I Remember

I live a typical life of a single woman in New York City. Brooklyn, to be exact – a specification mandatory by those occupying this borough and the island it attaches to. I work from early morning to late afternoon, my body tired, my mind buzzing and my emotions numb as I go back and forth day to day to barely make enough to pay the rent and utilities. My weekends are surrounded by friends and loved ones, trendy restaurants, strolls in the park, and a general freedom and leisure that I have not only become accustomed to, but have grown to accept as norm. In a state of ignorant bliss I might let life pass me by, allured by the temptations of an existence full of liberty and freedom. But to do so without a tug on my soul would be to say that I live in ignorance of a significant part of my life.

In 1994 I met them for the first time.

They arrived in Phoenix, Arizona after a 20 hour flight from the country of my origin. Five children and eight grandchildren awaited their arrival. It had been over 25 years since my father had seen his parents, for that much time had passed since my mother and father had set foot in the United States to pursue their education. They had never returned. The Revolution broke out in Iran and because their religion differed from that which ruled the Iranian government, they could not return.

And so my life had been started and cultivated in a land so different from what my parents knew. They arrived with no knowledge of the language, no cultural understanding, and no inhibitions. They raised two children, trying as they could, to bring us up with enough cultural ties for us to identify with the Persian people, while still striving to help us assimilate to the culture they themselves were struggling to adapt to. The stories my grandparents told that year can took me to a time and place I had thus far only been able to dream about. From my own surroundings you would have never been able to trace the roots which have created the person I am. Stories of heartache, of religious persecution, of faith. Looking at them now you would never know the depth of suffering they both underwent.

The story itself has been told thousands of times; authors, filmmakers and photo journalists have conveyed the message and the world has watched and listened, sometimes letting it effect us in the deep and meaningful way that it should, and other times trying to stay as far removed as possible, convincing ourselves that it happens ‘out there’ and to people we will never know.

But when it is the story of your ancestors, when you sit in front of the people it has effected and you watch the love in their eyes as they tell you how they had to flee from one city to another, leave their belongings behind to be distributed – to be given away as one discards of trash, this is when it becomes a harsh reality.

So I try to remember. I try and listen to their words as I live the day to day. I close my eyes and can see their faces, can hear their voices; and I remember. Remember to be grateful for what I have been given. Grateful for the ability to live life in a place where diversity is accepted and strives to be celebrated. Every day, the seemingly mundane appreciated, as it should be. For this will bring me true freedom.