I think about collective dread. About pandemics, wars, and conflicts—ethnic, tribal, religious, and the world wars that mark turning points in history.
I think about the Mongol invasion, during the reign of the witless Sultan Mohammad Khwarazmshah. Iran, under the hooves of Mongol horses, was plunged into nationwide grief and sorrow.
The outcome of foolishness is sorrow—and since nothing is everlasting, suffering and grief begin to unravel the moment they are born.
I remember James Cameron’s Titanic. While all the ship’s passengers are desperately seeking salvation, a few musicians, indifferent to the looming death, continue to play music for nearly two hours.
Led by Wallace Hartley, they perform the famous hymn “Nearer, My God, to Thee.”
It seems like a futile act. There’s no audience, no one clapping. And yet, I believe they are expressing that most profound phrase in the history of humanity—through the language of music:
Even in life’s final moment, one must say “I love you.”
Even if Alexander’s spears burn you.
Even if the icy ocean drowns you.
Even if Genghis Khan razes the homes of Nishapur to the ground.
“Nearer, My God, to Thee.”
I get in my car. Drive down Daneshgah Street. I pass the hospital in my city. I imagine:
A nurse with a mask on her face is saving the life of a COVID patient lying in bed.
I think about the history of my land’s sorrows. In my imagination, I travel to Persepolis.
I see a young man and woman.
The man, upon seeing the beautiful woman, prepares a sentence in his mind: “I love you.”
The woman is hidden behind the columns of Persepolis.
The man’s wondrous words echo through the palace’s winding halls.
Suddenly, Alexander’s horsemen’s spears appear in the Persian sky.
Fiery spears set the columns ablaze.
More painful than the burning columns is the incineration of the unlucky man’s “I love you.”
I drive toward Arak’s beltway. I see the city. It’s dusk. Lights in the homes begin to glow.
I think of the “I love yous” that never reached behind the columns.
And of the “I love yous” that never made it past the garden hedges.
We are, these days, gripped by collective sorrow.
The history of this land bears witness that after a great fear, comes a great hope.
A time for great change.
We must somehow come to understand that what this land longs for is a union of reason and love.
I head to the nostalgic Bagh-e Melli (National Garden) of Arak.
This time of year, the square used to be crowded.
Joy was shared.
Now, there’s no festivity.
Covering our faces and looking up at the sky has become the code of survival.
Years ago, in Arak’s virtual networks, there was a campaign called “The White Simorgh of Gratitude,”
meant to thank nurses and doctors.
We should revive it again now—for all those who gave their lives to save the wounded in war:
for firefighters, doctors, soldiers, and nurses.
I wonder what artists must do to kindle the feeling of life’s continuity.
I go to the hospital.
I turn to the nurses and doctors and say aloud:
“Thank you, White Simorgh… I love you.”
Regardless of whether anyone hears or not—
Love is recorded.
“There is a path of love that has no shore…”
Those Titanic musicians did not play in vain.
The world lives on through love.
