Because you are from the land of "Axis of Evil" my son

As the car approaches the customs, I feel my body getting tense. My son is watching Max and Ruby on his portable DVD player. I tell my husband "I hope they dont make us go inside for once". The officer has dark skin. That is the first thing I notice. I think to myself "he is an immigrant too. He understands". That is a huge assumption to make but a hopeful one. He asks for our passports. Passports are passed to him through the little hole in the window. He asks where we are from. It says it right on the passport but they have to ask. We are originally from Iran and are Canadian citizens now. My mom, pointing to the back seat has a US green card. He asks a bunch of questions. What was she doing here? When was the last time we visited the US? What was the reason for the visit? How long did my mom stay with us?

He asks us to wait there. "You might not even have to go inside" says the officer. I feel like dancing. Yaaaay! for the first time we dont have to go through the Home Land Security shit. I was wrong. Another officer approaches. He tells us to get off. The other officer, the dark skinned one, says to him: they are Canadian citizens. They are not even going to spend the night in the US. They are just dropping their mom at Buffalo airport". He doesnt care. He asks us to get off. We do as he says. He asks for the car key. We are surrounded by 4 officers. It is a scary scene. My mom looks frightened. I should have told her to expect this. I unbuckle my son. He asks: where are we going mommy? Inside I say. He looks around. It is very windy. He says: but look mommy no one is leaving their cars pointing at the otehr cars. "It is very cold, I dont want to leave the car" he continues . "Why do we have to go inside"? I try to think. Should I be lying? He is three but a smart three year old. I look at my husband desperately. He is busy listening to the officer who is telling him to get on the elevator and go to the second floor. I tell my son that they need to see out passports to make sure that we are safe.

US border makes me angry. Very angry. They have a list of 50 some countries on the walls who are considered dangerous. The citizens or once citizens of those countries are subject to whatever the custom officers decide for them. They have to answer any and all questions and let them play their disgusting mind games.

Mind games you wonder? I can tell you stories... I was 5 months pregnant. We were going to LA to see our friends and my aunt. The flight was for 4:20 PM. It was before Obama. We had to wait and wait and wait. After 2 hours 45 minutes they call my husband's name. My back is soar. I keep walking in the room. I look at the clock on the wall. It shows 4:00. I think there is no way we can get to this flight. The officer who was interviewing my husband is gone and my husband is waiting there. I go to him and ask him what happened. He says the officer said the computer just froze and she has to re start it. I look at the monitor. The monitor is positioned somehow that we can easily see it. "it is not frozen" I say to my husband angrily. He says: hush! I point at the clock. He says to me "they do that on purpose". They do what on purpose? I ask. They want to see how you react under stress. Dont give them an excuse to kick us out and not let us in the US. He knows me too well to know that I am ready to explode any minute. He says quietly: "The time on the clock is not accurate. We still have an hour. They set it like this to stress us out". He asks me to control myself. They call me later. The officer tells me he knows my brother in law lives in Washington. He asks me if I know what he does. He is a computer programmer. Do I know where he works? No sir! There is no reason I should know where my brother in law works. How long has he been married to his wife? My angry side starts arguing with my Buddhist side. Should I tell him to fuck off or should I continue faking this stupid smile and answer all his absurd questions? I continue smiling with my hand on my very soar back. Has the marriage been arranged or were they dating before getting married he asks. I take a deep breath. I am not quite sure. They families were old friends so I guess they knew each other. But we are not going to see them in  this trip. We are not going to Washington. In fact I have seen my brother in law only a few times. He says he knows in a very cold voice. They know everything. To prove it he said he knew I worked in a Hallmark store. Oh! that! I had forgotten about that. It was right when we had arrived in Canada. It gives me peace of mind to know that there are people who know everything about me in case I end up with dementia later and cant remember a damn thing from my past.


We go to the second floor. We wait there for half hour. The guy checks my husband's passport. Asks him how his name is pronounced and lets us go. Thanks to Obama the three to four hour wait is now down to almost half hour and the best part? No finger prints.


We drop my mom at the airport. My son cries. He asks "why does grandma have to go back? Why dont we go to Iran? Will she come back again"? I swallow my tears. I tell him that we will go to Iran one day. Then he gets to see Iran and his uncle. Grandma will come back very soon. I tell him I know he is very sad now but I promise he will feel better soon. My mom cries and looks away. My son cries. I have learned to swallow the pain.

We take him for an "elevator ride" hoping that he might feel better. he counts: 1 2 3. Look mommy! There is only three of us. We have to be four. Grandma is missing and he cries again.

We drive back. He falls asleep in the car. Once we cross the border my body is relax. I am home. I think to myself maybe by the time he is older I wont have to answer his questions with "because you are an Iranian my child". Maybe there will be no border, no religion, no countries. I laugh at myself. At my silly idealist self. We stop at Tim Hortons.We are home.

it all happened in my head

This is a small box of my dad's notes sir. I cant get rid of it. I have to take it with me. You don't understand. I lost my dad when I was 19. Do you want to know how? oh I am sure you don't. People don't like to hear sad stories. Life is too short to be sad. But see, this note, my dad used to write me little pieces of poems and put them on my night table when I was asleep. You know what it says? of course you don't. You don't read Farsi. It says "Only from the heart Can you touch the sky." It is from Rumi. I was 17 then. So see, I cant leave this box behind.

This one? oh no sir. I cant leave this one either. This is my grandfather's diary. Oh, I should write about him one day. They say I am just like him. He was an actor. A very restless soul sir. I get you are not interested in personal stories but everything in this suitcase has a story. In his diary he wrote about his first days, months and years as an immigrant. I am going to be an immigrant in about 24 hours. I need his wisdom. Don't you think?

