On the way from home to work, I think about the people of the Middle East. Images line up before my eyes: the drowned Syrian child; a child in Afghanistan crying out with his books; people falling from an aircraft as they try to escape… The images come crashing down on me until I can barely breathe. Suddenly, someone sounds a horn inside my head, and the dammam drums begin. In southern Iran, the person who starts the drumming enters a strange state. It is as though the instrument no longer belongs to him. He cannot keep still. He closes his eyes, and suddenly the dammam begins. What stories it tells, what cries it releases. Listen, and you can hear the sighs of mothers throughout history. I beat that drum in my head until nothing of me remains.
We people of the Middle East seem to sow the wind, only to reap the whirlwind each time. How much can our nations plant before another storm carries it all into the sky and forces us to start again? How many times can history repeat itself for a people?
I turn over history in my mind, hoping to find a faint glimmer of hope to keep me alive. I turn its pages. It is 330 BCE. Ariobarzanes stands against Alexander’s army, which has brought the world to its knees, swearing it will enter Iran only over his dead body. I move forward and see Ashura: a few resisting the many, without trembling. Further on, it is 1941. Three soldiers stand against the Red Army, so steadfast that its commander takes medals from his own chest and places them on theirs. Now it is 1980: three hundred people face Saddam’s army, armed to the teeth. And today, in Panjshir, a man’s son follows his father’s path.
History shouts at me with all its strength: in this Middle East you call cursed, men and women have lived who will not surrender. When everyone says it is over, they say, “No. We must still go on.” When everyone flees, they turn back, as Ahmad’s son turns back. They stand, fall like leaves, then grow again. Where else in the world can you find people of such extraordinary strength?
Yes, I am a sorrowful child of the Middle East. With people like these among us, I may grieve and I may weep. But I have no right to lose hope and flee.
