by Siavash Saadlou
My cousin Meysam says that my father wasn’t exactly made for war.
“He would get misty-eyed,” he says, “as soon as you read him a poem.”
My eyes glaze over a photo of Mahmoud with regret as I hear
These words—in the photo he is standing on a rooftop in his
Uniform, patchy beard covering his smiling, 21-year-old face.
The photo was taken in Bukan, a small town in West Azerbaijan
Province in Iran with a predominantly Kurdish population.
During the war, my father was occasionally asked to write letters
On behalf of fellow soldiers to their families for his polished Persian
And his decent handwriting. I imagine his hands holding the pen
Carefully choosing words that would transcend the years.
I’ve been thinking lately about the word “oppression,” coming
From medieval Latin opprimere, meaning “to press down”
or “press against.”
On my twenty-fifth birthday, having already surpassed my
Father’s years on Earth, I hold what is said to be his last telegram
In my hands, dated July 30th, 1988—92 days after I was born, 57 days
Before he would have turned 25—numbers that mean absolutely
Nothing except that one of us is dead and the other is alive.
A row of words on some timeworn paper, the address
Of the recipient appears on top, with this message under it:
My dear wife, hi, I am fine. And then, his full name.
I’m guessing these are his own words and not from some
Ready-made template because “my dear wife” has come before
Everything else. “He was quite romantic, you know,” says Meysam.
“Whenever he visited us upstairs at the house and Grandma
Gave him an apple or a peach—oh, he loved a good peach—
He would say, I’m taking one downstairs for Rezvan.”
He must have had the urge to live together with his loved ones.
This is the kind of urge you can’t press down or press against,
Just like seven-year-old Helen Ahmadi who was fatally shot on
Her way home from school in Bukan on October 12, 2022.
Apparently, she was chanting slogans like everyone else
On the street that day. She must have been shouting
Woman, Life, Liberty before being brushed aside by a blasting bullet.
The picture on her obituary is of a girl wearing a golden
Blouse, her bangs tidy, hear ears adorned with sparkling earrings.
So, when I think of the word “oppression,” I think among
Other things, of lives and words in no particular order.
I think of all the many words and all the many lives that
Those in power deny us, that war and tyranny deny us—
Lives cut short, lips lopped off, words stuffed back in our
Mouths, words that we could have said or written, words
To ourselves and words to one another. I think of the bullet
That tore into Helen’s body, the shrapnel shells that forced
Their way into Mahmoud’s flesh, the chanting
voices echoing in my head—all the many words
Giving life to a new poem.
Post-Covidia 18
by Michael Thompson
Siavash Saadlou is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer whose poetry has been anthologized in Odes to Our Undoing (Risk Press) and Essential Voices: Poetry of Iran and Its Diaspora (Green Linden Press). He is the winner of the 55th Cole Swensen Prize for Translation.
Michael Thompson is a Chicago-based artist who works in a variety of mediums including collage, fake postage stamps, assemblage, sculpture, kite-making and memory jugs. His work can be viewed at http://www.michaelthompsonart.com.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 