Difference

A drop leaves its native earth —

and again returns to the oyster

that awaits its pearl...

  Jalaluddin Rumi

Another day in Tehran had begun—bustling and very demanding. From the street, the hoarse voice of a loudspeaker could be heard—a car was driving around the block, offering to buy all sorts of junk for a good price: samovars, dishes, furniture. His offer echoed through all the houses every morning.

"It's eight o'clock already," my husband reminded me. That meant the taxi was waiting. I quickly gulped down a cup of coffee with cardamom, put on my headscarf, applied lipstick, and left the house.

We were driving past my university. "Voysa!" I shouted to the taxi driver, quickly running through the new words I had studied before leaving the house. The driver immediately slowed down, breaking the rules. It worked. I handed over the money, holding my headscarf so it wouldn't fly off, and hurried to the Loghatnameh Dehkhoda Institute. People come here from all over the world to learn Persian. I had finally decided to take a serious approach to studying the world’s oldest language and learn not only to speak, but also to read and write.

There was a line in the student cafeteria. The friendly and attentive seller personally served every foreigner.

"Kah-ve!" the friendly barista smiled, correcting my incorrect pronunciation.

I got my morning dose of caffeine and went up to the classroom on the second floor. My group included a couple of Turks, two flight attendants from Australia, a very reserved Japanese woman, and a Tatar woman from Uzbekistan. There was also a sweet and friendly girl from Syria, a guy from Hungary, a Romanian, an Englishman, a German woman, a slightly plump American woman, and a Chinese man who found Persian the most challenging. Our first teacher was a young and beautiful Iranian woman.

Of all the students, I was most interested in the American woman—a somewhat heavy-set woman with reddish streaks in her hair. Why did she come here? So many people in Iran dream of living in her country.

I collected my thoughts and returned my focus to Persian. The teacher was writing new words on the board. After the incident at a family gathering where I asked for "socks" instead of juice, I promised myself to be more focused and persistent in learning the language.

After the lectures, my husband picked me up on his motorbike. He often acts like a father—watching out for my safety, asking about my progress. If my behaviour is good, he rewards me. After putting on protective knee pads and a helmet, we sped off to explore Tehran. This was the most valuable gift for me—seeing new places accompanied by my beloved guide. He would later admit that he hadn't visited a single museum before meeting me—he had always found it boring.

At first, Tehran seemed endlessly long, ugly, and overcrowded to me. The gender separation was clearly palpable here. In this ancient city, there are even entire quarters where exclusively men work on the streets. The most common testosterone clusters are the working-class district near the Grand Bazaar and the southern part of the city.

We walked along Valiasr Street, the longest in the Middle East, and peeked into former five-star hotels. Back in the 70s, they were affluent and luxurious. The interior of many recalled the bright shades of a Bohemian Life. And then, by chance, we stumbled upon an old bookshop.

It was located in a basement. Descending the stairs, we saw long shelves piled high with books. Judging by the worn covers, many of the editions were very old. One could find interesting literature here in English, French, and Persian.

A man was sitting at a table in the middle of the room. Gray hair was visibly threading through his thick black hair. He was absorbed in reading a book and drinking black tea. I asked my husband to cautiously inquire if he happened to have any books in Russian. I didn't even hope to find anything in Ukrainian. Suddenly, the seller brightened up and happily replied that he had one book and was reading it right now. Its first page was entirely covered in handwriting. This was how the Dreamer from Tehran was learning new words, writing the translation directly above the unfamiliar phrases. It turned out he dreamed of living in St. Petersburg. He was currently selling all his books to move to his dream city.

Choosing a book in English about the history of nations, I decided to buy it. But the seller of the old library was so delighted to see a foreigner in his store that he simply gifted me the edition. The book became a favourite.

Returning home, I immediately started flipping through the textbook's pages. It turned out to be the property of an American student library. A glued-in slip listed the reader's name—Humayun Amrouzgar, the years of use 1979-1980, and a signature. This Iranian likely immigrated immediately after the revolution. The first photograph depicted an Oriental nomadic conqueror. A sword had been drawn onto him with a pen.

This American history textbook still moves with me from one home to another—it has even managed to change two countries. Often, looking at the book, I wonder about the dream of the old bookshop seller—did he manage to realize it? The textbook became a reminder of my own unfulfilled desires.

The first Persian exam was just around the corner.

The lesson began. The teacher, as always, asked how we were and what was new, and even smiled while adjusting my hair. Today we were discussing technological progress and how it simplifies modern life. And then, during the discussion, the lecturer asked me:

"What is the difference between Russians and Ukrainians?" And I finally fully woke up. Of course, I replied that the culture and language are different. But then I thought… We are all here from different countries, raised in authentic cultural environments, we came to Iran, and we are trying to learn and understand another world. Everyone had their own reason for being here. At that moment, no difference was felt between the students. Everyone was filled with an endless desire to know the East and befriend it. There were no walls, which politics skilfully continues to build between people. After all, if each of us begins to respect other cultures, religions, and languages, to be interested in one another, and to travel widely—how will politicians be able to incite wars? How will they build their new borders? Right now, they succeed precisely because of these differences between us.

The American woman brought cookies to class today and started treating everyone during the break. Many thanked her and, delighted by the sweets, rushed to the polite waiter in the student café for coffee. I stayed in the class and didn't quite understand what the occasion was. I decided to listen closely and, if the opportunity arose, find out what we were celebrating. Someone in the class couldn't resist and asked the question. And then I heard a story that shattered yet another persistent stereotype. Unfortunately, the ending was tragic.

Her son had dreamed of living in Iran. After visiting the country for the first time, he fell so deeply in love that he even found a wife here. The young man was planning to move to Tehran and start a family. But the sudden death of the young man, a simple brain haemorrhage, ruined all the lovers' plans.

The boy's mother spoke about her grief, trying to hold back tears. After the terrible shock and subsequent inner emptiness, she came to Iran and decided to complete the beginner's Persian course in his place, the one he had already signed up for. She wanted to see the part of the Earth that had captured her son's heart, setting herself the mission—to sit in the very place he had once wanted to be. I saw this incredibly strong mother for the last time that day. She didn't come to the exam.

Our lives are utter chaos that defies any logic. And what politicians try to impose on us through news with sensational headlines is not always the truth. An American wanted to marry an Iranian, and many Ukrainian women married Russians and vice versa. My husband is Iranian. Love has no passport or borders. Love destroys them with its magic.