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  • Writer's pictureFábio Inácio


Iran? But are you crazy? Aren’t you afraid? They are terrorists, bombers, Muslims, it is dangerous… I heard these and other words over and over again while I was planning my journey; every time I heard those words, my desire to go to Iran was greater. It has always made me confused to hear criticism without having something to prove the content of it! It has always made me confused to judge someone because of his/her religion, colour or appearance! It has always made me confused that people believe everything they hear!

The truth is that I did not know well what was going on and to be honest I have to admit that I was afraid, yes, I was afraid every second I went through ancient Persia, or rather, I still am every time I think of those twenty one days.

I’m afraid I will never go back there again! It scares me so much!

I cannot believe everything I’ve been through! There are no people like this, starting with Sahar, who on my first day in the country greeted me at home at four o’clock in the morning with a contagious smile, an addictive look, and incredible energy that has left me in love without realizing it. Then there was little Katea, who called me brother and cried the day I left, after spending three days in her small village in Kurdistan, where her parents made me eat every meal at their house and still paid for the room where I was staying to sleep. As well as the habitants of this village who, on my last afternoon there, invited me to drink twenty three teas in different houses! And I almost forgot to mention the two men at the bus station almost fighting between them to decide who would take me to lunch at his house! I also cannot forget Saeed, who made his house mine, and also Malieh, who showed me part of the Persian culture full of flavours and history. I will not mention all those who approached me on the street, who invited me to their homes, who offered me food, who showed me the places where I wanted to go. I’m not going to talk about all those who just wanted to spend a few minutes talking to me, and nor will I mention all those who passed me and offered me the best smile they had…

I wanted to write about the colourful Nasir al-Mulk Mosque in Shiraz, towering above the vibrant Naqsh-e Jahan Square in Isfahan, or even about the small mud houses that seemed to cascade down through the village of Palangan, but I cannot: every time the subject of Iran comes up, my thoughts are invaded by people, by everything they gave me, without ever accepting anything in return.

Love – the/a feeling that impels us to the object of our desires; Object of our affection; passion; affection; inclination; Captive or possessive love: love that seeks to monopolize the other for itself; – conjugal love: the radical embrace by which a person unites his destiny to the being of another person; – oblative love: what is dedicated to others;

This is the meaning of love in the Portuguese dictionary; but it could be the meaning of Iran in any dictionary in the world!

Love and Iran, Iran and love, the same meaning written in a different way!

Picture: Little Katea, Kurdistan.

This as all the other articles on this site are translated by my good friend Devo Forbes!!

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