New York

Gov. Kathy Hochul land MTA chair and CEO Janno Lieber, pictured in this file photo, said subway service was back to normal after Friday's floods. Gov. Kathy Hochul and MTA CEO Janno Lieber praised the response of MTA workers in getting the system back up and running. [ more › ]

Jacobi Medical Center is one of the locations where WIC programs will be discontinued. The closures risk cutting vulnerable New Yorkers off from key benefits, including food assistance, health screenings, and nutrition counseling. [ more › ]

Because Merriam-Webster just added the word "rizz" to the dictionary, here are your early links: no facial recognition in NY schools, EBay is sued, Amy Sedaris slings hash, and more from around the city and internet. [ more › ]

A map of Sri Lanka hangs behind the cash register at Sagara Food City in Staten Island. Chef Farideh Sadeghin sampled hoppers, chicken lamprais, kothu roti, and more in Staten Island’s “Little Sri Lanka” neighborhood. [ more › ]

Friday was one of the rainiest September days in New York City ever recorded. Friday was a mess. [ more › ]

NJ Transit will take over several privately -operated bus routes that were set to be discontinued next month, the agency announced Friday. The agency is setting up six new routes and extending an existing one to incorporate stops currently serviced by private bus companies. [ more › ]

Gothamist A non-profit newsroom , powered by . WNYC Gothamist Listen Live Donate     News Death of 1-year-old boy at Bronx day care ruled a homicide' By Bahar Ostadan Published Sep 29, 2023 Share Facebook Twitter Reddit Email Never miss a story   Email address By submitting your information , you're agreeing to receive communications from New York Public Radio in accordance with our Terms   Spencer Platt Getty Images By Bahar Ostadan Published Sep 29, 2023 Share Facebook Twitter Reddit Email We rely on your support to make local news available to all Make your contribution now and help Gothamist thrive in 2023. Donate today Gothamist is funded by sponsors and member donations The death of the 1-year-old boy who was poisoned with fentanyl at a Bronx day care earlier this month was ruled

ArtBridge, in partnership with The Durst Organization, has revealed a 600-foot-long public mural and augmented reality experience along the edge of two rising developments at 20 and 30 Halletts Point in Astoria, Queens.

The affordable housing lottery has launched for Tower 77, a nine-story mixed-use building at 85 Commercial Street in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Designed by CetraRuddy Architecture and developed by Clipper Equity, the structure yields 240 residences. Available on NYC Housing Connect are 230 units for residents at 40 to 125 percent of the area median income (AMI), ranging in eligible income from $32,023 to $218,875.

Permits have been filed for a four-story residential building at 954 Rogers Place in Longwood, The Bronx. Located between East 165th Street and Westchester Avenue, the lot is a two-minute walk from the Intervale Avenue subway station, serviced by the 2 and 5 trains. Gjek Popaj is listed as the owner behind the applications, who also filed permits for a similar structure at 950 Rogers Place.

Flooded roadways in NYC Some roads were impassable by rush hour on Friday, and trains were running on limited service only. [ more › ]

Flooding on Church Avenue in Brooklyn. City and state officials emphasized that restarting subway service was critical to getting students back home. [ more › ]</p

Rain flooded streets in downtown Jersey City. Gov. Phil Murphy encouraged residents to stay off the roads. [ more › ]

Because a muskrat got into a NYC bodega, here are your early links: a stuck tractor-trailer, a school librarian shortage, a giant stingray, and more from around the city and internet. [ more › ]

Because New York City is under water, here are your afternoon links: rat hunters, Rat Daddy, the pawpaw king of NYC, and more from around the city and internet. [ more › ]

The remnants of Tropical Storm Ophelia is leaving commuters with few options as roads floods and some subway services are cancelled. Critics are decrying the city’s level of preparedness in the face of forecasted downpours. [ more › ]

People walk through Brooklyn during heavy rain and high winds as the remnants of Tropical Storm Ophelia continue to move through the area on Sept. 25, 2023 in New York City. A flood watch was issued through 6 a.m. Saturday, but MTA leaders say there are plans in place to keep the city moving. [ more › ]

Rosary beads hung outside a Bronx day care where one child died and 3 others were hospitalized after fentanyl exposure Felix Herrera Garcia was extradited to California after two weeks on the run. [ more › ]

Because this cat's antics won award, here are your afternoon links: Heinz's new Swiftie sauce name, the best Zoom background for you, AI real estate brokers, and more from around the city and internet. [ more › ]

The only activity that’s more quintessentially New York than eating pizza is hunting down the best pies. We've got the crunchiest, cheesiest, freshest options from all over the state, from beloved slices from Brooklyn to cup-and-char pepperoni in Buffalo.

