home
My father has been in Iran for over one week now. Why does this phase me ? He hasn’t been there for over 23 years since my family sought political asylum in the United States back in the eighties.
He called me the other night, and while I knew in theory things ought to be fine regardless, the nerves in the back of my neck finally found a slight amount of comfort to hear his voice.
What’s funny to me, is that while I was raised speaking Farsi , years later, despite my father’s heritage and upbringing in our native tongue, and his constant insistance that I learn how to read and write in our mother tongue, he always speaks to me in English. His English is proper, with all the grammar as how it should be, but there is in his voice that comforting accent I’ve been raised with.
Dad, are you alright? Did you need me to get you anything?
Yes Leyla-jahn, I’m ok. You aunt has taken care of me quite well.
Dad, are you alright otherwise? Is it incredibly strange? I mean, it’s been over 20 years.
It’s a whole lot different Leyla. It’s a different Iran. The air smells of gasoline and the streets are packed with twice the population of people since I last remember. I want to come home soon, I want to be home in LA.
Home. It’s a strange word when you think of it. Aren’t we a weird, nomadic type species? I mean, if we trace things back ancestrally, I really doubt people stayed in the same cave for much longer than they needed to. We have homes where we sleep, but are they really what we find the most comforting place? How and when do we call the place where we rest our heads the place where we rest our souls?
