May 26, 2023When the Past Came to Visit
The strangest thing happened on a snowy December day. I remember this day very clearly as if it had only happened recently. The memory reminded me of my deep-rooted heritage and the power of friendship. It changed my perspective on what life can offer and what we can take for granted. So, let me tell you this story.
Law school applications were approaching, and I was preparing to take the LSAT. Christmas break had just started, so I took the opportunity to prepare diligently. I had all the time to practice logic games and improve my reading pace. My time at the local library became perennial, though luckily, the library was a mere ten-minute walk from my house.
One cold morning, I woke to chilly air and snow coating the ground outside my window. I got dressed in the warmest coat I had and went on to do my work as planned. This time, however, I didn’t stay at the library for as long as usual. Hunger nagged at me where the words on the pages were becoming a conjugated blur, so I packed my things. I took two heavy textbooks picked from the shelves and brought them to the check-out counter, where a middle-aged woman in a ponytail sat.
“Library card, please,” she croaked with a deep, scratchy voice.
I handed her my card, to which she reacted by slightly hesitating and intensely watching me. She then protested, “This is a Vaughan Library card. That’s the town next over.”
“I’ve used it here plenty of times before,” I squeaked with a hint of uncertainty.
“Name holder of the card?”
“Noor Shirvani.”
She scanned it, and a receipt began to print from the machine – I guess it worked. Suddenly, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. It was a moment when I felt a person’s gaze peering towards me. I looked to see an older man sitting on a bench with a brown hat on his lap and a cane resting against his leg. His gaze followed me, though I didn’t think much of it. I took my things and headed out the door.
***
Christmas just passed, and everyone was returning from their holiday festivities. The library wasn’t busy, since I’d assumed people were departing from their beach-filled vacations rather than wandering in a library with a backpack clung to their shoulders.
As usual, I sat in my corner by the tall windows facing the trees. I watched them dressed in white snow like tall frozen icicles. My pen tapped on the table while my hand rested under my chin. I couldn’t help but let my mind wander after several hours of studying. Though my study breaks weren’t infrequent, they were definitely necessary. It didn’t take long before I gave it up and decided to linger through the shelves as a distraction.
I walked through the long aisles and traced my fingers along the bumpy books, eventually reaching the Farsi literature. The selection didn’t range much as it was only a corner section in the library, though I was grateful for the cultural representation. At the end of the aisle, I saw a brown cane slanted against the metal shelf and someone crouching down to peer at the array of books. I recognized his silver spectacles hanging at the edge of his hooked nose as he stared attentively. I was about to leave when I caught his attention.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” I apologized in Farsi.
“Please, don’t worry.”
His expression was sympathetic, almost as if he wanted to tell me something. My presence felt like an intrusion. Before I could turn away, he said something that caught me off guard.
“You don’t happen to– I mean… Are you from Abadan, by any chance?” he shot out quickly. “I don’t mean to pry. I heard you say your last name when you spoke to the librarian... It reminded me of an old friend.”
“Well,” I began hesitantly, “My father was born there.” What a strange question.
“May I ask his name?”
An even stranger question. This time, I showed even more hesitation before admitting, “Hassan Shirvani.”
The air felt lighter when he said, “Tell him that Amir Dosani sends his blessings.”
***
I spoke with Baba when I got home that same day. “Do you happen to know Amir Dosani?”
His eyes became glossy, and he paused briefly before speaking, “Where did you get that from?”
I explained the encounter and saw Baba's eyes fill with nostalgic clouds. He was patient and listened without interruption. When I finally concluded my story, he appeared ready to say something but held back. “So, he must be familiar to you?”
“I once had a friend in Abadan with that name. He helped me fight in the Revolution.”
Although I grew up learning about my culture, my parents, particularly Baba, were always secretive about their pasts in Iran. They were refugees and, I thought, were unwilling to revisit their traumas. It was like our unspoken truth, where the void of answers spoke a million words. We didn’t need a common language to understand that those years were filled with unimaginable struggles. They left the past behind, and they left Iran with it. For the first time, Baba revealed to me a memory he had locked away over thirty years ago.
At the start of the Revolution, he explained, he and my uncles participated in local protests against the government. He spoke of fleeing bullets and periods in hiding – all of which you would imagine in a cinematic Hollywood film. During this time, he met Amir in protest.
“He looked out for me when we were handing out flyers,” he recalled. “The police were looking to arrest us, and he would always notify Soroush or me when we were out.”
He continued to tell me that they would also have more joyful memories together where their families would jointly eat at one another’s homes – usually, the women preparing loads of saffron rice, ghormeh sabzi, and sides of torshi and min leaves. They cherished these scarce moments to appreciate the distraction from war and fantasize about Iran’s hopeful future.
Among other things, I learned that parts of Abadan, my dad’s place of birth, were attacked by Iraqi bombs, which caused him and his family to flee – the first of many times to come. The oil city had become devastated by the siege, leaving its residents no choice but to leave – my family is one of them.
“We didn’t have time to do anything. The goal was to leave as soon as possible and survive,” tears coated Baba’s eyes. “I never saw Amir again.”
I haven’t seen Amir since that day either, although he surely has remained in my mind. Time and the past are interesting things. After all these years, several thousand miles across the world, Baba’s old life came to visit me. Life is like a tapestry weaving us together to create an intricate design, unique and beautiful in its own kind.