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Pets in a costume participate in The Tompkins Square Halloween Dog Festival on Oct. 22, 2022 in New York City. “PARADE HAS BEEN CANCELLED FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE,” the parade’s website reads. [ more › ]

Mayor Eric Adams and Police Commissioner Edward Caban announce the arrest of suspects and discovery of several ghost guns and 3-D printer at a home day care in East Harlem. Mayor Eric Adams says city officials will re-examine what measures they need to take to keep children safe at in-home day cares. [ more › ]

The City Council will vote on a series of bills Thursday. The Council will also likely pass bills requiring city employees identify themselves and broaden the pool of EMS promotions. [ more › ]

State records show the likes of Lyft, Uber, UPS and even Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center spent tens of thousands of dollars since the summer on lobbying, making their cases how much drivers should pay — and who should get a break. [ more › ]

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The site of the wall collapse at 714 39th Street The site's foreman was also convicted of criminal mischief and is awaiting sentencing. [ more › ]

City Hall issued conflicting numbers of the number of migrants eligible for work permits. Administration officials were grilled on Wednesday over multiple revised counts on the number of Venezuelans in the shelter system who qualify for work permits. [ more › ]

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The apple is the official fruit of New York State, and there are more than 40 different varieties and approximately 600 producers in the Empire State. As fall foliage season gets underway, plan a scenic drive to your nearest orchard to wander through apple-scented countrysides, pick your own bagful, and enjoy warm cider doughnuts, pressed apple cider, and freshly baked pies! 

Credit: @lakehousecdga on Instagram Feel the demands of daily life melt away as you indulge in a world of tranquility and rejuvenation on a wellness retreat steeped in luxury in New York State.

Above Borough Park Rail Line, Brooklyn Yards Seeks Rezoning nbsp;Brownstoner

October 7-9 marks Path Through History Weekend in New York State, a chance to celebrate the rich and vibrant past, from the lush Adirondacks to the sandy shores of Long Island. Below, we’ve selected a

