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Walking along
First step into school, stepping out into the world

June 7, 2001
The Iranian

"Najmeh, where do babies come from?" he asks while looking at me with those two innocent eyes, right when we're at the beginning of "Stuart Little", the children's book. My eyes pop out with surprise, and I'm left speechless. "Wow! Look at that picture! Isn't it neat? Has it occurred to you that this lady gave birth to an actual mouse? You know I had this friend.... "

I go on and on without thinking, desperate to change the subject, but know that my efforts have been a complete failure when he ignores my words and repeats his question : "Where ? WHERE do they come from?"

"Um... well, you see, they... they come from swallowing watermelon seeds," I blurt out without thinking, remembering my own beliefs at his age. I grow awfully nervous, worried that he might doubt my theory for the same reason I did: Why the seeds only worked on women? And they were the ones who blew up like balloons while men in my family swallowed them with ease and nothing happened.

But fortunately he doesn't ask again, though he does look at me with doubt, only to come face to face with the dead serious expression in my eyes.

"Are you sure?" he demands.

"Hey, have I ever lied to you ?"

He looks convinced this time, and we go on reading. But only for a few seconds. he stops me again to squeal: "But I've swallowed seeds before!" He stares at his stomach, "but nothings happened."

This time, maast maali kardane jariyaan is a lot harder. I look at his hands. They amaze me more than anything about him. So small and fragile and soft, barely able to lift up the heavy toy truck or a small chair. The same hands on Hitler's body at that age, and Al Capone's, and Rockfellar's. How they can grow to hold guns, pens to sign multi-million dollar deals or 500-pound weights just seems unbelievable.

It's as if we all live two lives, one completely separated from the other, completely different. So innocent at first, having an angel inside always watching, helping, but then she leaves, moving on to the next little one, taking all our beautiful memories with her, abandoning us with a mind and body to run, all on our own.

Who can ever recall -- even for just a second -- the first step, the first smile or the first feeling from staring into mother's eyes and seeing her beautiful, angelic face? Walking home today, knowing that I will never go back, makes me miss more then ever the angel I don't even remember . The last day of school, the day that will bring to an end a part of life that will be one of it's sweetest.

It seems it was only yesterday when my dad dropped me off for my big first big day, the first day of school. I was excited and out of breath. I just wanted him to leave. And now, 12 years later, I wish he could be here, holding my hand, taking me to that huge mysterious building, leading me to find my way into the world.

I know I'll miss laughing at Mrs. Bingham's new hairdo, or the excitement of feeling that tap on my shoulder at lunch time, and hearing the voice in my ear that says : "Justin loves Heather, pass it on..." And I do pass it on, laughing and talking at the same time, while Justin and Heather sit a thousand miles apart and don't even know the other one exists.

"A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step," someone once said. I count every single one, but lose count every few minutes while looking at familiar surroundings. How many steps in all? From the first day to the last? I can't even imagine, but they sure do add up. There's the bakery, the flower shop, and besides all of that, something which at first, seems out of place: the cemetery.

"Tehran's War Cemetery" it's called, and passing that place makes me remember a memorial service I once attended where I heard this question: "If some messenger were to come to us with the offer that death should not exist, but with the one inseparable condition that birth should also cease, that never again would there be a child, or youth, or fist love, never again new persons with new hopes, could your response be in doubt?"

I look at the empty school yard I've passed on my way a million times before; without the kids it looks like the loneliest place in the world. But walking a few more steps, I see a group of small school boys not older then seven or eight, waiting in the yard to be picked up by their parents. They're screaming and running around, and one stops to stick his tongue out at me. Then he smiles and waves, sticks his tongue out again. I can't help smiling too and feel the grin on my face. And that reminds me to start counting all over again.

Author

Najmeh Fakhraie is a 18-year-old student in Tehran.

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