As a Viking-American myself, I have an inordinate affection for some hyphenated friends. So close to uno amigo, he’s like my older brother.
Then there’s Emmy, who just disappeared. Imagine it was me truly who vanished. Anyway, Ahmad Masoumpanah told me a story about being in the deserted steppes of Eastern Oregon during the Iranian Hostage Crisis. Seems a couple of heavily-armed good ol’ boys out hunting took one look at Emmy and thought he looked suspiciously Iranian. No, no, I am Persian, he exclaimed.
The hunters agreed they had no problems with no Persians and left looking for something else to shoot. This from January 31, 1990. – JDW
HOPE FOR TOMORROW
Asked how we got here, most of us point to a mode of travel or a lover or a school or a job. Natives acknowledge the good fortune of family history. Amad Masoumpanah points to three moments in his childhood.
1952. A barefoot boy plays soccer on a dirt field of Tehran. Suddenly, there’s a great noise in the sky. Play stops. The youngster and his friends watch a helicopter land. As dust clouds begin to clear, the pilot – tall in a jumpsuit, insignia glinting angles of sunlight – steps out. He’s an American, the first Ahmad has ever seen.
One night. He hears his parents talking about something, something exciting which they haven’t actually seen for themselves. Time passes. He catches part of a similar conversation. This time they have seen it. Always curious, he begs them to take him to see this miracle for himself.
There’s a long line outside the building. The boy’s so short, all he can see are the backs of adults. Finally – oh, it seemed to take forever – he gets to go inside. All the seats are facing this big white wall. And then… magic. The first movie Ahmad ever saw came from Hollywood. The film featured this larger-than-life hero who protects the weak and downtrodden, who befriends animals. TARZAN!
1955. A hot summer Iranian night. On the roof Ahmad waits for sleep to come. On his back all he can see are stars twinkling, distant night lights beckoning him into an infinite blackness. High above the street, it’s like he’s traveling through space, carrying this planet on his shoulders, as if it’s saddled to him. Quite a responsibility for a 14-year-old. The earth and everyone on it.
Ahmad’s earliest memories of his mother recall her as a peacemaker. He remembers her sitting on the front stoop with one of two friends who are feuding. She tells the woman that the other neighbor is unhappy at the controversy; she values their relationship. The woman leaves, and Ahmad’s mother goes to the other’s house. I have just been talking to our neighbor, he says, and the woman wishes to be your friend again; she’s unhappy at the disagreement and wants to make up. The next day both women arrive at Ahmad’s home, together and smiling, wanting to share the joy of their reunion with Mrs. Masoumpanah.
It was a letter from his father that changed Ahmad’s life. He was becoming bold and impossible; he knew it all as so many 16-year-olds do. His father was in Azerbaijan, building a school, when he responded to a plea for help from a distraught spouse back home. The father wrote a story and sent it back to his son. This is that story.
Long ago, in a city divided by a river, there was a great man, rich is spirit and wisdom, whose advice was highly respected. Citizens of the community came to him with their problems, and the great man would always know just the right person to provide the solution. The problem solved, the benefactor would be made to feel appreciated and important for his contributions to the general well-being. Both sides benefited and there was balance. Peace and harmony filled the city.
One day, the great man saw children on one side of the river hollering insults at children on the other side. They in turn scream insults back. The great man instantly knew a bridge across the river would bring the children together. So, he went around the community – both sides – and sought the counsel of all factions. They united behind the idea and, with joyful enthusiasm, all worked as one to build the bridge.
When the bridge was finished, plaques were fastened to each end, dedicating the structure who brought the city – and the children – together.
Generations passed. The unity fades, replaced by division and discord. Children again hollered insults across the river, some even used the bridge to raid the other side, to instigate fights. One day, one boy – about 16 – saw the plaque which told of the great man whose memory lived on because he had helped to build the bridge that united their city.
Full of the hubris of youth, the teenager, seeking greatness for himself, decided he, too, could become well-known… by destroying what had been built by so many others so many years ago. He blew up the bridge. And, soon thereafter, sure enough, everybody in the city learned who was responsible. He was famous and remained so for the rest of his life.
And so, my son, Ahmad’s father wrote at the end of his letter, I ask you. How would you like to be known: as a man who builds bridges or one who destroys them?
Helicopter pilots. Tarzan. Sparkling nights. Hollywood. Peacemakers. Bridge builders. These were the images which fired the imagination of a young boy and drew him to us.
After four years of travel through 40 countries, Ahmad arrived in the United States on the same day man first walked on the moon.
The astronauts were better prepared. Ahmad had $22 in his pocket. And about as much command of English as you have of Farsi. But at last, finally, he was in America, land of freedom and heroes and opportunity and movie stars and hope.
“Since the dawn of man,” Ahmad is fond of saying, “nothing has helped us but a feeling of hope for tomorrow.”
He pauses. “I always knew I would get here.”