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(54/54) “I wish I could see it again. Just one more time. I wouldn’t need long. I’d spend a day in Tehran. I’d visit Persepolis, to see the ruins. I’d go to Nahavand, to see my people. To meet their children. And the children of their children. And then I’d go to his tomb. He was buried in his garden. And to stand there one more time, where he tended his trees. Where he sowed his seeds. Seven verses a day. I’d say them quietly in my head, I wouldn’t want to disturb the peace. But something happens, I can’t help it. I feel the heat. I feel the pressure. It’s like a sword pierces my body and I have to let it out: 𝑹𝒂𝒌𝒉𝒔𝒉 𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒎! The thunder of hooves, the spark of swords, the clash of axes, the single arrow spinning through the air. Who are these Persians? Rumi, Saadi, Hafez, Khayyam, Ferdowsi. Not even a lion! Not even a lion could stand against them! Our kings. Our queens. Our castles. Our battles. Our banquets. Our songs and celebrations. Our culture. Our wisdom. Our choices. Our story. And our words. All of our words. Words of mothers, words of fathers, words that teach, words that fly, words that cut, words that heal, words laughed, words sung, words wept, words prayed, words whispered in a moonlit garden, words of sin, words kissed, words sighed, words spoken from one knee. 𝘔𝘦𝘩𝘳. Words forgotten. Words remembered again. Words written on a page. Words etched on the face of a tomb. 𝘑𝘢𝘢𝘯. 𝘒𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘥. A castle of words! That no wind or rain will destroy! Who we were. Who we were! But also, who we wanted to be. We begin in darkness. A siren screams. A knight appears. A knight with the heart of a lion. A knight with a voice to make, the hardened hearts of warriors quake. A knight who rode out to face the enemy alone, and she roared. She roared! She roared at the enemy lines! Here! Here is your champion! Her wisdom, her soul, her voice, her faith, her power, her heart, her passion, her sin, her choice, her life, her fight, her fire, her fury, her justice! And her hair. Hair like a waterfall. Hair like silk. Hair like night. Hair worthy of a crown. 𝘈𝘻𝘢𝘥𝘪. All of Iran, in a single poem.” آرزو دارم بار دیگر آن را ببینم. برای یکبار هم که شده. کوته زمانی شاید. یک روز هم در تهران بمانم. سپس به تخت‌جمشید بروم، ویرانه‌های پرشُکوهش را دیدار کنم. آنگاه سری به نهاوند بروم، با سر بروم، برای دیدن زادگاهم. دیدن مردمانش. دیدن فرزندان‌ و فرزندانِ فرزندان‌شان. سپس به آرامگاه‌اش خواهم رفت. در باغ‌اش که خاک پاک اوست. یک بار دیگر آنجا بایستم که او درختان‌اش را می‌پروراند. زمینی که دانه‌هایش را در آن می‌کاشت. هفت بیت شعر میانگین هر روزش را می‌سرود. سروده‌هایش را به آرامی در دل و جانم زمزمه کنم. آرامش آنجا را به هم نخواهم زد. بی‌گمان از درونم احساسی می‌جوشد، جلویش را نتوانم گرفت. گرمایش را، فشارش را احساس می‌کنم. شمشیری تنم را می‌شکافد، فریادم را فرو می‌خورم: از این سو خُروشی بر آورد رَخش / وزآن سوی اسب یل تاجبخش! پژواک سُم اسب‌ها، درخشش شمشیرها، چکاچاک تبرها، و چرخش تک‌تیری در آسمان بلند. ‌کیانند اینان، ایرانیان؟ مولانا، سعدی، حافظ، خیام، فردوسی. دل شیر در جنگ‌شان اندکی‌ست! شاهان‌مان. شهبانوان‌مان. کاخ‌هامان. نبردهامان. بزم‌هامان. سرودها و جشن‌هامان. پهلوانان‌مان. فرهنگ‌مان. خردمان. گُزینه‌هامان. داستان‌مان. و واژگان‌مان. همه‌ی واژگان‌مان. واژگان مادران، واژگان پدران، واژگانی که می‌آموزند، واژگانی که پرواز می‌کنند، واژگانی که می‌بُرند، واژگانی که بهبودی می‌بخشند، واژگان خندان، واژگان سروده شده، واژگان زاری، واژگان نیایش، واژگان نجوا شده در باغ مهتابی، واژگان گناه، واژگان بوسیده شده، واژگان آوخ، واژگان گفته شده بر یک زانو. مهر. واژگان فراموش شده. واژگان یادآوری شده. واژگان نوشته شده بر برگ. واژگان حک شده بر آرامگاه. جان. خرد. کاخی از واژگان! که از باد و باران نیابد گزند! که بوده‌ایم. که بوده‌ایم! و چه می‌خواستیم باشیم. در تاریکی آغاز می‌کنیم. بانگ آژیری برمی‌خیزد. سواری پدیدار می‌شود. پهلوانی با دل شیر. با خُروشی که دل‌های استوار جنگیان را می‌لرزاند. پهلوانی که به تنها تن خویش به نبرد دشمن می‌رود. و می‌خُروشد. می‌خُروشد! می‌خُروشد بر صف دشمنان! اینجاست، اینجاست پهلوان شما! خِرد او، جان او، آوای او، ایمان او، نیروی او، دل او، شور او، گُناه او، گُزینه‌ی او، زندگی او، زمان او، نبرد او، آتش او، خشم او. داد او! و گیسوان او. گیسوانی چون آبشار. گیسوانی ابریشمین، گیسوانی چون شب. گیسوانی سزاوار تاج. آزادی. همه‌ی ایران در شعری یگانه

