I Am a Villager, and I’m Proud of It
I am a villager, and I take pride in it. My family and I lived on an estate in a relatively well-off village.
I attended elementary school in a place with a large yard, flowing water, and lush green trees just steps from home. The school had been built by my grandfather and donated to the Ministry of Culture of that time, now known as the Ministry of Education. It was similar to what the “Ahangar Dadgar” family did—establishing a private high school to ensure their son’s education—but with the difference that our grandfather built his school in a remote ancestral estate, while the other family built theirs on someone else’s land in a wealthy district of Tehran.
We lived in the village.
The family of my older half-sister lived in another village, not far from ours, on the ancestral land of her husband. I was about the same age as her two sons.
The main route between us was long. By car, we had to drive about 30 kilometers north, cross the only bridge over the Kooai (Halil) River, then drive 30 kilometers south—forming a U-shape to reach their home, which actually lay roughly straight across from ours.
Though the direct distance was only 10 to 15 kilometers, the actual path was more than 60 kilometers because of impassable terrain, forests, and occasional animals like wild boars, wildcats, and porcupines—none of which were aggressive. The Kooai River had no bridge and could be fierce, especially during rains, but in late spring, it often ran shallow enough to cross easily.
I was in the final years of elementary school. Village boys grow up fast and start mimicking adult behaviors. I watched a lot of westerns and was in love with the late John Wayne—especially when he’d speak his mind with his back to the camera (I later learned that these were the creative liberties of dubbing artists, often called “back-of-the-head lines”). Sometimes the dubbers even had him sing Jamileh’s cowboy anthem. I dreamed of growing up to be a beloved cowboy like him. I had bought a cowboy hat, a new pair of jeans, and a wide belt with a buckle featuring two crossed revolvers and a horseshoe, supposedly for good luck. Naturally, I also had the most beautiful toy six-shooter.
School was out, and my summer vacation had begun. I decided to visit my older sister and spend a few days with her sons. I borrowed a horse from a family acquaintance. I had heard a few things about the horse’s temperament: that when a rider mounts it, it assesses their skill.
They said the more relaxed you were with the horse, the more peacefully it would carry you. Soon enough, the horse was saddled and ready. I mounted it, said goodbye to my mother, and set off. The ride was smooth. To cross the river, I trusted the horse, which calmly walked through the water. Throughout the ride, I whistled the iconic tunes from movies like The Bridge on the River Kwai, For a Few Dollars More, and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The horse seemed to enjoy it.
An hour later, I arrived at my sister’s home to a warm welcome. The servants took the horse away for grooming and rest. I stayed two days, had a great time with my cousins—but completely neglected the horse. I didn’t even check on it once. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if it was well taken care of. On the third day, I decided to head back, mostly because I needed to return the borrowed horse. My sister packed a premium box of Isfahan gaz (Persian nougat) for me.
Half the way back, I kept whistling, imagining myself as John Wayne. Occasionally I’d pretend to shoot at birds that flew out from the horse’s path, and my imaginary dog would chase them down.
I reached the main obstacle: the river, now somewhat full. But I knew to trust the horse. It stood calmly, drank some water, and slowly entered. The water reached its belly, but it crossed smoothly.
On the far bank, amidst tamarisk shrubs, I remembered the box of gaz. I pulled it from my bag and began opening it as the horse walked. As I tore the cellophane wrapping, the horse twitched its ears and made a strange sound. When I began unwrapping a piece of gaz, the horse suddenly reared on its hind legs, neighed, and somehow managed to fling me over its head. It shook me off like an annoying fly.
As I flew through the air in slow motion (90 frames per second in my mind), I could hear the voice of a famous wrestling commentator: “Four points! Four points! God bless your mother and father, champ!” Then he corrected himself: “Wait, no! His foot’s still stuck in the stirrup—they don’t give the four!”
Anyway, the wild horse dragged poor me through the thorny brush. Luckily, my foot slipped out of my shoe, and I fell. My shirt was torn, and the gaz spilled everywhere. The horse, without hesitation, bolted back toward home. I picked up the scattered gaz and my toy revolver and started walking—one shoe on, the other foot bare and bruised.
The hot ground burned my bare foot. I stuffed the empty gaz box into my sock as insulation. An hour later, exhausted, dusty, and sunburned, I reached home. The ungrateful horse had already arrived safely and was in its stable.
In tragic stories and religious epics, the moment of deepest sorrow is when a horse returns home without its rider. When the horse returned with only a single shoe dangling from the stirrup, the owner panicked and told my family. They feared the worst. They were about to send out a search party when I staggered into view—tattered, dusty, shoeless, and clutching the remnants of a gaz box.
“Mons Lander”—the same man known for his evil eye in the traveling cinema story—stood at the garden gate and said, “Three days ago, I saw a majestic rider on the road from afar—who knew it was you? Ma-sha-Allah!”
