The Genisis of My Journey to Understand Iran

I was in sixth grade when I realized I was different. 

We were watching Channel One, a news program for middle and high school students.  The special for that day was Iran. 

I knew my dad was from Iran, but I never really knew that my siblings and I were “different.”  Sure there was the time in early 1991 whenever my sister broke down after we started bombing Saddam Hussein’s Iraq.  She was a senior in high school and someone at school had said something like, “kill all them rag heads.”  It understandably upset her, but being nine years old I couldn’t appreciate the gravity of the situation.  There was also my inability to recognize as further proof the fact that when my dad and his friends or family got together they spoke an entirely different language.  Again, I chalk that up to my inability to recognize it wasn’t ordinary. 

But on that spring morning, Channel One had a special on Iran--a far off land, steeped in a rich culture with a long and deep history of greatness.  Of course, I had heard some of those stories, but nothing connected in my juvenile brain.  After all, I lived in Bardstown, KY—we didn’t get a Mexican Restaurant until many years later (now we have 3, along with 5 Asian style restaurants).  What was culture, what was history, and what in the world did it mean to be Persian?

Channel One contrasted the rich and deep history with the current plight of Iranians under the Islamic Republic.  Women were oppressed, political opposition was suppressed, and the economy was in tatters.  They hated America; the incessant chants of “Death to America” frequently heard at protests was their proof. 

Something inside of me exploded.  Every emotion one could imagine was exposed for everyone to see.  I was at once sad and happy, confused yet enlightened, frustrated but contented.  “Is this really where my dad came from? How could that be? I’m glad I grew up here, but I’m curious what Iran is like, I want to go, but what if I don’t like it? Do they really hate America?”  All of this was going through my head.

My friends started asking questions I couldn’t answer; I couldn’t take it any longer bursting out crying, right there in the middle of class for everyone to see.  Tears streaming down my face I couldn’t explain why I became emotional.  No one knew or understood why, nor did I expect them too.  No one else was Iranian-American, no one else had to face the fact that one half of their heritage was the other half’s enemy. 

That was the first day of my odyssey to learn about Iran.  Somehow, I knew then that it would be a life long journey of learning, one filled with disappointment and frustration combined with happiness and fulfillment. 

Today that quest is still in progress.  I’m closer to knowing Iran than I was before, but each step forward brings new questions, difficulties, and complications.  There is not a day that goes by that I don’t look forward to being able to experience Iran first hand, hopefully it comes sooner rather than later.