(53/54) “It’s a beautiful word in itself, Mitra. Someone who has no idea of its meaning can appreciate its beauty. Mitra always had a genius for beauty. She knew it completely. She wanted it around her at all times. Even now she keeps a book of Hafez by our bedside. It’s always in reach, and whenever she finds a verse that she loves, she will bring it to me. She still trusts me to find the melody. Poetry is one of the things that she still remembers best. Because poetry is music. It sinks into the memory. Even if you can’t remember a word, the rhythm will guide you. The rhyme will give you a hint. Recently we were reciting a poem from an old book, and one of the words had completely faded. It was a poem that we both used to love. And I was so mad at myself. I kept trying to remember the word, but it would not come to me. Then suddenly she said it. It made me so happy. It doesn’t hurt when she forgets anymore, but it makes me so happy when she remembers. To know that the memory is still inside of her. That she is still holding on. Our lives are just a fistful of memories, ice melting in our hands. And Mitra’s ice is melting faster than mine. But she still has more memories of me than anyone else. And I have a lifetime of memories every time I look at her. And until the last moment, until the last ice has melted, we will still be us. Our entire lives we’ve been on two different roads. But the horizon was always the same. It was an unwritten promise: that no matter what happens, I will keep you. Even when we disagree, I will keep you. From a distance, I will keep you. In the dark, I will keep you. In the deepest pit, I will keep you. Even if you lose your country, even if you lose your eye, even if you lose your memory, I will keep you. We will still be us. It’s the only thing we ever agreed on. We always agreed on us. It’s one of the earliest principles of Iran. It’s where she gets her name. Mitra, the God of Promises.” میترا واژه‌ای بس زیباست. حتا اگر درونمایه‌اش را هم ندانیم، زیبایی واژه را درمی‌یابیم. او نبوغ ویژه‌ای در زیباشناسی دارد. به درستی با آن آشناست. دوست داشت پیرامونش همیشه زیبا باشد. هنوز دیوان حافظ را کنار تختش می‌گذارد. هنوز هرگاه شعری دلپسند از حافظ ‌بیابد، به من می‌دهد تا برایش بخوانم. هنوز باور دارد که من آهنگ درست شعر را زود پیدا می‌کنم. اگر نتوانم، یاری‌ام می‌کند. شعر، یکی از چیزهایی‌ست که هنوز به یاد می‌آورد. شعر موسیقی‌ست، پر از آهنگ و نواست، در گوشه‌های مغز جایی دارد. اگر واژه را فراموش کنید، آهنگ‌اش شما را به آن می‌رساند، راهنماست. چند روز پیش شعری از کتابی کهن را می‌خواندیم. یکی از واژگان خواندنی نبود. شعری بود که هر دو دوست داشتیم، دلم گرفت، به یادش نمی‌آوردم، ناگهان او واژه را در جایش نشاند! چه مایه شادمان شدم. فراموشی‌های او دیگر مرا نمی‌آزارند، اما هرگاه چیزی را به یاد می‌آورد بسیار خُرسند و خُشنود می‌شوم. می‌دانم که برخی خاطره‌ها هنوز در او زنده‌اند. هنوز آنها را نگه‌داشته است. زندگی مُشتی خاطره است که مانند یخ در دست‌هایمان آب می‌شود. یخ‌های میترا به آب شدن شتاب بیشتری دارند. او بیش از هر کس دیگری از من خاطره دارد. و من خاطره‌ی یک عمر زندگی را مُرور می‌کنم هرگاه به او چشم می‌دوزم. تا واپسین لحظه، تا واپسین تکه‌ی یخ، با هم خواهیم ماند. همه‌ی زندگی‌مان، دو تا همراه بوده‌ایم. اما افق و کرانه‌‌هامان همواره همسو بوده است. کاخی بود پیرامون ما. سوگندی نانوشته: هر آنچه هم که پیش آید، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. هم‌اندیش نباشیم، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. بر بالاترین فراز‌ها، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. در ژرف‌ترین گودال‌ها، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. اگر میهن‌ات را از دست بدهی، اگر چشم‌ات را هم از دست بدهی، حتا اگر حافظه‌ات را از دست بدهی، همچنان تو را نگه خواهم داشت. ما همچنان ما خواهیم بود. این یگانه چیزی‌ست که ما همواره بر سر آن هم‌رای بودیم. این یکی از نخستین آرمان‌های ایران بوده است. سرچشمه‌ی نامش. میترا، ایزدبانوی پیمان‌ها

