‘If you’re stressed, go for a walk.’ Said the woman today on my Instagram who looked like an expert. But she didn’t say what to do if the distress was still there after an hour of stroll. Should I keep going? The polluted air today in Berlin is not very encouraging. How many kilometers does it take to get rid of the anxious feeling? Now my heart is pounding hard, both from the long walk and the stress.
I search my mind for the source of the jitters. Is it being away from friends and family? Is it the constant search to build up a new life in a foreign land? Is that the unquenchable thirst to find lasting friendships? Is it the longing to get to know myself better? Or is it the question that has been repeating itself for almost a year now? The question of freedom.
As I continue to walk, listening to a podcast about a historical figure who lost his life in the fight for freedom, I figure it out at last. This must be it. We’re getting close to a meaningful day. This Saturday marks the anniversary of another beginning of the fight for freedom.
I have a new friend who recently turned thirteen. He’s a language prodigy who speaks four languages fluently and is also the source of my knowledge about Generation Z. Thanks to him, I’m learning about the new trends on TikTok or what’s considered cool nowadays in fashion like baggy pants. As a matter of fact, I got myself a black pair with four pockets, which makes me feel pretty cool.
A Persian word he has learned is Khamirbazi, meaning play dough (Khamir for dough and Bazi for play). He finds it funny and the language enthusiast that he is, he has been able to make cool combinations with the word stem Bazi. Today I was thinking about telling him about the fight of people in the land of Khamirbazi. Should I ask him to join me in the demo on Saturday?
Should I give him a short recap of the history of the resistance? Where should I begin? From the constitutional revolution between 1905 and 1911 that restricted the crown’s power, led to the establishment of the parliament, and paved the way for modernity in Iran? Should I talk to him about Mosadegh and the 1953 coup d’état, or the tragic death of Golsorkhi and Fatemi? I must definitely talk about women, whose fight has been neglected for years and who have become the heart of the recent uprisings. Should I tell him about Zhina, the girl who was killed one year ago, the girl whose name is the symbol of this resistance?
Should I tell him about us and how different Khamirbazi people are, now united for one goal? Should I tell him that some of us want the King’s male descendant to be back because we still believe that the country needs a father and a reminder of the glorious past? Should I tell him that the pictures showing women in short skirts walking in the streets of Tehran are not all the truth about the Khamirbazi land?
One day, he showed me an app on his phone where you could hear the sound of different guns. Should I tell him that they use these guns to kill the protesters? AK47, SVD, Snubnosed revolver, shotgun 16 gauge with birdshot, buckshot and slug, paintball gun. Should I tell him about tear gas?
Will he laugh at me if I tell him what we want is to dance, that we want to get our bodies back from hostage; that we want to sing along with Michael Bublé: ‘Like a flower bending in the breeze/ bend with me, sway with ease/ When we dance, you have a way with me/ sway with me.’ Should I tell him that the well on my grandfather’s farm is dry? Should I tell him that I cried like a baby the last time I saw a police car in Berlin?
Maybe I’ll do all this, put on my cool new baggy pants, take him to the demo, and then treat him with some Persian treats. I’m thinking about Ghorme-sabzi, my favorite Khamirbazi food, with some Salad Shirazi. But for dessert, I’m thinking about something Nordic, maybe a fruit crumb cake. What a feast! And at the end, I will tell him that now we, the Khamirbazi people, ‘can hear the sounds of violins/ long before it begins.’
