You have a friend request…Mahmoud Ahmadinejad would like to add you on Facebook.

The other night I was sitting at my laptop when the all too familiar red flag popped up on the corner of my page.

With out really looking at it I clicked and waited to see what alert it was.

It was a “friend” request.

The most unlikely of people had requested to become friends with me.

Perhaps the most notorious dictator alive today.

I want to accept.

To go on his page and flood it with pictures of martyrs, and video’s of mothers crying. I want to make sure he sees the unmarked graves that are becoming too common in Iran.

I want to show him the faces of children crying for their mothers and their fathers.

I want him to see the bloody faces of the old and the young standing side by side fighting for Iran.

I want him to see the Eifel tower the day 1000’s held up Nedas face. I want him to hear the stories of rape and torture.

For him to know that we know, we hear, we see.

As these thoughts go through my head my heart rate picks up and beats faster.

An overload of the images I have exposed myself to over these past months take over.

I’m going to be sick.

I see Neda…I see her eyes roll back into her head and I see her take that last breath.

I weep for her all over again.

For her mother, for her friends, for her future.

I weep for what could have been and what should have been.

I am shaken and nauseated.

What should I do? Do all “accept” or do I “ignore”.

He knows these stories. He’s authored them.

He knows theses images.  He takes pride in them.

And then it clicks in my head. It’s not about accepting here. It’s about accepting the calling in life.

It’s about never giving up.

It’s about praying and hoping and believing every second of everyday for a Free Iran.

So I stare at the screen.

What to do.

I choose “ignore”.

I ignore him.

I ignore him like he has ignored Sohrab and Amir.

Like he ignored the brutal rape and murder of  Taraneh.

I ignore him and find strength to “accept” fighting for Iran in real life.

Hasti resides in Northern California with her husband and two children. She is passionate about her family, politics, faith and human rights. Browse touchIRAN to find other posts made by this passionate contributing author.

“Goodbye, Starbucks Name!”: Growing-Up Persian in America

If we met 13 years ago or if I was writing an article while in high school my name would be Jasmin. I mean which awkward dark haired teenager wouldn’t want to be compared to a sexy Disney princess? My Father didn’t understand or appreciate this. If someone called and asked for Jasmin they were quickly hung up on.

My real name was Hasti. A name no one could pronounce or understand. God forbid someone asked me where I was from.
But Jasmin had a whole other feeling. I could pretend to be royalty, a wealthy Middle Easterner who’s Uncle was a heir to oil money always sounded better that Iranian.

Iranian sounded so harsh and aggressive. Nothing sexy or inviting about “Iranian”. Terrorist. Bombs. Camels. Sand. Scarves.

Occasionally after telling someone my name they would say, “OH you’re Persian.” This always made me feel worthy. Worthy of what I am not sure. But it beat Iranian by a long shot. I always wanted to respond back with, “Yes and my Dad/Uncle/Grandfather (take your pick) knew the Shah.” I got through High School with this mentality. Occasionally I was Italian, or my ancestors came from Spain. The minute someone complimented my light complexion and eyes I beamed with pride. I lived as a blond for a few years in an effort to distance myself from being Iranian.

A few bleach bottles later I met my husband. A Persian.

He, like me, grew up here. We were both fluent in Farsi and knew the culture. But he was proud to be “Amir”.

You can’t really tell where he’s from because he looks nothing like your “typical” Iranian. But he never hid from it. If someone assumed he was Italian or American he kindly corrected them.

He told me stories of his grandmother sending him to school with “kaleh pacheh”. My initial reaction was to feel sorry for him, but he said he was proud. So proud that he even asked her to pack him some “torshi”.

After a bit of encouragement from my husband, I dyed my hair brown, and then black. And I fell in love with it. I felt like me. The way God created me to be.

My hair grew longer and longer since it wasn’t getting fried anymore. And it slightly resembled that of the Princess I always wanted to be.
But, a small part of me hid from my true identity. Occasionally “Hannah” would come out. Hasti was still too hard to explain at times.

Fast forward 4 years into our marriage and meet Kaumyar. My beautiful brown eyed son. I struggled with the choice to give him a Persian name, but Amir loved it and eventually so did I. When someone asked me where he was from I proudly said, “He’s Persian.” Persian. Not Iranian.

Three months ago my life changed again. God gave me Keyon. My beautiful green eyed son. He was born during the time of “The Election”. I call him my “Revolution Baby”.

For the first time in my life living abroad, I started to follow Iranian news. I read article after article, watched video after video. I got to know the reasons behind the protests. I wanted desperately to know the heart of the youth of Iran. I watched some of the videos with my son and I cried. He didn’t know why, but he assured me that “It’s ok Mommy”. I wanted him to never feel what I felt about being Iranian.

My heart had never beat like this for Iran. My Iran. My country. My people.

I started attending protests here in the US and I took my kids. I felt proud. I was IRANIAN. My children were born to IRANIAN parents and they had IRANIAN names.

I take the time now to teach my son about Iran. He even knows a couple of alternative names for the “Non-elected President” of Iran.

Now when I meet someone-I am Hasti. Hasti from Iran.

I take pride in my heritage and my culture and even more in my people. I am honored to be from the country of Sohrab and Neda. I don’t want to dishonor them by being anything else. I want my children to know that there is no shame in what they are fighting for.

I want to thank those in Iran who stand united, clothed in green, covered in red, shouting “Marg bar dictator” for giving me back my identity.

I speak to Farsi to my children in public without thinking twice. The thought of sounding like a middle eastern terrorist doesn’t cross my mind. I hope I sound like the voices standing for Iran. The voices that I have become so familiarized with thanks to the Internet.

I’m even thinking about ditching my “Starbucks name”.

I never want my sons to change the name their father and I chose for them with so much though and emotion.
I look forward to the day where my spell check doesn’t highlight their names.

I never thought my country would be know for anything good but now the world knows we are not terrorist, bombers, or jihadist.

We are proud, passionate, and ready to stand for a “Free Iran”.

Hasti resides in Northern California with her husband and two children. She is passionate about her family, politics, faith and human rights. This is her first blog as a contributing author to touchIRAN.

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