Sophie, a woman, in her late twenties, together with her husband, and their two children, left Iran a few months before the start of the Islamic revolution.
Being Armenian and Christian, they were wary about living under an Islamic rule of government. It was obvious that Ayatollah Khomeini was about to overthrow the Shah’s government. So, the young couple were not sure how an Islamic system of government would treat its non-Muslim citizens.
Naturally, they were sad to leave their keens, family members and place of birth behind. However, they believed it was important for them to raise their children in a Christian land. Yes, Sophie loved Iran and the Iranians. She found them to be loving and friendly. Especially that the type of people she and her husband dealt with were highly educated, art-lovers, artists, and greatly sophisticated.
During the Shah’s reign, all in all, the non-Muslims, were treated with respect in Iran. Of course, like in any other country in the world, one did come across some bigots who mistreated the non-Muslims. The same could be said about certain fundamentalist Christians in the States or Europe, who harass and mistreat diverse religious people.

After leaving Iran, Sophie and her family lived in different European countries such as, France, Spain, and England. Her mother, who also left Iran with them, a year later immigrated to the United State to live with her eldest daughter, who was a US citizen.
Sophie had to accompany her mother to America, because she needed help to travel. This was during the time when the Iranians had taken the US embassy employees hostage in Tehran.
Like today, Americans were not so fund of Iran and the Iranians. Indeed, nothing has changed much. And, with Trump’s presidency, it is getting even worse. At the time, what aggravated the situation was the fact that Iranians had taken the US Embassy employees hostage during Khomeini’s reign. To make things worse, Sophie and her family were not US citizens yet, and held Iranian passports.
A week before Sophie reunited with her family in the UK, as she sat with her mother in an outdoor cafe in California, with her mother, a middle-aged fellow approached them. “Where are you ladies from…? What’s that language you are speaking together? ”
Before, Sophie had a chance to utter a word, her mother cut in, “We are from Iran, and the language we are speaking is Armenian.”
Sophie felt extremely uneasy. She thought it was not the right time to let people know they had any ties to Iran. In fact, she felt annoyed with her mother. Sophie herself, never used the word Iran. When somebody asked her where she was from, she said, “Persia.”
The moment that nosy character found out they were Iranians; he fretted, and asked Sophie’s mother, “Don’t tell me you miss your land!”
She sighed, smiled, and said confidently, “Yes, sir, I miss my land a lot.”
Now, Sophie really felt like she was about to have a heart attack.
Why do you have to embarrass me the way you did? She thought of telling her.
The man, in turn, laughed sarcastically and added, “Then, what are you doing here? Just go back to your beloved Iran!”
Sophie’s mother did not even bother to explain that they were Christian. She simply said, “I assure you. If I really had a chance, I would definitely go back to my birthplace, and die there.”
Presently, Sophie felt proud of her mother, rather than being upset with her, and suddenly thought that she was nothing but a loyal person.
And, come to think of it, I as the narrator of this story believe, if she were still alive, she would have made a genuine and dedicated US citizen.

