Matin and Nikan are my two sons. This photo is taken about 2 months ago in Aabali, near Tehran

This is a conversation I had with one of my friends. Parastoo -my friend- is an Iranian Kurd. She lost her childhood, and her city, in the 8 year long Iraq-Iran war. A war that was started by Saddam.
I have my own memories from those days. Once I was in school when a bomb hit our neighborhood. Our school was old and had been built on a land where water ran under it, so they couldn't build a shelter there for us. In those war days, schools were not enough for children and classrooms were so filled up, that some of us had to sit on the floor and listen to the teacher. And I was living in the heart of Tehran, capital of Iran. In our neighborhood there was a big hotel: Tehran International Hotel. Where beauty contests were held before the Islamic revolution. Now the hotel was a residence for people who had lost the home in the war, from borderline cities: war refugees. They had lost their wealth, home, city, and family members, and living there, each family of 4 or 5 in a 2-bed room in the former hotel. And many of their children were in my school, some in my class, some my best friends.
That day the school children screamed and yelled and cried and ran out for their lives, worried for their family. All the school windows were broken, and the broken glasses hit the wall in front of them like sharp spike. Two of the absent school children were killed by the bomb which had fallen on their home. My parents, when I found them in streets were scared and worried. We quickly went to my brother's home nearby, to see how they are. My brother and his wife were scared too, of course. Thankfully they had been hiding behind cushions of a chair with their two children, and were safe from the broken window glasses. Mehdi, their 5 year old son was telling us how he wanted to kill Saddam. His ambition at that innocent age was to grow up enough to hold a riffle and kill Saddam who had broken their home.

Now Saddam is dead, and the nightmare is long gone. But are we happy now? Why nobody is dancing in the streets?

Nobody cares for birds.

Nobody wants to believe that little garden is dieing,

Nobody wants to believe that little garden’s heart

is swollen in this parching heat.

Nobody wants to know that little garden’s mind

is slowly losing its green past.

And it seems that little garden’s sense is a distinct piece,

perishing fast, in isolating scent of the air.

Our courtyard is feeling lonely.

Our courtyard is yawning,

in hope of possible visit of raining clouds.

Our pool is drained.

And young, immature leaves

are collapsing from heights of trees.

And from pastel windows of the cage,

song of the birds breaks into sudden attacks of cough.

Our courtyard is feeling lonely.

My father says:

“I am done with life,

I am done with life and I did my work.”

In his room, all day long

he is reading history and poems.

He tells my mom:

“Who cares about upkeep of the yard?

I am ill and old and my pension-pay, is just to carry on.”

My mother’s entire life is a prayer book

spread at the doors of fright of the hell.

My mother is looking every where for blessed parts of things.

She thinks that little garden is spoiled by a depraved plant.

My mom is gifted with tons of innate sins,

she has to pray every day to save her restless soul.

She is blessing flowers and birds,

She is blessing herself,

She is longing for resurrection date

and divine pardon that will descend.

My brother calls little garden “graveyard”.

My brother laughs at chaos of lawn

He is counting bloated bodies of birds,

My brother is addicted to philosophy.

My brother knows: to salvage little garden,

we must wipe it out, as soon as we can.

My bother gets drunk,

My brother blows up mirrors, plates and painting frames.

He is trying so hard, so hard, so hard to show

that he is very desperate, sad and drawn.

He takes his ID, his lighter, and his despair,

to streets, to bistros and to shops.

His despair is so tiny that every night

it gets lost in crowd of a bar.

My sister was friend with flowers and birds.

When my mother was mad, wanted to scold her,

she was hiding behind green mass of trees.

She loved to party with wounded, unwell birds.

My sister is living in uptown now.

Now she has a sham house,

Now she has an artificial plant.

She stays with her fake husband,

They listen to synthetic songs,

And they will make lots of natural kids.

My sister comes to visit,

She doesn’t like dusts of little garden,

She always brings perfumed, hydrating creams.

Our courtyard is feeling lonely.

Our courtyard is feeling lonely.

The whole day, it sounds like razing and hammering:

Our neighbors are implanting mines in their field,

Our neighbors are mounting a safety cover for their pool,

Our neighbors’ basement looks like a secret arsenal base.

Our neighbor’s children are fighting with noisy shooters and bombs.

Our courtyard is feeling scared.

And I am scared of this heartless time,

I am scared of all those wasted hands,

I am scared of all these stranger heads,

I am so lonely, like a nerd in math’s class.

I think we have to bring little garden to the clinic.

I think…

I think…

I think…

And little garden’s heart is swollen in this parching heat.

And little garden’s mind is slowly losing its green past.

By: Forough Farokhzad

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani

Now it's still hard to convince the people of the role they can play, to convince them to get out on Friday and vote! Democracy is not in the political culture here yet. People are not used to it. They don't believe their vote counts. It takes years for democracy to be settled.

* Nikan is my son. He is 5.