Persimmon (from July 3rd)

Today I just ate the saddest persimmon of my life and that, in the beginning of July!* Now I am just stoned mourning for its 4 dried leaves and a little bit of orange flesh left on it, which I can not throw away. As I caress its dried leaves among my fingers for the hundredth time, lick the leftover orange stain, smell it and examine how smooth and straight its four corners are, I feel just mesmerized by the realization that I do hold persimmon leaves in my hand.

There might hardly exist any fruit so tightly bond to my childhood and Tehran or any tree I have so watched in all its four seasons such as persimmon. I know a lot of Tehranis who have never seen persimmon blossoms in their lives, for they never stared among its green leaves in May - when persimmon trees bloom - in order to discover the tiny but strong four petal white blossoms among these leaves. I also know a lot of Tehranis who know nothing of the magic of this tree in fall, when its ripe fruits on the branches tempt every passanger and its leaves turn color with the most spectacular shapes and patterns to the most wonderous colors of autumn, until they finally fall. Now I sit here with dried leaves of this half ripe Israeli persimmon in my hand and think of my childhood, the taste of persimmon in November and of persimmon trees. I know of no other town in the world, where the yard of every houshold is decorated with a persimmon tree, even should it be - as of the case of my childhood house - the only tree.

The dried persimmon leaves take me 6000 km away, to Tehran; a Tehran of other colors and other atmosphere these days, a Tehran sinking in blood and burning up in life burning flames. My heart beats in the streets of this city these days, more than ever. I miss the allies, the yards and the persimmons of this city; I miss people who buy persimmons, who plant persimmon trees and who do not take the time to watch their trees carefully; people who - like the leaves of a persimmon tree in fall - are being blown off their branches one after another these days and indeed, how wonderously colorful and graceful do each of them fall to the ground!

I wish spring would come upon this persimmon tree, Tehran, soon und so it should bloom again with the tiny beautiful blossoms.


(p.s. *Persimmon is an autumn fruit.)

The Stories they tell

These Days every Iranian pair of eyes is a book of 1001 nights
Every Iranian is a Scheherazade telling stories to survive one more night
For none knows, what tomorrow will bring
Look into them, but look deep
You will hear the cries of men and women
The silent scream of those, who shall not be allowed to say a word
You will hear the stories carved in their hearts
The stories of decades of pain, fear, blood and suppression
But listen further and you shall hear them chant
You could hear the saddest ballads sung out of their ripped lips
Every Iranian knows a sad song to sing
As well as each one of them would know a verse of Hafez by heart
But should you look deep into their eyes these days
You would also see courage beyond imagination
You could fear wrath, so strong no human can take on their own
There are also fear, pain, grief and despair
But every Iranian bears Arash’s Bow and Kavè’s Crest these days
It is all in their eyes and in the hands that keep holding on to each other