About two weeks earlier, it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day. That morning, as I drove to the sports club to play tennis, I listened to the NPR Radio. The program revolved around the segregation of the blacks and whites in America. It also talked about how Martin Luther King brought change into the lives of the Africana Americans in the US.
The black people had been suffering discrimination until as late as the mid-sixties. For example, as they traveled, they were not allowed to utilize the same public facilities as the whites? Can you imagine anybody among us to travel for hours without being able to go to the bathroom? What’s more, not only, the African Americans could not use the same restrooms as the whites, but they were not allowed to dine at restaurants; neither could they buy gas nor other necessities as they wished.
Thankfully, a man called Victor Green put together a guide book for car travel for African-Americans, which specified places they could buy gas, food, use the bathroom, or sleep overnight. Before the Green guide book was available, the African-Americans, generally packed food to carry with them. They also brought along extra gasoline, and if they were worried about bathroom facilities, they brought along something to use as a portable toilet. Those who traveled for business generally arranged to stay with relatives or friends as they knew finding a motel or a friendly restaurant would not be an easy task. Thus, “The Negro Motorist Green Book” which was published in 1936 by Victor Green – a postman in the New Jersey area – was of great help to the African Americans.
It should be stressed that the maltreatment of the black people was not merely US related. Their misfortune goes to centuries back. Originally, it began in Africa itself, where greedy Europeans began their despicable business of slavery.
This reminds me of the fascinating book, which I recently read called, “Home going” by Yaa Gyasi. It is the sad and painful story of descent African families, who had to be brutally separated from their wives, husbands, and children to be sold by the money grubbing merciless slave merchants. Slavery, which in the west lasted from the 15th to mid-19th century, was one of the most lucrative enterprises in which compassion and humanity had no place. Can you, for a minute, feel the pain and misery the poor African people had to endure as they slaved away in mines and fields? Yes, can you envisage scenes where they were whipped and tortured if they did not do their utmost to satisfy their owners’ wishes? To make things worse, the slaves were not regarded as normal humans: i.e.: equal to the whites. Why? Simply because they were black. This is really disgusting and unacceptable.

Here, I have to recount an event that I experienced during one of my travels to Florida in the mid-eighties.
I went there with my two teen-aged children, to visit a beloved childhood friend of mine.
The second day during our stay there, my friend and I were sitting in her car- with its windows rolled down – waiting for her husband to come back from his grocery shopping.
As we sat there chatting away, a group of African American young girls and boys, began advancing in the direction of our parked car. The moment my friend set her eyes upon those youth, she panicked and urged, “Hurry … hurry … roll up the window on your side. It is very dangerous!”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “I don’t see anything to be afraid of.”
“Can’t you see those black kids walking toward us?”
I told her calmly that if she wanted to roll up the window next to her, she was welcome to do so, but I was not going to follow suit.
She looked at me with bewilderment; probably thinking I had lost my mind.
Funnily enough, as the group passed by our car, they didn’t even bother looking at us.
I stared at my friend, arching an eyebrow, as I said, “Hey; we are still alive, aren’t we?”
I had to laugh inside, thinking simply because of the color of their skin, my friend found them to be a threat! And this was as late as the eighties, where things should have been different.
Here, I would like to talk about another such incident during the time of apartheid in South Africa.
I used to travel with my husband to different corners of the world, when he ventured out on business trips.
Once, when we were visiting South Africa, we were invited to a party in Johannesburg.
As my husband and I stood by a window overlooking a lush garden and enjoyed our vodka tonics, a middle-aged man united with us. He introduced himself, recounted us about his pleasant life. He said he lived in a suburb not too far from Johannesburg, with his wife and their servants. What surprised me during his conversation was that man’s attitude in regards their black servants.
I, found it so strange to hear the fellow say that he was pleasantly surprised to see their black maid learn to set the table as fast as within a day.
I asked him what was so surprising.
He answered, “Well, you might not know, but the black people are not very smart.”
“Excuse me!” I snapped at him. “Who gave you the idea that you are more intelligent than the black people?”
The stranger, suddenly turned cherry red, and barked, “Obviously, you know nothing about these people. Do you?”
My heart began thumping with rage. I wished to take one of my high hill shoes off and bang him hard on the head. Meanwhile, my husband grabbing my arm, saying, “Come on, let’s go and talk a bit with Sue. The poor woman is standing over there all by herself.”
As soon as we began our conversation with Sue, she said, “I could see you having a heated conversation with the chief of the police.”
I became quite apprehensive, learning about the identity of the stupid man. I wondered if he might cause me any trouble at the airport the day of my departure. Luckily, that did not happen.
I will conclude with another story about South Africa.
My husband, had a very capable South African black lawyer at their branch in Johannesburg. At the time of our visit, she had to go on a business trip to another city. One night, we invited her husband for dinner in the restaurant at our hotel.
His name was John, and also happened to be a lawyer and a very interesting person. Thus, we had a great time and conversation during our dinner.
Around eight-thirty, we noticed John constantly checking his watch. At about nine o’clock, he turned real nervous; to the point that he became jittery. My husband, noticing John’s strange mood, asked him, “You seem tired of our companion. Are you willing to leave already?”
He took a deep breath to compose himself and answered, “No, no. Not at all! On the contrary, I am totally enjoying my time with you.”
“No, you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.” My husband stressed.
“I leave at the shantytown, like any black person in Johannesburg, and am supposed to be out of the city by nine.”
He sighed and carried on, “There is a special bus leaving ten minutes to nine, and I should have been on it ten minutes ago. As you can see, it is already nine o’clock.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll put you on a cab,” my husband stressed.
I, who had always been a rebellious person since my teenage days, felt like getting up and slapping every white South African person in the restaurant. Especially that I noticed their hateful glares all during our dinner. I guess simply because, we were having dinner with a black person.
My husband reassured our guest that he would hire a private car from the hotel, and take him to his house in person. And, that was exactly what he did.
When this incident Happened, Mandela had not become the president yet. Come to think of it, he too, like Martin Luther King Jr. was an important figure in bringing change and dignity into black people’s life. The names of these heroes will and cannot ever be erased from the history of mankind. Indeed, they will both live on forever.

