Broken But Solid

I was born in Tehran, Iran on April 2nd, 1959 – the day after April Fools’. My mother used to tell me stories about how hard I kicked inside her and how I resisted exiting her until midnight. She told me about how everyone reacted to the unusual birth mark that I have to this day. It amused her, she said it was like a message from another world. The mark read seventy in Iranian, a precise number with profound imagery. The mark looked so crisp that it seemed impossible for it to have been an accident. Family and guests would later pay me to see it. I still remember the look on their faces. Something else widened onlooker’s eyes at my birth. I was born with a thin, white substance covering my face. A holy person, well-respected by the community, was called in immediately and was astonished when he saw it. He said a few special prayers and declared that there was something special about me. Weeks after, we moved to Abadan, where I was raised until the age of seventeen. At the time, Abadan was surrounded by artillery and sandbags because Iraq was just across the water and tensions were high. My father was head of intelligence at one of the world largest oil refineries. He was tasked with defending it from Iraqi attacks. He was connected to so many people in high positions that it took me fifty years to unravel his network. He also had three thousand soldiers at his command. He was a great man and a provider. He tended to our needs and devoted himself to my mother. My mother, apart from having an amazing touch when it came to cooking, was the friendliest, nicest person I know. I can still taste her dishes. Everything was homemade, including tomato paste and sauce with juice; strawberry, orange, and blueberry jam; and pickled vegetables. When she wasn’t cooking, she kept herself busy by sewing calmly. My upbringing was ideal, but I experienced several incidents that left many in my family worried for a long time. At five years old, I had accident that left me in a difficult condition.