Pool’s Stories-Nika and reeds of Mahshahr نیکا و نیزارهای ماهشهر

Friends

I will not give up. I continue to write about the pool. Gert is my friend whom I lost. He was a strange man. I met him at the pool. Six months ago, I told him I wrote a story about the women's revolution in Iran, and he's the main character in the story. He laughed, saying, "I don't know Persian, but when you translate it, give it to me to read." I didn't tell him that I killed him off in the story. Sometimes, after swimming, we would sit in the library and read poems we had written for each other. Now, it's the anniversary of the revolution. I translated the first part of this story. Gert is not here to read it. I'm publishing this story in memory of him and all those killed in Iran; I'm posting this story here. I will write about Gert, but I repeatedly ask myself, would he still be alive if I hadn't killed him in the story?

Nika and reeds of Mahshahr نیکا ونیزارهای ماهشهر

Part one

Twenty years later, Gustav Madden was sitting on a plane of Hadis Airlines, listening to the voice of an Iranian flight attendant:

"In a few moments, we will land at Mahsa International Airport. Please fasten your seat belts and do not take any photos of what you see outside the window, as it is useless. No photo can be taken, even with the strongest satellites revolving around the Earth. From this moment on, all the images you see from behind the airplane window belong to thirty years ago and can only be seen for a week each year during the "Mahsa Days." For more information you can read a booklet behind the seat in front of you."

Gustav fastened his seatbelt and looked out the airplane window. The plane was slowing down as it approached the ground, and from afar, he could see spears rising toward the sky from the ground. Hands were raised as if to call for help in protest. And the wind had fallen on the spears. The protruding stems were twisting and turning, and an indistinct sound echoed in the plane. Gustav ignored the attendant's comments and zoomed in on the video on his mobile phone, pressing it against the window plane. As he looked around, he also noticed other passengers taking photos and videos.

At the passport and customs queue in the airport's lounge, Gustav checked his mobile phone. Nothing had been recorded. No sound, no images. The girl stamping his passport greeted him with a pleasant voice and a beautiful smile, saying, "Welcome to Mahshaher." Gustav ran his hand through his thick and lush hair, nodded, and smiled back at the woman, showing off his mobile phone: "She was right; nothing was recorded." The girl replied, "Nobody lies here. I hope you've read the Ghost story in the notebook." Gustav asked, "Ghost?" The girl held up her passport towards him and said, "Yes, the season of remembrance. The spirits of the slain come to my city like everyone else. They all live like everyone else. We see them, but we can't touch them.

Behind Gustav, there was a line of passengers. Tourists were moving around with their mobile phones and cameras, checking the photos they had taken and the sounds they had recorded from above, thinking that no one had captured anything from up there. The girl smiled and gestured towards them, saying:

"This week is the world's encounter with us, just like every year at this time, the week of commotion and uproar."

The girl smiled again, pointing her hand behind the glass towards a girl holding a white cardboard, among others, waiting and looking around. Looking closely, he saw his name written on the paper.

So, he had finally arrived! He had reached the land that had destroyed his Uncle's life.

They buried his songwriter, Uncle, in the Eastern Cemetery. He went to his notebooks, and without waiting for his eighteenth birthday, on the very first night, he understood what had happened to him in all those years. His Uncle had lived alone and died alone. It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone, and his task was to repeatedly draw the sketch of a young girl and inscribe and write a word that Nobody knew where he had learned from, over and over again, using an alphabet that Nobody recognized.

He had written the word "Eshegh-عشق" in English several times before this word.

The word that Gustav had been unable to find its meaning in any dictionary.

One day before Uncle Gart's death, Gustav sat beside his bed in the hospital with his father. Uncle Gert held his hand, saying, "You won't touch anything until you're eighteen." Then, to discovered he told the story that had devastated his life.

Gustav had gathered himself and persuaded his Argentine mother, who she still fled from the government, like in her childhood, to come to this land.

He had postponed it for many years.

But now he was at the airport, heading towards the exit gate, surrounded by the travelers behind him. The girl was pulling on his neck, waving her hand, and lifting a cardboard sign with her name.

As he walked out, He walked straight towards the girl. A breeze of warmth hit his face. The girl separated from the crowd and waved the cardboard sign above her head. As he got closer, he noticed the radiance on her face. She had an undeniable youthfulness. A captivating smile formed on her lips as she was coming towards him. Her long black hair was braided on both sides, and the woven braids on her chest swayed like waves. She wore a blue T-shirt and a short, warm skirt. The weather was hot.

