Pedestrian

I have not been able to work much for the past two days – I guess that is evident, given the number of posts here everyday. I am nervous, my palm is sweaty, and my throat feels constantly dry no matter how much water, coffee or tea I drink.

I am so nervous for what may or may not happen tomorrow. For the bodies that might have to endure pain and for the cries of those who will have no one there to answer them. For the kids who will gather in anticipation, their hearts pounding with delight, fear and that ever so small hint of promise.

My friends told me that they went to the rooftops tonight to shout Allah o Akbar. I went to the balcony and smoked a cigarette and amidst the burning, tender ashes, I slowly murmured: Allah o Akbar.

I will not sleep tonight, in anticipation of Tehran’s every heartbeat.

I remember as a child, meeting grown-up after grown-up who would tell me their story of the revolution. I always found it strange that some of those who were students abroad had suddenly returned home in the days following the revolution in 79. Why leave your school? your studies? your future? Were they out of their minds? I would always wonder.

Now I wish I could do the same. I wish I could say: screw it to the class tomorrow and the numerous assignments due next week. I just want to go home.

Yes home.

Home will always be the streets of Tehran. The orchards of Khuzestan. The oranges I pick from my grandfather’s citrus trees.

The streets of Tehran will be swept in smoke and traffic tonight. It will be like every other night. Long lines for the bus, mile long traffic, rude drivers and tired passengers. But from the anticipating eyes of the traveler next to you in that beat up taxi you can tell we are all waiting, expecting, hopeful and scared.

The streets of Tehran will be waiting tonight.

As will I.