In 1976, for the second time within less than two years, Valerie accompanied her husband, Alain, to Tel Aviv on one of his business trips.
Valerie liked Tel Aviv’s vibrant atmosphere with hordes of people walking through its streets harboring modern and old buildings, restaurants, and shops.
The restaurants in that city, were a combination of western and Middle Eastern eateries. They even had a diner called McDavid’s. Every time Valerie passed by McDavid’s, she laughed within, thinking the name must be the Jewish version of McDonald’s.
Something that surprised Valerie during her strolls through the streets of Tel Aviv, was the fact that people mostly yelled at each other. Valerie wondered if they were fighting, or simply that was how they conversed.
One Saturday morning, Valerie and Alain set out to discover different districts in Tel Aviv as well as the near-by surrounding small towns and villages.
After a few hours of driving around and exploring the neighboring hamlets, Alain and Valerie arrived to the ancient city of Jericho; which used to be a marvel before its destruction in the Babylonian conquest of 1400 BC.
As Valerie strolled through the rugged areas of Jericho, exhibiting different interesting monuments, her heart skipped a bit with excitement thinking Jesus must have stepped upon the same ground as she was walking on that day.
Then, after all their sightseeing, Alain and Valerie left the town of Jericho and drove further, hoping to see more interesting sites.
As they advanced, the environs took on a more tired and humbler look than what they had seen before arriving to Jericho. Presently, dilapidated huts and occasional tatty tents here and there tinted the dry landscape. Soon the couple arrived at a location where two armed Israeli soldiers, stood guard. One soldier, approached the car and said in English, “We don’t recommend you to drive further than this line.”
“Why?” Alain asked.
“Well, from this point on you will be entering Palestinian territory, and we won’t be responsible for your safety.”
“Never mind,” Alain answered, as Valerie looked on anxiously.
Having uttered those words, Alain pressed on the pedal fearlessly and drove through the unmanned Palestine border.
For Alain and Valerie, it was very interesting to compare the Israeli landscape with that of the Palestinian setting; which looked really poor and rough. So did the little town in Palestine, which they now had entered. It was derelict all over, with its unkempt huts and stores. To add to the bizarre atmosphere, Alain and Valerie could not see too many people walking through the streets. There were not even any chicken, roosters, stray dogs and cats roaming the narrow walkways.
As they advanced slowly and cautiously, they suddenly heard a boy running behind their car and calling out, “Panchar…panchar!”
You might have guessed what “panchar” in Arabic means. Doesn’t it sound like “puncture?”
Indeed, the car had a flat tire. So, upon hearing the boy calling “Panchar”, they stopped the car and walked out.
As soon as Alain, saw the punctured tire, he slapped his forehead, and said, “Why did it have to happen here?”
The Palestinian boy made them understand that they should wait for him; as he ran to the near-by grocery store.
In no time, he walked out with a middle aged bearded man wearing a beige skull cap. The man approached them and uttered in English, “You don’t have to worry at all.”
Alain and Valerie looked at him with dubious eyes. “Can we really trust a Palestinian?” They asked themselves. Like any westerner, they believed that the Palestinians were all nothing but terrorists, who wanted to blow up any non-Arab person that they came across.
The grocer guided Alain and Valerie toward his store, while giving some instructions to the boy in Arabic, who in turn, ran at the speed of light away from where the couple were standing.
Then, their host walked them into an aromatic grocery store with piles of melons, watermelons, apples, grapes, and oranges. Besides fruits and vegetables, he also carried different other household goods and food.
As the two stood in the store, not knowing what to expect, the grocer pulled out two tall stools and asked them to sit on them. He then disappeared behind a curtain in the back of the store. In no time, the grocer appeared with a tray containing two cups of Turkish coffees and some cookies. The husband and wife each took a cup of coffee and a cookie. Soon, a head geared young woman appeared, said hello to them, and offered them some grapes. The owner, meanwhile, said smilingly, “Don’t worry, everything is going to be all right.”
As they sat there, enjoying their coffees, while chatting with the grocer, another man walked in, shook hands with Alain and said, “Sir, your tire is repaired.”
“Thank you, thank you so much. How much do I owe you?” Alain asked.
“Nothing sir, you are a guest here. All we wish you is to enjoy your visit.”
Alain and Valerie looked at one another with surprise.
They were so touched with Palestinian hospitality. Husband and wife, who had traveled almost all over the world, later admitted that nowhere had they experienced such warmth and kindness.
That day at the grocery store, Valerie smiled and asked herself, “Aren’t these same nice people supposed to be the so called, terrifying terrorists?”

