To the girl in Iran
I am a Persian girl living in England. I watch the start of a war and feel as if there is nothing i can do. But I can write, and that is a privilege I intend to use.
To the girl in Iran.
Who am I to sit in bed and cry? Who am I to clutch the empty space on my chest for comfort? Who is the girl, my age, my complexion, my competition, my familiar, a stranger, that sits at night, as I do, in Iran?
Does she stare out her windows and flinch at the noise of car engines like I do? Are the missiles scarier than the revving of a Toyota in the dead of night? I try and find comparisons between us, connections between the oceans; our eye shape, our hands clutching a small glass of black tea, our soft skin, our dark hair, our fear, our love.
I read that back and the word our becomes lost. The blurring between the people, the connection, the inevitable disconnect.
I want so badly for her to know how much I love her, how kind she is, how beautiful, how fearless. But I cannot. To acknowledge her bravery is to acknowledge her struggle.
And who am I to point out the obvious differences in us. I bow my head in shame at my privilege to come home at 3 am, breath stinking like tequila and Marlboro golds, laughing with my friends about the terrible club music.
She walks through the thick, hot air at 5 am, heading to school, beads of sweat building between her freshly styled hair and her headscarf. She learns, not because she wants to, but because she needs to. She knows that her mind is her best defence. She knows that she needs to remain conscious of herself. She knows how easy it is to slip into the blur of hijabs and wide eyes and shisha smoke. A white car, with a faceless man revving its engine, staring through her eyes.
She keeps her head held high. She refuses to let it drop, maybe sometimes she does, at night, staring out her window. Long, curly, black hair cascading down her body.
We look for each other in the stars, in the car engines, the missiles. I could have been her, her I. In that way, we are one. Not as a people, but as a person. Not as a religion, but as a prophet.