We move again, and I leave my friends, Farnaz and Neda, behind for good. The war is tearing apart the city; each morning, the light illuminates the destruction of the previous night’s air-raid on things tangible at first, and then on things I can not see, like the ragged tethers connecting me to my friends, to my past. I try to call my friends, but very often, the phones and electricity are out. WhenIraq lets their bombs rain on us a few more times, I am afraid to call my friends. Or maybe I am just afraid that I will not hear my friends’ voices again; so I decide to keep them alive in my mind. Just last week, when a six year old was having a birthday-slumber party, Iraqi bombs tore the evening silence and killed all the kids in their sleep. I wonder about the last thing they heard before they died. I imagine their smiles and the spaces between their newly sprouting teeth. For sure I am not calling my friends now. I tell myself they are fine. They are alive. Just like me.

           When we visit my grandmother at her house this time, I notice something different about her street. The plastic soccer-balls are motionless and the aroma of turmeric and fried onions has given way to the frigid draft of grief, of sobriety. The walls of the little alleyways in her street are filled with pictures of dead soldiers. Inside courtyards and above the mantles of many houses, there are pictures of young men who perished in the war; many of whom were too young to grow facial hair. Some of the picture frames are embellished with black ribbons, some with fresh wreaths of carnations. Some images are just hanging on the empty wall, somber. Silent.

           When my grandmother tells us about the death of her best friend’s son, I don’t know what to do. I think I know what death is, but I try to avoid that friend when my grandmother and I walk to the fruit stand. I keep my head down. On the way to the fruit stand at the end of the street, I dwell on whether or not we will run into the mother of the dead boy. Should we run into her, I will not be able to make eye contact because I feel embarrassed to be alive. I will not know what to say, and I am afraid to make a fool of myself. I am worried that if I see the mother of the “martyr”, I might somehow stir her despair and send her sorrow back to the surface of the moment.

           My grandfather has wasted his talent on a brand new uniform for my new school in Ershad. Brown pants and a matching coat with delicate pleats on the sleeves. I make a new friend at Hadaf, my new school. In the morning we hail our new leader, Imam Khomeini. Then, the woman behind the microphone talks about Islam and how we could all become exemplary Muslims if we do well in our Arabic classes and read the Koran. All I can see of her are her two green eyes, peering through the narrow opening of her black veil. When I am older, I wonder if her world view suffers from the same confinement.

           In the summer months, my maternal grandmother comes to stay with us for long visits. Since I am nine, I have outgrown playing patient and doctor with my grandmother. So on this visit, she teaches me how to pronounce the Arabic words in namaz (Muslim prayer) correctly and asks me if I have been praying on a regular basis. She reminds me that according to Islamic law, displaying body parts or hair to a namahram man (stranger), or premarital sex guarantee one’s spot in a place, which I clearly need to avoid. She reminds me that it is not too late to redeem myself by embracing god and Islam and by becoming a devout Muslim like her. I love Mamani immensely, and I know that in her own way, she is offering me the quickest path to her brand of salvation because she practices as such, so she must truly believe that our piety will be rewarded. Grandparents are highly respected and revered in Iran, so I never dare to argue with Mamani. I just go through the motions during namaz, blindly worshiping in a foreign language, genuflecting and kowtowing to a god I am not sure exists.