In October, Armand, a young Armenian fellow together with his wife, Aida and their baby girl, Talin, arrived from Tehran to Oberammergau, Germany. Already that early in the fall, the weather was freezing cold. White, shiny snow had blanketed the ground, trees, and rooftops. Aida, who hated cold weather, wondered if it was that cold in October, then how it would be like in the winter months. Oberammergau, tucked high up in the bosom of the Alp mountains in Germany, was and still is a wonderful ski resort. It also used to harbor an important US military base. Armand, who worked for the US Corps of Engineers in Tehran, had been transferred to Oberammergau to help the Iranian officers with their training at the US Army base.

Aida did not like Oberammergau at all. To her the Alpine village, compared to the lively and bustling Tehran, was like a graveyard. She thought that the only thing that brought that village slightly to life was the echo of the chimes of the church bells. She could not wait for her husband’s two-year work term to come to an end so that they could return to her beloved Tehran. What’s more, she badly missed her family members and friends.

Noticing how depressed his wife was, Armand advised her to apply for a translator’s job at the US base; which she did and was immediately hired. Fortunately, they were able to find a friendly and nice Danish young woman to take care of Talin.

Aida really liked her work and the atmosphere at the office. As long as she was at the office, she was contented. However, when they returned to their resident, both, husband and wife felt like they didn’t have a real home. They lived on the top floor of a three-story large building belonging to the US Army called, House Osterbichel. In wintertime, the temperature in their room was almost as cold as it was outdoors. Their bedroom, where they and their baby spent most of their time while they did not work, felt extremely. For some reason, the heat failed to reach the top floor in that immense building, and sometimes, Aida was forced to have her baby run around in the room with her overcoat on.

To cook and have their meals, the couple like the rest of the employees who lived at House Osterbichel, used the communal kitchen and dinning room. Being fed up with their living conditions, Aida could not wait to go back to return to Iran. Despite being an Armenian and a Christian, she preferred the country of her origin, which was Muslim. One should think that Aida should be happy to be living in a Christian land. However, she loved Iran and its friendly people.

Her mood worsened, when their little girl came down with a terrible chest infection and high fever, thanks to their freezing bedroom. Thus, one morning, when she arrived to the office, Aida decided to go and see the commander of the US base to talk about their living conditions. Of course, she did not mention anything about her decision to Armand.

