Saffron
I just finished the last of the saffron my aunt brought me from Iran. She shoved it in my hands when I said goodbye to her in February 2017. We had just flown together from Frankfurt to Boston, racing against the clock to get her in to the United States before the Massachusetts state injunction against Trump’s “Muslim Ban” expired or was overturned. We made it in, though, on one of the few flights carrying passengers from Iran to enter the US that week— thanks mostly to Lufthansa which, unlike nearly every other international airline, permitted Iranian passport holders with valid US visas to board their American-bound planes. It was crazy. It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking. It was like we were on the last transport out of Casablanca or something.
I saw my Aunt Delafruz later that year (she stayed in the US for the entire six months allowed by her visa) in July in northern Michigan. My family spent a week on Grand Traverse Bay, paddle boarding, bbqing, playing tennis, watching tennis, eating cherries. Delafruz loved the beer can chicken Ed and I cooked together outside on the grill. Loved it. And she watched us make it— husband and wife, partners in life and bbq. I put on some Bob Seger (we were in Michigan, after all, and on the water and it was summer and what else would we listen to, right?), and Ed and I danced around on the deck, waiting on the chicken. When it was ready and we came inside, my father turned to me and said, “Delafruz says she has never seen a young couple dance together in public. You two make her so happy to see.”
Last week a young couple in Iran was arrested for dancing together in public. I thought of my aunt, who recently passed away, and that summer evening. I thought of freedom and movement and family and resistance and resilience, and I’m so glad my aunt saw us dancing and rest in peace, and thank you for the saffron too.