The girl, holding the cardboard above her head with two hands, smiled and said,

"Shaghayegh."

Gustav, with a gesture, ruffled his hair onto his face, smiled, and, with a heavy accent, said:

"Shaghaik."

The robot trying to book a hotel room for him quickly informed him that the hotels were full, and he needed to choose another option and go to homes that provided services for tourists.

They were heading towards Shaghayegh's house on the highway. Both sides were lined with narcissus fields. The breeze was caressing the narcissus flowers, and the scent of the flowers was everywhere. Shaghayegh seemed to realize Gustav had lowered the car window, she said, "Twenthy years ago, there was no highway here, and the road didn't have so many narcissus flowers."

Shaghayegh was an excellent guide. Step by step, she described what she saw. Gustav, however, needed help understanding most of her words. He had no familiarity with this land and had come only to find traces of a girl he used to chat with his Uncle about.

Uncle Gert, filled with regret, had written about her until his last moment:"

"She had a beautiful and astonishing voice, and with a lyrical accent, she would sing the song I had written. I wish I had recorded her voice. She could have been an amazing singer. It was planned that when she turned eighteen, she would get her passport and come here. She was supposed to join our group."

Uncle's group was called "The Big Loser Group," a subset or offshoot of the Marilyn Manson group... All of them were now dead, each with peculiar and bizarre names.

On a page of his diary, Uncle had written with a red underline: "The girl tells me to change the group's name. She says these names bring their meanings. Why do you want to be a big loser? The Big Loser Group."

Uncle was indeed a big loser. During his work, he suddenly lost a girl he liked, and later, cancer took him without anyone knowing where it came from. He lost his Voice and ability to walk and his strength. In his final days, he looked at a tattoo on his arm from the girl. A tattoo that, according to him, didn't resemble her much.

The girl had a Facebook profile filled with pictures, but suddenly, in November 2022, her page vanished from the timeline.

"I was chatting with her at night. The next night, on their day, she texted me: 'I'm trying to escape from them." After that, there was no trace of her on the internet. Her last words were that the city is chaotic, people are discontent, nothing is left, and the city's pipes pour sewage instead of water. The wells are dry, and everything is expensive."

Later, Uncle Gert writes his last poem, "Land," hoping the girl will come back and sing the song with her unique accent and voice while he plays the guitar. However, the girl never reappears, and Uncle's task becomes writing memories daily. He records fragments of her voice, work, and movement so that all the writings would eventually reach her. Uncle even visited the Center for Safeguarding Interests in Washington, D.C., and they looked puzzled. "Was she your wife? Documents? A copy of the marriage certificate?" No documents were involved. He even barely knew the girl's name:

"I had given her a name myself. Who would have thought I needed to take photos or videos? Who would have thought she would go and never return?"

Uncle even decided to go to that country, but they wouldn't give him a visa. Now, Gustav is sitting in the car with Shaghayegh on the same journey that his uncle had died longing for. Now, it's November, twenty years later, November 2043.

The land Uncle had written about was entirely different from what he had seen at the airport. It seemed like he had come to the city of women, a city of peace and friendship. The scent of narcissus flowers was everywhere.

Uncle had written: "When she told me the government was killing people, I understood that we should always hold onto the second principle of the constitution. If the nation doesn't have weapons, every little cat becomes a lion."

Uncle Gert remained a top-notch Republican. Even in the hospital, when it was time for him to leave this earthly sphere forever, he didn't let them take his weapons away.

"He said she was from southern Iran - his family was from southern Iran. The city's name doesn't come to mind, but I know it started with 'Sh' - Shiraz, Khorramshahr, or Noshahr. But maybe he meant Mahshahr."

Shaghayegh parked the car in front of her house and said, "City means 'Shahr' in Persian, and we have many cities with 'Sh' in their names, like Shiraz, Khorramshahr, and Noshahr. But maybe She was referring to Mahsharh."

Gustav now knew that Shaghayegh was a first-year art student and once a year guides tourists, Tourists who come to see the story of Reedbed.

But Gustav hadn't come to see the city itself. He had come to find the traces of a story his uncle had written. He had witnessed a land that captured his uncle's intellect and senses.