Normally, you are not supposed to go directly to the commander. In the US Army, regulations demand that you talk to your direct supervisor, and let him handle your complaint in an appropriate manner. However, Aida decided not to abide by the regulations. So, that morning, she waited by the commanding officer’s office door.

In no time, the commander arrived. Seeing Aida at his doorstep, he asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, Sir. Colonel,” she answered bravely.

The colonel invited Aida into his office, while narrowing his eyes quizzically. Then, he motioned her to take a seat by his desk.

Aida didn’t waist any time and immediately dived into the subject matter, “Sir,” she said. “When the US Corp of Engineers was transferring my husband to Germany, they promised us a great life here.”

“And?”

“And, we are not having such a great life! In fact, our living conditions are horrible!” she shook her head, and went on, “Today, I came to tell you that we will not stay here under such uncomfortable conditions.”

The colonel seemed extremely annoyed with the manner in which Aida had approached him. She could tell it from the way he creased his brow.

He soon began pacing the length of the office floor, looking angry. Aida thought that he might be thinking to himself how a young woman would dare to insult an important personality like himself in the organization.

Presently, the colonel stopped pacing the room, and retorted, “OK; you can go back to Iran if you want, but I wouldn’t want to lose your husband.”

Aida laughed, “Are you joking, Sir? If I go, he will also go.”

The commander of the US base, upon hearing Aida’s words, smiled and dropped his tall body into his seat and laughed, “You are so right. What was I thinking? Of course he will go. Who would want to separate from such a pretty and charming lady?”

Aida sniggered happily, feeling triumphant. Hooray, she thought… She had done it all by herself. Yes, without the interference of his immediate boss. So, what would you call this if not the ‘women’s power?’

Sure enough! Within less than a week. Armand and Aida were granted a small cozy house, right next to House Osterbichel.

My mother-in-law, Emily, loved to talk about her own deceased mother-in-law, Sonia, who she claimed taught her many valuable and practical lessons in life. One such lesson that she recounted was about a conversation she once had with Sonia. Emily said that one day when she came home from work feeling extremely tired, she sat in the sofa for a few minutes doing nothing. Sonia, who was moving about constantly like a busy bee, looked at Emily disapprovingly and said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just resting,” Emily responded.
“Resting?” she said, shaking her head critically. “Don’t you know that the more you move the healthier you get?’
“Really?” Emily asked.
“Yes, really.” She answered. “Even if you have nothing to do, you should get up. Grab the broom and keep dropping it on the floor and pick it up.”
“I get it,” Emily said, ”It is the same as working out.”
“Yes, indeed!” Sonia uttered smiling, as her eyes shone like two bright projectors.
I must admit that I, too, learned something from my own mother-in-law, Emily.
Once, as we were conversing about good attitude and happiness in life, she told me, “You can teach yourself to be happy.”
I asked, “How? Please teach me.”
She answered, “Simple. I will give you one example. All through my life, even during hardship, I have laughed artificially so much, that laughter has become a reality and a permanent habit.”
“I get it!” I said. “We should never fret.”

A few years back, when my husband was working for a major US firm, he took me along on most of his business trips. We traveled to different countries all over the world.
During such a trip, on a hot summer afternoon, my husband and I, flew from London to Hong Kong. At the airport, having gone through passport control, we headed toward the luggage claim department. To get there, we sauntered through the bright and shiny airport arrival hall, with its elegant designer stores of hand bag, clothing, perfume, and different others. And, as we proceeded, suddenly, from the corner of my right eye, I noticed something black – as big as a mouse – following me behind. Awe-stricken, I turned back. Upon seeing a huge, black and shiny bug, I yelled on top of my voice. My husband, also turned around to find out the reason for my panic.
“Stop it!” he said shaking his head. “It is only a cockroach!”
“What? You are joking!” I protested and looked closer at the so called ‘cockroach.’
Indeed, I had never in my whole life come across such an immense bug. It was truly the size of a mouse. Besides, why was it following me so unwaveringly and not others, I wondered?
While all this was happening, two young and pretty Chinese sales girls, covering their mouths with their hands, began laughing at me heartily. I looked at them with disgust. How could they laugh at a scared woman?
Funnily, the moment, the girls began laughing; the huge cockroach turned around and rushed towards them. I was so happy to be left alone.
In no time, the girls’ laughter turned into screams of desperation. Now, it was my turn to laugh at the situation.
Up to this day, I wonder if the unusually large cockroach was somebody’s trained, lost pet.