(52/54) “It always sits out on the shelf. It’s given structure to my life. I’ve wanted to be a knight. I’ve wanted to be a king. I’ve wanted to be Ferdowsi, living for higher ideals. But there’s old men in Shahnameh too. And that’s my idea of a king now, a grandfather. A 𝘉𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘢𝘯. He’s more of a cultural figure. He advises his grandchildren. He keeps them together. But he doesn’t participate in their issues, regardless of how they behave. He’s like a book. He’s full of wisdom. He’s there if you need him, but he doesn’t exert power over you. I’m reading it through one last time, with all eight of my grandchildren. It’s a deeper understanding now. To dive deep requires a philosopher’s tenacity, but the pearls are in the depths of the seas. These days I skim over the battle scenes. I read more diligently the parts that tell of universal values like love and kindness. The parts that are true for everyone. One of my favorite stories never made it into Shahnameh. It was passed down through our oral traditions. Iran is in the midst of the longest war it has ever fought. The fighting has gone on for more than a century. Many kings have died, both sides are exhausted, and a truce is proposed. A single champion from the Iranian side is selected. His name is Arash, ‘The Archer.’ He’s told to climb one of the highest mountains in Iran, and to shoot his arrow as far as he’s able. And wherever it lands, that will be the border of the new Iran. He climbs to the mountain’s peak. He pulls back his bow as far as he can, and he lets the arrow fly. It sails across the entire country. And sticks into a walnut tree, exactly where the previous border was before. Before the fighting, before the bloodshed. And that’s the new Iran. But Arash never gets to see it. He put his entire soul into the arrow. All of his 𝘑𝘢𝘢𝘯. And the moment it’s released, he falls over and dies.” همواره بالای گنجه نمایان است. به زندگی‌ام سامان داده است. می‌خواستم پهلوان باشم. می‌خواستم شاه باشم. می‌خواستم فردوسی باشم، که تنها به آرمان‌هایش می‌اندیشد. اما کهنسالان هم در شاهنامه هستند. اکنون برداشتم از شهریار، پدربزرگ است، باب‌جان است، یک باشنده‌ی فرهنگی. او برای هم‌اندیشی با فرزندان و نوادگانش همواره هست. آنها را همبسته نگه‌می‌دارد. به زندگی روزانه‌ی آنان کاری ندارد، گزینش رفتار و راهکارهایشان با آنهاست. او مانند یک کتاب است. اگر نیاز داشته باشند در دسترس است. اما فشاری بر آنها نیست. برای واپسین بار شاهنامه را با هر یک از هشت نوادگانم می‌خوانم. اکنون برداشتی ژرف‌تر دارم. داستان‌ها همیشه برایم دلپذیر بوده‌اند. همیشه درونمایه‌ی واژگان را به جان گرفته‌ام. اما غوطه‌ور شدن در ژرفای داستان‌ها نیازمند پیشینه و پشتکار فرزانگان است. مرواریدها در ژرفای دریا نهفته‌اند. این روزها از پهنه‌ی نبرد‌های خونین زودتر می‌گذرم. بخش‌هایی را که از ارزش‌های جاودانی مردمان در سراسر جهانند، چون عشق و مهربانی، ژرف‌تر می‌خوانم، به کار همه می آیند، راستین‌اند. داستان پرمایه و دلانگیزی در اوستا هست. داستانی که در شاهنامه نیامده است. ایرانیان درگیر جنگی درازدامن با تورانیانند. جنگی که بیش از یک سده به درازا کشیده است. بسیاری از پادشاهان جان باخته‌اند، هر دو سو خسته و درمانده‌اند. پیمان می‌بندند که مرز ایران و توران تیر پرتاب کمانگیری از فراز کوه رویان باشد. از ایران سپاه، آرش است که در این کار سترگ بالا برمی‌افرازد، جان خود در تیر می‌کند. تیر بر شاخ گردویی فرود می‌آید که بر مرز راستین ایرانزمین روییده است! از آرش مگر کمانی باز نمی‌ماند. سیاوش کسرایی چه زیبا سروده است: جان خود در تیر کرد آرش / کار سدها سدهزاران تیغه‌ی شمشیر کرد آرش

