Part I Floating Mind

It 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 not going to school tomorrow,” she says flatly, “And neither this year.”

I studied in makeshift Afghan schools, those hidden places—self-governed, illegal, cramped into basements with the musty smell of the damped walls. I made it to high school eventually, to a real Iranian school, and even managed to enroll in university to study English language and literature. But there’s always something amiss, a knot that never loosens. That morning, I awoke hoping, just hoping, that my mother would change her mind. She didn’t. I blamed her for years. But it was never her fault; it was never that simple. Afghan refugees were banned from schools in those years.

First day of high school—a real school, neat and proud, with a large soccer field and flowers carefully arranged in the yard. Four stories of pale stone and sunlight. We gather, shuffling awkwardly, and the principal steps up to speak:

“We are happy to start a new educational year with you. You are now in high school, and it is time to take it seriously. Study hard if you want to be someone important.” His voice echoes in the hot morning air. “This year, we have Afghan students joining us. Whether you like it or not, they are here, and you must respect them.” A strange laugh ripples through the students; glances exchanged. “Make it worth the trouble we’ve gone through to have you here. Show that You, Afghans can be educated, not just poor, illiterate workers.”

My friend beside me, an Afghan boy, frowns at the principal, his face burning. I turn to him, my voice low:
“We are not Afghans. We were born here. He’s not talking about us.” He looks at me, and it’s a look I’ll never forget.

Sometimes I think I love learning, that it’s my refuge. I dive into YouTube videos when I feel lost, trying to fill some void I don’t quite understand. But I wonder—do I truly enjoy it, or is it just a trick of the mind, a way to fight off those words that have always haunted me: “Poor. Illiterate.”

It’s seven in the morning, and I’m sitting in a specialty café in Mashhad, the fruity taste of coffee on my tongue, a flaky croissant on my plate. I think of Kabul. Where would I find coffee like this there? I buy a bag of coffee beans, 250 grams, and then head to the refugee camp in Mashhad. I am turning myself in as an illegal migrant. Or rather, they decide that for me—I, who have always felt not just illegal migrant, but illegally-born. After a few days in detention, we are loaded onto a bus bound for Afghanistan. I am assigned as the bus leader, responsible for keeping order on bathroom breaks during the 18-hour drive. A trivial authority, but with a reward: the first seat on the bus. From here, I have a view of the desert—a familiar sight, the gazing beauty of southwestern Iran.
At one stop, the chauffeur turns to me, curious:

“Are you Afghani too?”
I answer in a crisp Tehrani accent: “Why would I be here if I wasn’t?”
“You speak Persian well, like a Tehrani boy. You don’t seem like the others.”
“I’ve lived here 29 years. I was born here.”
He stares at me, skeptical, and asks, “Then why are you on this bus? Did you tell them you were born here?”
I shrug, weary of this endless question. “That’s life. You never know.”

Deportation was not my choice, but it gave me a chance to see Afghanistan, a place that was supposed to be mine. I was called "Irani-Gak" there—“little Iranian.” A term both bitter and true, a name for someone who doesn’t fit, who can’t quite speak the local language. Words are invented for things we don’t understand: a tree, a country, a pen and me:
 

Irani-Gak — NOUN — Informal
ɪˈrɑni-Gəˈk
A person who speaks Persian like an Iranian, likely born in Iran. Used to belittle an Afghan person who is neither here nor there.

Part II Sedimented Mind

Dear you,
Today, I am 30 years old, back in Tehran. I am living illegally, again, off the records, again. Sometimes I think of myself as Sisyphus, forever pushing the boulder of my nowhere identity up a steep, unyielding hill. Questioning everything I know, everyone I know, doubting life itself.
We, humans, call this existence “life,” and yet, I doubt even this.
To deny humans the right to simply be, based on technicalities of law, is the most grotesque of absurdities. It can turn a seven-year-old against his mother for not sending him to school. It can crush a young man’s dreams for not having the right papers. It can make a 30-year-old doubt even the worth of his own words. And it can leave an old man, on the brink of death, uncertain of his right to his own grave.

Statelessness exists, and it grows itself, And
I exist as well,
Pity us, for divided we are.

*Elias is a pseudonym to insure anonymity,.