A few years back, when my husband was working for a major US firm, he took me along on most of his business trips. We traveled to different countries all over the world.
During such a trip, on a hot summer afternoon, my husband and I, flew from London to Hong Kong. At the airport, having gone through passport control, we headed toward the luggage claim department. To get there, we sauntered through the bright and shiny airport arrival hall, with its elegant designer stores of hand bag, clothing, perfume, and different others. And, as we proceeded, suddenly, from the corner of my right eye, I noticed something black – as big as a mouse – following me behind. Awe-stricken, I turned back. Upon seeing a huge, black and shiny bug, I yelled on top of my voice. My husband, also turned around to find out the reason for my panic.
“Stop it!” he said shaking his head. “It is only a cockroach!”
“What? You are joking!” I protested and looked closer at the so called ‘cockroach.’
Indeed, I had never in my whole life come across such an immense bug. It was truly the size of a mouse. Besides, why was it following me so unwaveringly and not others, I wondered?
While all this was happening, two young and pretty Chinese sales girls, covering their mouths with their hands, and began laughing at me heartily. I looked at them with disgust. How could they laugh at a scared woman?
Funnily, the moment, the girls began laughing at me; the huge cockroach turned around and rushed towards them. I was so happy to be left alone.
In no time, the girls’ laughter turned into screams of desperation. Now, it was my turn to laugh at the situation.
Up to this day, I wonder if the unusually large cockroach was somebody’s trained, lost pet.

A few years back, during a book signing event at East Hampton Library, something interesting happened. As I sat quietly behind my table, piled by my different books, two friendly writers, whose tables were next to mine, like myself, waited for the book byers to show up. The book event, was organized by Alec Baldwin – who himself was a few table away, with his own book. There were most probably over twenty writers present that summer day at the library’s large garden. We had all donated twenty copies of each of our different books to benefit the library.
While I quietly waited, a TV cameraman and a reporter holding a mike, approached my two neighboring writer ladies and began taping and questioning them. I soon realized that they were married to two well-known movie stars. Naturally, I felt like nobody, sitting meekly in my corner. Why aren’t the reporter and the cameraman paying any attention to me too, I thought to myself? I am also a writer. What can I do… that’s life, I pondered. Then, as soon as the TV crew left, the woman sitting by my right side, asked, “Did you write all these books yourself?”
“Excuse me!” I said looking baffled. “What do you mean?”
She gave me a lopsided smile. “What is so difficult to understand? I simply asked you if you genuinely wrote your books.”
“Naturally…!” I said. “Didn’t you write yours?”
She, now, gave me a friendlier smile and answered, “Of course not. I got myself a ghost writer.”
“How about the other well-known lady sitting next to you?”
The so called author shook her head, which of course meant ‘no’.
Can you imagine? All these celebrities who come out with a memoir, use other authors to write for them. I suppose the ghost writers are authors like me, who have given up on building a name. So, how else can they use their talent but to sell them?
Host