(51/54) “It’s coming. In the streets it is silent. But in the homes, where Iran still lives, the drumbeat is building. The anger is building. The impatience is building, and soon it will come out. Iran will come out. Our young women have been leading us. But we cannot let them march one-by-one into the night. Do not pass by silently if a woman is getting harassed in the street. Do not let them be called whores or sluts. Speak! Say this is not right! Your neighbor will hear you, and they will say it too. Until all of us are saying it together. The only way to take the battlefield is together. Those of us in free societies, with the freedom to speak, and write, and protest. Do not sit behind the walls of your castle. Write. Speak. Protest. We don’t need the same chants, or the same slogans. But let us come together. Even if it’s only around our dining room tables, let us come together. We cannot let them face the enemy alone. In Iran they are standing up: the students of Tehran, the truck drivers of Bandar Abbas, the oil workers of Khuzestan, the factory workers of Pooladshahr, the teachers of Sanandaj, the farmers of Isfahan. Everyone has found their own way of saying: ‘This does not work for us.’ Everyone is choosing their own words, but now let us say them all together. If you can’t find the courage to march in the streets, then just open your doors. Stand on your stoop as the protesters pass. That would be enough. If everyone who is against this regime could only do that, we’d fill all of Iran. It will be the end. These enforcers, these soldiers, these policemen, they will realize. They will finally see: that we are together, and they are alone. There is only one battle left. The fight against fear. When we win against the fear in our hearts, we win Iran. And in the words of Ferdowsi: ‘Without fighting, they will flee the scene.’” خیابان‌ها آرام‌اند. اما درون خانه‌ها، جایی که ایران هنوز زنده است، بانگ کوس‌ها رساتر می‌شود. خشم‌ها پدیدار می‌شوند. ایران رخ می‌نماید. زنان جوان‌مان رهبری را بر عهده گرفته‌اند. نگذاریم یکایک در تاریکی شب ناپدید شوند. تنها راه پیروزی در میدان نبرد همبستگی‌ست. ما که در جامعه‌های آزاد زندگی می‌کنیم و آزادی سخن گفتن، آزادی نوشتن، آزادی گرد هم آمدن داریم. پشت دیوارها‌تان نمانید. بنویسید! سخن بگویید! خود را نشان دهید! نیازی نیست که شعارها‌مان، اعتراض‌ها‌مان یا سرودهای‌مان یکسان باشند. بیایید با هم باشیم. حتا اگر پیرامون سفره‌‌مان باشد. بیایید با هم باشیم. نگذاریم به تنهایی با دشمن روبرو شوند! در ایران همه به پا خاسته‌اند. دانش‌آموزان تهران. رانندگان کامیون‌های بندرعباس. کارگران صنعت نفت خوزستان. کارگران کارخانه‌ی پولادشهر. آموزگاران سنندج. کشاورزان اصفهان. هر کدام راه خود را پیدا کرده‌اند تا بگویند: “دیگر این برای ما کارآمد نیست.” هر کسی واژگان خود را برمی‌گزیند، بیایید هم‌آوا و همراه آنرا فریاد بزنیم. خاموش نمانید. بی‌اراده از کنار زنی که در خیابان آزار می‌شود، نگذرید. نگذاریم آنها را فاحشه یا هرزه بنامند. سخنی بگویید! بگویید که این کارتان درست نیست! دست از زشت‌کاری‌هایتان بردارید! همسایه‌تان می‌شنود و او نیز با شما همصدا خواهد شد. تا زمانی که همه‌ی ما همصدا آنرا تکرار کنیم. بیایید با هم باشیم. اگر شجاعت پیوستن به راهپیمایی‌های خیابانی را ندارید، درِ خانه‌‌هایتان را بگشایید. جلو در بایستید و تماشاگر حرکت پهلوانان‌تان باشید. اگر این کار را انجام دهیم، همه‌ی ایران را پُر خواهیم کرد. این نبرد پایانی ماست: نبرد با ترس. هنگامی که بر آن پیروز شویم، ایران از آن ما خواهد شد. هنگامی که ایران بُرون آید، به معنای راستین بُرون آید، به پایان شوربختی‌ها می‌رسیم. سرکوب‌گران، پاسدارها، نیروهای انتظامی، همه خواهند دید و خواهند فهمید که ما با‌همیم و آنها تنها. همانگونه که فردوسی می‌گوید: همه جنگ ناکرده، بگریختند / همه دشت، تیر و کمان ریختند