Shaghayegh said, "So, you didn't know the story of this city at all?"

ِ "No, your country doesn't require a visa. The ticket and room reservation were done by a robot that answered all my questions. He came to talk to me a couple of times, but I didn't pay attention."

Gustav took his backpack from Shaghayegh and climbed the stairs of the apartment building behind her. Shaghayegh ascended the stairs like a bird effortlessly. It was as if she had no weight. A large pot filled with swamp palms in her apartment had taken over half of the living room. He wanted to ask who had brought this pot of plants to her apartment and from where. He refrained from asking anything. It seemed as if Shaqaayeq had read his mind. She said:

"We pick these swamp palms from the Reedbed. People can take a frond from a reedbed that no longer exists every year."

Shaqaayeq explained:

"Twenty years ago, for the story of the Reedbed to be wholly lost and forgotten, the religious government first set the entire Reedbed on fire and then flattened it with bulldozers. On that flattened land, they built a center, which back then was called the Basij Center.

2

Alongside sunset, Shaghayegh pulled aside the curtains of a large glass window and said, "Now look..."

Suddenly, the air darkened, and a gentle, nostalgic light emerged from a day in 2019, casting a shadow over the city. A massive building on the city's outskirts crumbled, and the swamp palms rose. With the rise of the fonds, continuous gunfire and shelling filled the air, followed by cries and screams, and the air turned red as blood.

Shaghayegh's voice trembled, "This happens every night for a week."

Gustav looked at Shaghayegh, whose face was contorted with pain, her fingers trembling.

People from Reedbed were running on the ground. Bloody and torn, they emerged, but the barrels and rifles were pointing to their sides, and with bodies loaded like missiles, they dragged themselves back to the Reedbed.

Gustav, his mouth dry, unable to take his eyes off the Reedbed, said, "So, there's nothing we can do? We can't save them?"

A voice that no longer sounded like Shaghayegh's answered, "They are in the past. We are here in the future."

Gustav felt as though he was talking to himself. It was as if he wanted to restrain himself from punching the window glass or forcefully opening the door and rushing towards the Reedbed. He held his other hand tightly in his palm, trying to maintain control.

Gustav moaned, "No one is left alive. They've all been killed, even Uncle Gert's friend. If she was here, she's gone."

As the sun rose and the city returned to normal, Shaghayegh said, "You should get some sleep... You're tired."

Gustav, who rested his head against the back of the couch, opened his eyes at Shaghayegh's voice. Her face was pale as if all the blood had drained. He replied, "You seem tired too."

Shaghayegh said, "I'm used to staying awake."

Gustav ran his fingers through his tousled hair as if trying to talk to himself and said, "Uncle Gert's friend must have been killed for sure."

Still standing by the window, Shaghayegh sighed, "It's unclear whether she was here because other cities also have ceremonies... they have their ceremonies. Cities like Zahedan, Lorestan, Shiraz."

"This girl you're talking about could be Nika; she's from Lorestan. Every year, during this season, a white horse appears on the mountains of Lorestan.

Then, her voice trembling, Shaghayegh continued, "In the beginning, they tried to shoot the horse down... bullets rained down. But it survived. It's still alive, riddled with bullet holes.

That girl might be the girl from the City of Butterflies, Shiraz.

In Shiraz, there was a girls' school where they were forced to wear black hijab. One day, butterflies descend upon the city, sitting on the girls' black hijabs and making them colorful.

The morality patrol (known as "Gasht-e Hijab" in Persian) didn't know what to do... They were in shock until a few days later, when the butterflies landed again on the girls' hijabs and took their hijabs away.

The morality patrol fired, and a girl was killed.

Now, every year, fireflies, dragonflies, and butterflies come to Shiraz at the same time.

Gustav's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know how to comfort Shaqaayeq, embrace her, console her, and thank her for sharing this unheard and unread history with him. The robotic guide had done an excellent job introducing Shaghayegh.

Gustav stood up, stretched, and silently told himself to remember to thank the robot and chat with it when he returned. Then, he walked a bit further, stood before Shaghayegh, and asked, "How can we go to Lorestan or Shiraz?"

Shaghayegh replied, "Whenever you want, just let me know. It doesn't matter to me."

A faint smile appeared on Shaghayegh's lips. Gustav raised his hand to place it on her shoulder, but Gustav's hand didn't reach Shaqaayeq's shoulder.