Two days earlier, my daughter and her eleven-year-old son were strolling leisurely on 5th Ave. The crowd on the two sidewalks was dense, as usual, and the atmosphere, bubbly and vibrant. As mother and son moved along, enjoying themselves, a young African American boy, around nineteen-years of age attracted their attention. He was leaning against a wall and sobbing pitiably, as he shifting on his badly hurt leg. The pant leg on his hurt side was torn, and his dirty white T-shirt was soaking with sweat in the midmorning heat. As the boy cried with pain, and tears cascaded down his cheeks, he stretched a begging hand to the passers-by. Unfortunately, the crowd moved on uncaringly. My grandson – whom I’ll call, Leon in the story – stopped in his place. He turned to his mother and said, “Mom, we have to help this poor boy. You can see how badly he is hurt.”
So, they approached the person and asked how they could help him. He answered, “I am very thirsty and hungry.”
Mother and son ran to the nearby grocery store and got some soda and chips, and handed them to him. The boy thanked them and said, “I have been begging all these people for hour to have pity on me, but they all simply walk on without caring.”
Leon sighed deeply and asked, “What happened to your leg?’
The boy explained that he fell getting off the train, on his way to the shelter. Leon demanded if he could get back to the shelter. The boy answered that he could if he had some money to take the train.
“Mom,” my grandson looked at my daughter. “We have to give him a bit of money.” My daughter immediately pulled out a twenty-dollar bill from her handbag, and offered to the boy, who took it thanking my daughter for her kindness. Leon, whose eyes were beginning to shimmer with tears, looked at his mother with melancholy, and asked her in a low voice to give more to the poor boy. My daughter who had another fifty dollar on her, took the money out and gave it to the young boy saying, “Promise me you won’t spend it on drugs.”
“I give you my honest word, mam. No, no, I won’t.” Then, turning to Leon, he added, “Listen, young man… Don’t do what I did in life. I dropped out of school, and thought I could become an actor. But, nobody gave me a chance to become one.” He shook his head and carried on, “You know, you need money for these things. So, I ended up becoming a homeless person.”
My grandson responded with a shaky voice, “It is not too late. You can still persevere with your dream. Promise me you will not give up.”
The homeless boy, thought for a while. Then he smiled at Leon, took a deep breath and said, “You are right. I have to be a fighter. Who knows, one day, you might see me on TV!”
Leon smiled and answered, “I’m sure you’ll succeed. Just don’t give up”
As they left the homeless limping boy, Leon began sobbing loudly. His mother hugged him and told him that she is proud of having such a caring child. Leon said, “You know what? Shame on people like us. We have everything, and yet, we still are not happy with what we have. We want more and more… Yes, nothing is good enough for us.”
Let’s hope for miracles. Let’s hope that the poor boy will truly succeed.

Yesterday, on BBC News I heard about the dire fate of a Christian woman in Pakistan. Apparently, she had an argument with a group of Pakistani Muslim women, who reported her to the police. They claimed that the Christian woman insulted their prophet Mohamed’s name. Whether this is true or not, it is not clear. However, the poor woman is in jail, awaiting execution.
This story reminds me of an event that happened to my deceased brother, when he was fourteen. My father had just passed away. I was nine, and we were living in a strict Islamic city in Iran called, Arak. In Arak, we, Armenians, being Christian, were considered spiritually unclean – “najis”. They called us, “sag Armani”, meaning, “dog Armenians” as for Muslims dogs were “najis”.
One day, Mother sent my fourteen-year-old brother to the bazaar to do some shopping. An Araki, boy, in baggy pants, and a wrinkled up dirty shirt, upon setting his eyes on my brother, began shouting, “Hey you, sag Armani.”
My brother stared at the tramp, lifting an eyebrow, and told him to shut up. The boy began shouting in rage, “Hey, Muslims, this Armenian boy is insulting our religion.”
(Now, regarding the Pakistani Christian woman, I wonder if those women who reported her to the police, might have made up the story.)
When the boys accused my brother of insulting Islam, within no time, a furious group of young and middle-aged bazaaris stormed forward and encircled him. From their shouts and angry looks, it was obvious that they were about to punish him. Normally, this would mean beating and kicking the guilty person to death.
Fortunately, before they had a chance to teach the teen- aged Armenian a lesson, a young, dark bearded man from among the crowd recognized him. He shouted loudly above the din of the furious mob.
“Leave him alone. He is Taddevos Petrossian’s son. “Don’t harm him. These people are good Iranians.”
Upon hearing my father’s name, the pack immediately turned around and dispersed.
Arakis working at the bazaar – or the bazaaris – all knew my father and respected him a lot. Imagine what might have happened if that nice man who recognized the innocent boy, had not been present among the crowd.
STORIES OF LIFE – Reminiscing Past Life in Iran