(50/54) “When I was eighty I was giving an interview on Persian television. I wanted to recite a verse, from the part of Shahnameh when Rostam selects Rakhsh as his horse. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not remember the line. For almost a minute I sat still. After that I stopped giving speeches. I’m at a new stage now. I’ve accepted this. It’s like an arrow that’s descending. It’s been a long flight. But it’s nearly reached its destination. I’ve done all I can. So now I try to think through the soul of our people. It’s in the hands of the young people now. They’re the ones with energy. They’re the ones that can change the regime. In the great battles of Shahnameh, as long as the flag is flying high, the army remains strong. The flag must stay raised. When the flag falls, the battle is lost. The flag of this regime is the hijab. For as long as I can remember. For my entire life, it’s the thing they’ve cared about most. It’s something that can be visualized. Something that can be seen from afar. No matter how low they sink, no matter how weak they are, it’s the one proof that they’re still in control. That they still control half of Iran. They’ve made it their flag. But their castle is surrounded. The flag is falling fast. And when it finally hits the ground, the regime will end. Mitra and I do whatever we can to support. We go to the protests. She wears her ‘Woman, Life, Freedom’ hat. She doesn’t remember the exact dates, or the exact events. But she can feel it in the air. She knows something’s coming. She brought home two Mahsa Jina Amini T-shirts from one of the protests. She hung one in our living room, and the other in our bedroom. I can not fight it, her word is law. Lately she has become obsessed with the idea of going back to Iran. She thinks we’re going home. She’s always saying: Where are we going to live? Who are we going to see? It’s not a delusion. The hope is inside her. And is inside of me too. I still hope that I will live to see it. The new Iran. Just a glimpse would be enough for me. As Ferdowsi writes: ‘Even a few drops sipped at the end of evil, is worth more than all the years of life.” در هشتاد‌سالگی در رسانه‌ای فارسی‌زبان سخن می‌گفتم. می‌خواستم بِیتی از شاهنامه را بخوانم، زمانی که رستم رخش را برمی‌گزیند؛ نتوانستم آن بیت را به یاد آورم. نزدیک به یک دقیقه خاموش بودم. پس از آن، سخنرانی‌ و مصاحبه را کنار گذاشتم. اکنون در دوران تازه‌ای هستم. این را پذیرفته‌ام. مانند تیری‌ست که از کمان رها شده و در حال فرود آمدن است. پروازی درازآهنگ بوده و کمابیش به هدف رسیده است. آنچه را در توانم بوده انجام داده‌ام. در تلاشم تا با جان و روان مردم‌مان بیامیزم. اکنون همه چیز در دست جوانان است. نیرومندان دلیر. آنان می‌توانند رژیم را براندازند. در بزرگ‌ترین نبردهای شاهنامه، تا زمانی که درفش افراشته باشد، سپاه نیرومند و استوار می‌ماند. درفش باید برافراشته بماند. درفش بر زمین افتاده، نشان آشکار شکست است. درفش این رژیم حجاب است، تا یاد دارم چنین بوده است. تا بتوانند از آن نمی گذرند. دیدنی‌ست. نمادی‌ست که از دوردست پیداست. هر اندازه هم در حال غرق شدن باشند، هر اندازه هم ناتوان شده باشند، این نماد نمایش بودن آنهاست. می پندارند که نیمی از ایرانیان را زیر فرمان دارند. آن را درفش خود کرده‌اند. روز نبرد فرا رسیده است. کاخ‌شان محاصره شده‌ است. درفش با شتاب در حال افتادن است. هنگامی که سرانجام بر زمین افتد، رژیم نابود خواهد شد. من و میترا به تظاهرات می‌رویم. او همواره کلاه «زن، زندگی، آزادی»‌اش را بر سر ‌دارد. شاید تاریخ‌ها و مناسبت‌ها را دقیق به یاد نیاورد اما هوای دگرگونی را احساس می‌کند. دو پیراهن با چهره‌ی زیبای مهسا ژینا امینی را از تظاهراتی به خانه آورد. یکی را بر دیوار اتاق نشیمن آویخت و دیگری را بر دیوار اتاق‌مان. و من با او اختلافی ندارم زیرا که سخن او قانون است. تازگی حسی نیرومند برای برگشتن به خانه و میهن دارد. همواره می‌پرسد: “کجا زندگی خواهیم کرد؟ چه کسانی را خواهیم دید؟ به دیدن چه جاهایی خواهیم رفت؟” این خیال نیست؛ امید در درون او شعله‌ور شده است و همچنین در جان من. امیدوارم که تا آن روز زنده بمانیم. فردوسی می‌گوید: دَمی آب خوردن پسِ بدسَگال / به از عُمرِ هفتاد و هشتاد سال

