Jasmine Haqi

As I opened my suitcase, the scent of saffron filled the room, and my heart was between excitement and fear. I knew that life would never be the same again. A new life was in front of me, in a new country with a different language and culture. My journey started when I hugged my family in the airport and said goodbye to my hometown, Tehran, a city that my soul wants to fly to when I hear its name. I unlocked my phone, opened the map, searched for Tehran, and tried to walk in the city through the Google Map.

Tehran is a lively city with friendly and warm-hearted people, people who have a rich history, but because of many economic problems and sad news, the world does not see the true picture of Tehran and its people. Even with these struggles, people stay kind, stylish, happy, and always welcome you with a warm smile. I miss every step of Tehran, from the river in the west to the mountains in the east, from old neighborhoods in the south to the tall modern towers in the north.

I started my imaginary walking from the center. I am counting down the moments until I can visit the Tehran Grand Bazaar one more time. One of the busiest and oldest places in the city, with a history of over 200 years, the Bazaar is full of alleys, each filled with small stores. And every small store has a long story to tell. You can hear the beautiful sound of songs the shopkeepers sing to sell their products with the rhythm of people’s footsteps on the old stone floors. The air is filled with the aroma of dancing spices, nuts, rose water, saffron, and coffee beans. Tehran is a place where past and present come together. My city also has modern shopping malls and tall towers over the traditional markets with a completely different shopping experience.

I continued scrolling, oh, sorry, walking to the west. As I saw the name of Kan street, a conversation played in my head: “Hi, ma’am, do you want to come to our restaurant? We have beds to sit by the river.”

I replied in my mind, “Do you have fresh bread to eat with your kebabs?”

It was sad and funny at the same time. I had never imagined that one day when I would miss this simple conversation. I walked until I reached the south of Tehran, where the houses were old and full of stories. Kids played soccer in the narrow streets, laughing. Neighbors sat outside, drinking tea and talking, watching the children like they were their own. As I walked by, I heard a small cry. A little girl sat on the ground, holding her knee, her eyes full of tears. A boy about ten years old sat next to her and looking worried: “Are you okay, Sara?” he asked.  She nodded but still looked hurt.

A woman with dark eyes walked over. “Don’t cry, my dear,” she said softly. “Let me see.” She took a small cloth from her bag and wiped the girl’s knee.

The boy looked at her and said, “She needs a bandage! I’ll go get one!” Before the girl could stop him, he ran.

The girl watched him, wiped her tears, and smiled. “He always helps me,” she said. Even in a city with many struggles, love and care are still everywhere.

My next destination was the north of Tehran, where high-class shopping malls and fancy restaurants stand. The air here smelled more like Coco Chanel or Sauvage Dior.

I remembered my date with my husband. We sat on the top floor of the Address Food Hall Tower restaurant, and he pointed to an airplane, telling me, “One day, we will be on a flight, and we will fly over all of this beauty.” It felt like a dream coming true.

I wish I could get back home with one of Tehran’s taxis. They come in many shapes and colors, but most are yellow or green, with a small sign on top to show they’re available. There are two main types: shared taxis and private ones. Shared taxis called “savaris,” are more affordable. These taxis pick up several passengers going in the same direction. I spotted a yellow savari at the corner, and quickly walked up to it. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror and said, “Where to, miss?”

“To the freedom tower, please,” I replied.

He nodded and started the engine. “It’ll be a while before the car fills up,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. “But don’t worry, we’ll get there.” As we waited for the other passengers, I couldn’t help but feel comforted by the familiar sound of the engine and the sound of the city life around me. The driver smiled at me, “Tehran always feels different when you’re in a taxi, doesn’t it?”

Then, a knock on the door pulled me back to reality. I returned to the room, still filled with the scent of saffron, tears kissing my face.  My husband entered and said, “I know how hard this journey is for you, but I promise, this will be your home one day, too.”

As always, his promise came true. Now, I feel like this is my second home. I still miss my hometown, but I am enjoying living here, too. During difficult days, I remembered a story by Attar of Nishapur, a king who gathered a group of wise men to create a ring that would help him during sad times. They came up with a phrase, “This too shall pass,” which was engraved on a ring. And yes, my difficult days passed.

I attended an English class to improve my skills, restarted my education here, and made new friends from different cultures from whom I learned much. Instead of experiencing the aroma of the various spices in Tehran’s bazaar, now I enjoy the rhythms of all accents. I have become an Instagram blogger who goes out, discovers new places, and shares them with others. Whenever I miss the mountains of Tehran, I plan a road trip along the Kancamagus Highway to visit them. There is an Iranian associate in Boston, and we have a game night every Sunday. We play games, dance, laugh, and for hours we forget our homesickness. On Saturdays, I visit the Boston Haymarket, which has a little of the same atmosphere as Tehran’s Bazaar. Then I walk along the Charles River, and later, I go to Vanak Persian restaurant for fresh bread and kebabs. In these moments, I remember a saying: “Home isn’t a place. It’s a feeling.”

I know a poem by a Iranian poet, Shafi’i Kadkani, that says:

I wish a person could carry his homeland,
Like violets,
       (In boxes of soil),
One day, to wherever he wants,
In light rain,
Under pure sun.

And I did that. I have learned that home isn’t just a place; it is where we feel connected and at peace. While Tehran will always be special to me, Boston has become a place where I will build new memories. I love both cities. I have realized that home is not about where you are but how you feel about the people and the moments around you.