on the occasion of my Home being bombarded by the enemies inside and outside of my Home.
This piece was written and published in Exiled Writers Ink magazine, Spring edition.
My Home
Rouhi Shafii
I am sitting on the terrace of my apartment
in Spanish Andalusia, sipping tea.
The Sierras can be seen from a distance.
The peak sits motionless, spreading its wings over the horizon.
The sky is deep blue, soon turning grey
as the autumn nears.
Then, I will be long gone back to London.
Something flickers in my mind.
Are these Sierras home to my imagination?
Is this the reason I love this spot so much?
Maybe I am looking at the mountain peaks of Damavand?
There, when I left home, they were covered in snow.
Here, the rocky Sierras of Andalusia are dry and grey.
Still.
And now after almost four decades away from the blue skies, the majestic sun, present from dawn to dusk, the peaks of mount Damavand, glittering in white all year around, the gardens of northern Tehran displaying roses of every colour, the bazaar in Shemiran Square filled with the aroma of spices, fresh fruit and vegetables, the hidden door leading to a shrine in the mosque nearby, where women visit, hoping the saint who has fled Arabia and sought refuge there would ease their burden of life; and I am writing this note to the wind.
I understand the image I have kept in my mind does not exist anymore in reality. Everything has changed and transformed into something else. High rises occupy the once quiet suburban of Shemiran, the gateway to a quiet day out, where people would picnic at the foot of the mountain, and where a brook originated from the reservoirs inside the Alborz mountain range, murmuring the pace of a lazy life.
Slowly, everything changed either out of necessity or out of our historical ignorance. A revolution emerged and disrupted, tore and destroyed the fabric of Iranian society and is still actively working to that end. It left its marks on the urban areas, and transformed personal relationships, the relations between Iranians and other nations, and our understanding of the world and politics. And at the centre of it us women! Oh, my! Believe me I couldn’t even understand my own close family members anymore; those who live in the mayhem of life there.
The home I left was managed by a different order. It had codes of practice for everything. Nowadays, women dance on the streets in protest, in defiance, showing their insubordination to a regime which has put its weight and honour into the subordination of women. And I must say, it has failed and has fallen face down!
Art by Arta Davari, Iranian artist living in exile in Germany
A new generation of women dominate the scene. Six years ago, a young woman, Vida Movahed, went to the street, stood on a platform and took off the scarf which weighed on her head and said no to Compulsory Hejab. Then followed the killing of Mahsa Amini for having improper Hejab and the birth of the biggest revolt. Thereafter, we heard the song “bar aye” which found world fame in the midst of the Woman-Life-Freedom movement. A young singer, Parastou Ahmadi, appearing in a video performed in an isolated caravanserai, took everyone by surprise. A female university student fed up with being harassed for her ‘improper hejab’ took off her clothes in front of astonished eyes. Time passed and the resilience of women changed men’s behaviour towards them. They now attempt to look at us with respect.
Our child is braiding her hair in the sunshine,
And invites me to come out from the shade,
To the glare of light,
There is a rainbow on the far end of the horizon.
A lioness is sitting, waiting to roar hope,
The carcass of a turbaned mullah,
Dead before the sun rose,
and burnt his bones,
To make ashes to ashes,
Gone.
His turban opens wide
And catches fire
Ashes to ashes,
Gone.
Someone from among the crowd calls
Your name,
My name?
What was the last syllable?
Hope?
Desire?
My name jumped from the ashes
You are the girl at the edge of time.
Your name is spoken in a thousand languages,
Yours is the smile of hope
Where I left in despair,
My then tattered home,
You become a spark in the darkness,
And the smile of hope.
Mahsa, Nika, Sarina, Kian, Parisa
You make my home,
A home, worthy of its name
When I return, I will kiss your soil!
If.
