With the sincere hope that this will be the last of the long story of my incapacity, I add this short vignette I witnessed, or rather listened in, It took place on the eve of the 22 December, or Shab-e Yalda, the longest night of the year. On this night Iranians gather in their elders’ houses, munching nuts, eating carefully preserved watermelon (the promise of summer) and reading poems by Hafez, the 13th century mystic poet.
Earlier that evening I had a physiotherapy session. I was shown to a free cubicle, but a little boy of about six was lying on the bed. He had face-painting on and wore a colourful party hat. He said that they had had a Yalda celebration at his nursery, hence the make-up, and rushed off to his mother, one of the therapists working there.
A young man was having treatment in the cubicle next to mine. During my session, I heard the little boy talking with him. As they were talking, the little boy casually said, “My father’s passed away,” but he didn’t sound upset about it; he probably hasn’t understood the concept of death yet. The patient told him that we say “he’s passed away” because we can’t see him, but he can see us, and he can see the little boy and pray for him.
The man asked the boy whether he remembers seeing his father. The boy said, yes, he remembers him from photographs. His father is gone to Paradise to be with Imam Hossein, whose martyrdom was commemorated only a week ago. Then the boy asked the patient about the electrodes on his face. The young man explained that one side of his face had become paralysed (“What is paralysed?” “It means that it has stopped working”) and that the doctor had said that he would get better after physiotherapy.
And I thought I had troubles enough.