This little plastic bag? This weighs no more than 300 grams sir. I have to take it. This is my childhood in this plastic bag. You see this empty TakTak bag? Oh! you have no idea what TakTak is, do you? Ok, I will tell you. We grew up in war. There was no KitKat. It was banned. All foreign made chocolates and candies were banned from entering the country. Sanctions and such. Then some smart guy made TakTak, an unfortunate tasting imitation of KitKat. Our dad was away for long periods of time for work and our grandparents would bring us goodies. All made in Iran. All tasting bad. But we didn't care. We saved them all in a big plastic bag in the storage room. We were little kids sir and the yukky goodies were so tempting but we were determined that we would wait until dad gets back so we could have them as a family. Now, you see sir, this old faded TakTak bag is so precious to me. I cant leave it behind sir.

Oh this yellow bandanna! You know sir, there was a student protest in my country years ago. I was there. I couldn't breathe. There was tear gas and batons. I get it. You are not interested. I shouldn't be boring you with my nonsense. After all you are a costume officer not a social worker. A young student gave this yellow bandanna to me to cover my face. He was covering his own face with it. I was chocking sir. He saw me. Took my hand and we ran together. He then gave me his wet bandanna and ran. It has to be wet to protect you from tear gas. I know you didn't know this. I am happy you didn't have to learn this on a hot Summer day like I did.

Thanks sir for letting me take this extra 2 pounds to my new home. You know I never saw that boy again. The one who gave me his wet bandanna. I want to think that he survived and found himself a new home. Just like I did.

A nation's dream...

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes, A Dream Deferred

Trauma in "Farsi"

My mom and I sit in the living room every night when my husband reads to our son and tucks him in. I sometimes watch a documentary or a movie on my laptop or read a book, an article or some of my favourite blogs when my mom watches the news on Iranian satellite we got for her last month when she came here for a visit. I have chosen to avoid all Iranian TV channels as they bring back a lot of trauma and bad memories for me.

I admire my mom’s strength and spirit for being able to sit there quietly, watch the news, discuss what is happening and give me her political –sometimes hilariously funny- analysis of the situation, kiss me goodnight and go to bed. She told me the other night that she still has hope. She told me I am so bitter because I have lost hope. She said one dies when one loses hope. I thought about what she said for two days to realize once again that moms probably do know the best.

Now, I find it quite fascinating that I am living this double life. When I leave work my “Persian life” starts. I speak Farsi to my son, I make Iranian food, I don’t watch Iranian TV but I follow the news on internet. (I can only read the news as watching it will expose me to sounds, pictures, and faces that are major triggers for me). I read Farsi books to my son and play English board games with him in Farsi. We talk about the top news of Iran in Farsi over supper. I am anxious, passionate, on edge, filled with love, I am a bag of mixed emotions and feelings. There is Trauma in "Farsi".

I go to work every day. We greet each other in English. We talk about our workload pressure and the bad air quality of the building and our spirited toddlers and crazy teenagers and hockey and the damn long Canadian Winters with all the germs and viruses. I am calmer, nicer, more focused, have more energy. We ask each other “how are you?” and we answer each other “fine, lots to do as always. How are you?” There is no trauma in "English".

I should find some studies that would show how living in the context of a language/culture can bring the trauma close to surface.

I will be a Canadian when... 1

Here I briefly wrote about the barriers on me ever being/becoming a Canadian. This is by no means a bad thing. I enjoy this state of "landlessness". The barriers can be funny a lot of the times. I write them whenever I remember one. There is no priority. 

I will be a Canadian when I stop flipping the reports, books or any other reading material from right to left. You have no idea how strange people find it in Chapters to see a woman who reads through the books and magazine from the end to beginning.

"I resented being Asian because I wasn’t white. This kind of racism is in place so people don’t even think about it. It just happens. I just feel left out. When I stand in line at a counter to be served, to buy something, and the white person who comes after me gets served first, it’s not done on purpose. It’s because the person doesn’t see me. I’m invisible to that white person".

from Daily Riot

It was our agency's Christmas party last night. To be politically correct I have to say "holiday" party. Well, I don't care about being politically correct. It is Christmas and last night's occasion was "Christmas" party. We don't celebrate Winter holiday or March break or Summer holiday but we celebrate Christmas. It is not even about the new year. So why should I lie and call my lie "political correctness"? If I am to make changes in people's awareness, be respectful of diversity, address the corruption of Catholic church or even how religion has historically been used to serve the powerful and the rich at the cost of - if not always people's lives- but definitely people's level of awareness, I will celebrate Christmas and fight what is not right about Christianity. But that's just me and it is a controversial subject.

I was going to talk about one of my nightmares. Ever since I was a child- when dad was away for long periods of time for work and mom had to deal with three crazy young children on her own- I had a reoccurring nightmare. I would see myself away from my family, missing them to the extent I could physically feel the pain in my heart-chest. In my dream, I was alone and it was dark and cold. I was looking for my family but they were not there. I knew they were somewhere very far and I couldn't see them. That was the most horrible of my nightmares until I started dreaming about losing my older brother. The only brother that is left for me. I dream he is tortured, all his bones are broken and his skull broken open. He is soaking in his own blood and is trying to tell me something but I cant hear him. He is dying and I know there is nothing I can do. I sob and beg him to stay and I wake up with my heart beating in my mouth.

Last night in the Christmas party I told L my mom was coming very soon. I told her I have not seen her in two years. She asked me" Shadi how can you do that?" I thought for a second and then said I didn't know. I don't really know. I guess I am living one of my nightmares.