeland which I can only think about living in it, not about the homeland.1” With that, she stormed out.

Reza’s eyes wandered around the room, settling first on the door left slightly open—a quiet sign of Raha’s swift exit. His gaze then moved to the bed, where her belongings were strewn about, telling silent stories of recent turmoil. Among the scattered clothes, a dried-out pomegranate caught his attention.

—————————————————————————
1- by Kianush Sanjari, journalist and social activist who died under mysterious circumstances.

***
24 hours later

She smiled widely when she spotted her spouse across the street. Reza, whose gaze had just landed on her, watched with a faint smile. “Isn’t the bus terminal on this side of the street?” He asked, innocently seeking directions like a little boy.

“Are you going there?” Raha inquired, her expression serious yet her eyes sparkled with a smile.

“Are you going there?” he shouted, emphasizing the word ‘you.’ Reza dashed across the deserted street, which had been bustling with life just a few days ago. Gone were the street vendors who would lay out their goods for passersby, and the yellow taxis that once shouted their destinations, adding to the vibrant atmosphere. Now, the street felt lifeless and empty, save for a lone car parked some distance away, its driver engrossed in the glow of his phone screen, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. Above, a symphony of birds filled the air, their melodies weaving through the lush green branches, trivializing the fear of the bombs that had shaken the city the night before.

He finally caught up to her, closing the gap between them. He maintained a respectful distance, allowing her space without feeling intrusive.

“I wanna go home,” Raha declared. The world around them was uncomfortably quiet. “I have lost the ability of recognition,” she continued, her gaze fixed on the pavement ahead, as if searching for answers in the cracks of the concrete. “I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore.”

“I miss Nik,” she sighed, her gaze distant.

“Only Nik?” He teased, raising an eyebrow.

A soft smile spread across her lips. “I miss you. I miss home. I miss my morning tea-making ritual.”

“Well, let’s hope our home hasn’t crumbled into dust!” he exclaimed. Raha’s desperate gaze fell on him. He continued: “If it was, the neighbors would’ve already let us know,”

“By the way, I guess you miss this one too. You left it in the village” said Reza and pulled a dried pomegranate out of his backpack.

Raha’s eyes sparkled. She had once carried it from her grandfather’s garden. Its skin was cracked now, its color faded, yet when Raha took it, she heard the faint rattle of seeds inside — small, stubborn echoes of life that refused to disappear. Her grandfather used to say that a pomegranate never truly dies; it only waits for the rain. She smiled, tracing the fissures along its surface. Perhaps she too was waiting — not to leave, but to begin again. A cracked pomegranate, yes — but still, within her, the promise of new seeds.

“Let’s go home!” Raha exclaimed, Hope bubbling in her voice. “If there were no home, we will make it again.”