By Jahanshah Javid
December 28, 1998
I dreamed of Abadan last night. I often do.
I dreamed I was watching a silent black-and-white film about our family
and our home, No. 110 Braim. The film began with my sister Soraya putting
something into a large car or van. It looked as if the family was about
to go on a road trip.
I remember seeing myself, in my early teens, running through our house
from one end to the other and out in the yard. I slowed and stood in front
of the camera, smiling. I think I had my legs slightly apart and my hands
on my waist.
After a few seconds the camera lifted, showing our house from above.
Everything looked sharp, clean, orderly. Perfect. The konar trees looked
particularly massive, more like walnut trees. The fence around the house
was not the green, bushy shemshad but made of wood and painted white, like
the ones around American farm houses.
Abadani friends and classmates some 30 years ago and...
... in the 90s
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