(49/54) “We still take long walks together, even today. There’s a path through the forest near our house. Mitra still can’t stand the silence. She’ll walk off the path so she can hear the dry crunch of the leaves. She still talks the entire time, but these days our conversations don’t reach back as far as they used to. We mainly talk about the things we see. She’ll count her steps, count the houses, count the trees. Mitra’s memory is no longer her friend; it no longer supports her. But she still says ‘hello’ to everyone that she sees. And she’s still a queen, I am always at her service. These days we have become inseparable. If I do not see her for two minutes, I will find what room she’s in. I button her jacket. I tie her shoes. I handle all her medications. I do not grieve the situation. I feel gratitude that I am able to do these things for her, despite nature. My only grief is for her. Her memory was her greatest gift. It’s where I stored my treasures. I could tell her any verse, even once. And she could remember it forever. Now it will escape her after only a minute. Every day her world gets smaller and smaller. Tighter and tighter. It’s the oldest memories that she remembers most now. Recently she has been fixated on her hand. She keeps holding up her crippled hand, and asking: ‘Why did you ever marry me?’ When we were young in Tehran, her father had a tradition. Every morning he would insist on having the first cup of tea. He said it was the one that tasted best. He called it ‘the flower of the tea.’ So now when I brew our tea every morning, I will wait. Until Mitra is up. Until she’s ready. So that I can serve her the flower of the tea. Then as soon as we’ve finished the kettle, she’ll make me go outside. And pour the remains on the roots of our trees.” ما همچنان با هم به پیاده‌روی‌های درازآهنگ می‌رویم. راهی جنگلی در نزدیکی خانه‌مان هست. میترا همچنان خاموشی را برنمی‌تابد. هنوز به راه رفتن روی برگ‌های خُشک و شنیدن خِش‌خِش آنها ‌دلبسته است. هنوز همه‌ی راه را سخن می‌گوید، اما گفت‌وگوهای ما به گذشته‌های دور بازنمی‌گردند. این روزها بیشتر درباره‌ی آنچه می‌بینیم، سخن می‌گوییم. او گام‌هایش را می‌شمارد، خانه‌ها را می‌شمارد و درخت‌ها را. حافظه‌ی میترا دیگر یاری‌اش نمی‌دهد، دوستش نیست، از او کناره گرفته است. ولی هنوز با هر رهگذری که از کنارمان می‌گذرد، خوش‌آمد می‌گوید. او هنوز شهبانوی خانه است و خواهد ماند و تا هستم او را پرستار و خدمتگزار خواهم بود. این روزها ما جدایی‌ناپذیریم. اگر برای دو دقیقه او را نبینم، در اتاق‌ها به دنبالش می‌گردم. دکمه‌های ژاکت و بند کفش‌هایش را می‌بندم. داروهایش را به هنگام به او می‌رسانم. هرگز برای خودم دل نمی‌سوزانم. سپاسگزار بختم که می‌توانم اين کارها را برای او انجام دهم. برای او اندوهناکم. برجسته‌ترین توانایی او حافظه‌اش بود. یاد او گنجینه‌ی یادهای من هم بود. می‌دانستم هر بیتی را یک بار برای او بخوانم، برای همیشه به یاد می‌سپارد. این روزها پس از دقیقه‌ای از ذهن او می‌گریزند. دنیایش هر روز کوچک‌ و کوچک‌تر، تنگ‌ و تنگ‌تر می‌شود. خاطره‌های دوردست را بهتر به یاد دارد. تازگی‌ها به دست چپش می‌اندیشد. پیوسته دست کم‌کار خود را بالا نگه می‌دارد و می‌پرسد: “به راستی تو چرا با من ازدواج کردی؟” روزگار جوانی که در تهران بودیم، پدرش دوست داشت هر بامداد، نخستین استکان چای را بنوشد، می‌گفت بهترین است. آن را «گُلِ چای» می‌نامید. هنگامی که هر بامداد چای‌مان را آماده می‌کنم، چشم‌به‌راهش می‌مانم تا بتوانم با گُلِ چای از او پذیرایی کنم. شب‌ها دست مرا می‌گیرد تا با هم تَه‌مانده‌ی چای را پای گل‌ها ودرختان بریزیم

(48/54) “I didn’t raise them to be Iranian first. Above all I wanted them to be good people. I wanted the same things for them that I want for all people: to do the next right thing, to say the next true thing. But they were growing up in tough times. So many bad things were being done in the name of Iranians. I wanted them to know the real Iran. I wasn’t able to bring them there, but I did try to build a little Iran around us. I’ve surrounded us with my memories of home. On the wall hangs a painting of Nahavand that I made in Germany. Above the back door hangs the horns of the first ibex I ever hunted. On the shelf in the dining room is my jar of soil. It was collected from a spot in Nahavand at the base of the mountain, right at the source of the spring. And next to my jar of soil, for anyone who needs it: sits my Shahnameh. As soon as they w