Air, Food, Water and Words

In the summer of first grade one day my mother said to me, “You know Soheila, now that you have finished first grade and you can write what do you think of writing about your experience in the first grade.” I thought about it, smiled and said, “OK”. My mom gave me a notebook that had a red plastic cover and shortly after that I started to write in my own little words about my first year of school. I explained everything in about three pages at about five words per line, since I wrote in really big letters those days. My handwriting was crooked, the sentences simple and the thoughts conveyed childishly cute. Hence, my mother planted the seeds of desire for writing in my psyche. She was also the first person in my life that encouraged me to read and read with me until I was able to read on my own. She cultivated the love of reading in me. Reading became a major part of how I spent my free time as a child. My mother was and is a passionate person. She, herself, wrote at times and was a reader. My uncle, my mother’s brother, was a poet and a writer. My mother’s father had had a reputation for his eloquent speech.

My father had a great love for literature and poetry. He, often, recited poetry when he would speak in order to drive home a point. His father and uncles had been educators.

When I was in fifth grade, one afternoon I was in my father’s library. I picked up a book titled, “the poets of the first century of the Baha’i Faith”. I started to look through it. Although I was only ten years old, my Persian was good enough to understand most of the poems. I liked what I was reading. As I was going through the pages I came across a poem by Solaymon Khan Afshar one of the early Baha’is who lived in the 19th century. He was executed in Iran
because of his religious beliefs. Prior to his execution nine holes were made in his body. Nine lit candles were put in the holes. He was forced to walk in public for people to see and then was executed. I knew the manner in which he had died, but I didn’t know that he was a poet. I started to read the poem. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever read. The words were put together so beautifully. It was melodic. The poem was a mystical poem about being one with God, about finding the Divine within and about an all encompassing love that has brought the creation into being. I was moved to the core of my being as I read the poem. I understood every word and I felt all the emotions and feelings that were meant to be conveyed by the poem. I stood there unmoved while I read the poem over and over until I had it memorized. That was my first experience with words as a means for transformation. I had been changed by those words. I felt something that I hadn’t felt before. I learned something that I didn’t know before. I knew at that moment that there was something in the world that had this amazing power over me. It was something that my being was deeply attracted to. It was language in its most beautiful form. It was the power of words. It was language as a work of art. From that moment, I knew with certainty that my life would always intertwine with language not just to speak it or use it to communicate the basics, but to use it as a tool to experience something out of the ordinary.

When I was fourteen years old, I went to a talk given by an Iranian Baha’i scholar and author. To this day that talk has been the most powerful speech that I have ever heard. I listened to this man who spoke, passionately, about the responsibility that we bear as human beings to keep the humanity within us alive and contribute to the advancement of humanity however that we may be able to. He used the Baha’i writings to explain the sublime station that we as human beings have been endowed and the unlimited potentialities that lay hidden within us. "Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit there from." He ended his talk by a poem by one of the great contemporary Persian poets, which touched me deeply. During the talk, I was afraid of breathing too loudly and not being able to hear every word spoken. Everyone present was very quiet. There was no other sound heard except the voice of this most eloquent speaker. Those words, those amazing words were building my identity and shaping my destiny.

When I was 16 years old and in 11th grade, my Persian literature teacher walked into the classroom one day and said, “Today you will hear the best of the best, a poem by Rumi.” Rumi is a mystical Persian poet who lived about a thousand years ago. He is the most read poet in the world today.” His poetry has been the foundation of Sufism, a mystical branch of Islam which believes that God is within us and nearness to God and being one with God and the universe is within our grasp. My teacher read the poem beautifully and dramatically. My soul was stirred. Breathless, I listened to those powerful words which melted my heart, brought tears to my eyes and took me to a different world.

When I was 17 years old, I left Iran with my parents due to the persecution of the Baha’is by the Islamic Republic of Iran. I left not knowing if I would ever see my country again. Within a matter of hours my life was turned upside down. I gave up so many things when I left my home. One of them was my ability to read, write and to speak. Within hours I arrived in a country where my ability to communicate was no more than a toddler‘s. During the early years of my life here in the US, I grieved the loss of my culture and language. I missed being surrounded by the Persian language and its rich literature. Reading and writing to me had always been a necessity of life like food. My love for language and understanding the subtleties of it was a gift that had been passed on to me by my ancestors and the rich culture in which I had been raised. So many times through the years the words “I have lost my gift” were echoed in my mind with a profound sense of loss and sadness. Years passed. I struggled with my new life in the US. I learned to speak, read and write. Eventually, I was able to read and understand the English literature and its diverse forms of expression. Gradually, I was able to express myself in English both in the written and spoken form. And then one day I realized that I had reclaimed what was taken away from me by my destiny. I realized that I loved the English language as much as my own. English was now as much a part of me and as precious to me as Persian. It had shaped my thoughts and it had opened up a new world and culture to me. Its literature had, also, touched my heart.

I, now, consider myself very fortunate to be able to understand and appreciate the differences and nuances of both languages. Each language is a door to an incredible culture and a way of thinking and life. I can travel through both worlds with ease, comfort, appreciation and understanding. I love both languages. Both languages have enriched my life and that is God's gift to me.