The bus ride from Tehran is about 5 hours of desert landscape. There is a forgetful way of retracing as one passes through the desert. It almost feels as if nothing is moving. As if the desert has remained a portrait in time for millenia.
The burnt orange rock glistens over oily brittle mountains passing in the long vertical window sills of the Seyr-o-Saphar bus, draped over a hollowing mid-day sun. As a woman, age 26, single and traveling in Iran, I am assigned a seat to myself by the window. A boy, about the age of 16, sits with his father in the two conjoined seats to my right. His father seems to be young, no more than mid-40’s but is heavy set and in a wheelchair. They are wearing old sandals that look worn and tired. In Iranian culture, it is customary to take care of elders, especially parents with great attentiveness and respect. The boy, with large eyes and a softness in his height, sits next to his father and gently helps feed him. I feel as if the young boy does not have a choice in his life or perhaps feels like he does not. In this moment, I realize my privilege. That my parents were both healthy, that they moved to the United States after the revolution. That I have had the privilege to question the status quo when my culture would have me do the opposite.
And as the bus lurches to a stop, the boy gently helps his father up and into his wheelchair. His rubber sandals padding on the dusty sand toward the bus station. I wish I could hug him and exchange all my belief of power and love onto him. That he would know that he is not alone, that he is not destined to be a boy who takes care of his family and does not live his own life out. And yet, what do I know of his story. I’m just a stranger on a bus headed to the city of Isfahan. Maybe it is my own need to share my stories, to be fearless, so that I can know that my family and all their sacrifices were not in vain. That this boy with large kind eyes should not have been in my place instead.
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