Part I Floating MindIt is the last day of summer, somewhere in the dusty outskirts of Tehran, around the year 2000. A group of children plays soccer in the narrow alleys, their laughter bouncing off the worn walls. Scenes like these, you might have seen in movies—children at ease, at play, untethered for the last time before tomorrow brings the weight of school. Tomorrow: a word that rings strange in my head even now, as I write. The first day of school looms, and I remember that particular day. Boys boast of their new stationery, pencils and erasers, and pens bought by loving parents. Ali, my friend, shows off his erasable pen—what a marvel! The sun sets, and I rush home, my mind only on one thing:"Mother, why didn’t you buy me new clothes or bags?” I ask, breathless with the urgency of a child.“You don’t need one,” she replies calmly, turning away.“But I do! Tomorrow is the first day of school, and everyone has new clothes,” I insist, the words tumbling out in anger and need.“You are
