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By Azarin Sadegh

A few weeks ago, a good friend called me — too early for a Sunday morning chat. She wisely didn’t waste time, knowing that if my brain woke up, there was a good chance I’d refuse to accept what she was about to request of me.

“Would you be able to go to LAX at noon to pick up someone?” she asked.

I blinked a few times to hear better. “You know I live in Irvine,” I said.

“Of course, I know,” she said. “But this is very important. It has to do with these new laws for citizens of certain countries. You’ll do a good deed. One of our compatriots arrives at noon to LAX to attend the Oscars. We have already hired a lawyer, just in case. You just drop off at the address I will text.”

My eyes grew wide and I finally woke up. Since the election, my peaceful life as an Iranian American had come to a sudden halt. My boys, my job and my novel (the one I have been working on since 2010) all lost their importance. I have been in panic mode, spending my free time on social media fighting real and imaginary enemies. I keep consoling myself that this too shall pass. We live in a democracy. There should be safeguards. This is America, not Iran. Whether you call it a “Muslim ban” or mere “immigration pause,” when the first order came down, I couldn’t sleep that night. I have never identified as a Muslim — I am secular — but Iran was among the banned countries. I worried what the future held for me and my loved ones.

“Are you there?” my friend on the phone asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. I mechanically responded, “Yes, I’ll do it.”

* * *

In the bumper-to-bumper traffic, it seemed as if everyone was heading to LAX that morning. As I say in my idling car, my mind drifted to thoughts of how I became an immigrant.

The music of Bach echoed loud in the small space of my Prius. The sun in my eyes and the beauty of the toccata threw me back to a time when there was no light in my life, despite the brightest sun shining in Tehran’s sky. I have never been a political activist. During the Iranian revolution, I read Kafka and never participated in any kind of demonstration. But as the government changed, the politics moved inside the houses, so I couldn’t listen to loud music as much as I wanted. Simple pleasures of life were labeled immoral. It meant a 20-year-old couldn’t wear lipstick or show her hair. Women lost their equal rights and, as the border and universities closed, all I could do was stay home. No wonder I did everything I could to get a student visa for France.

I left Iran with hope and sorrow. On one hand, I left the war and the absurdity of its deaths, I left revolution and the kind of isolation it imposed on those who weren’t part of it, but mostly I left the fear of living a life filled with crushed dreams. On the other hand, my heart broke in an irreparable way; I was leaving behind a home that was mine as long as I could remember. Leaving those I loved. And leaving them in a war zone. How could I live happily ever after? How could I even dare to forget?

Yes, that’s how I became an immigrant.

The day I left Tehran I started to develop a deep dislike of airports. Once, they symbolized gateways to vacations and joyful memories, but since I left Iran for good, airports for me represent the sadness of farewells: The void in your heart when taking the stairs toward your gate and looking back to see people you love waving goodbye. The wondering of, “When am I going to see them again?”

* * *

The traffic opened up, and I pushed on the gas. The image of the Tehran airport slowly blended into the unknown of what was going to happen at LAX. What if they wouldn’t let in the artist I was to pick up? I was terrified that I might discover I didn’t belong here either. That I had been living an illusion.

The green exit sign told me I was almost there. I took the exit, where I immediately noticed an unusual scene in LA. People were walking! They all walked toward the airport; many carried cardboard placards. I was tempted to stop and ask them what was going on, but I was already late. The flight of my unknown compatriot had already arrived. I checked the crowd. They looked like ordinary people, of all ages, of all races. Who were they? The more I approached the airport, the more the number of people increased. Sometimes a few of them would turn and look at me and smile. I smiled back.

Who did they think I was?

I remembered the day I arrived at San Francisco airport in 1996, with six valises and a child in a stroller. How worried I was, before the police at the checkpoint opened my brown Iranian passport. My heart pounded even though everything was legal. I entered the U.S. with an H4 visa and so much hope for a better life. The rise of Jean-Marie Le Pen and the far-right movement Le Front National was what made us leave Paris and seek a brighter future in “the land of the free.”

The police officer returned my passport with a grin. “Shoma khoobid?” he said, asking me in my native language, Farsi, how I was doing. At the same time he beckoned three police officers to help me with my luggage.

Delighted and relieved, I pushed the stroller, passing through the border, setting foot on ground I could feel was going to be my home, a place where I finally belonged.

My love affair with America was love at first sight.

Slowly, through years, this love turned deeper, rooted in mutual acceptance of our differences. I learned English, worked hard, contributed to the economy and finally became a citizen. My sense of exclusion became a thing of the past. I wasn’t afraid of expressing my opinion. I was finally one among others. Not more, not less. I think this is what I had always dreamed of: to be normal and not to stand out.

* * *

A car honked behind me. I waved “sorry” and moved my car. I had never seen the airport and its terminals so crowded. I lowered my window and listened to the slogans chanted by the crowd. I couldn’t distinguish the words, but somehow my heart began to melt.

After parking my car, I rushed toward the international terminal. The sound of people, my American compatriots, shook the air. I pushed myself through the crowd, trying hard not to sob and to look like a lunatic. A woman I didn’t know gave me a warm hug, telling me “Welcome to America.” I had no words to say. I couldn’t even say how proud I was of being an Iranian American. My Iranian soul, my poetic well of memories, began to merge into my American soul, and I couldn’t separate one from the other.

For the first time in a long time, I recalled what it was to feel both Iranian and American. What’s more, for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel any hard feeling toward Iran. That moment was a moment of sharing humanity, a truly free world, where everyone loved everyone else.

The time spent waiting for my compatriot to arrive was made better by getting to know so many wonderful people. Finally, she was walking toward me.

“Shoma khoobid? How are you? You must be exhausted,” I said.

Her eyes glowed. She glanced around. “This,” she murmured, shaking her head with an unforgettable smile. “I can’t be better.”

“Welcome to America,” I said, grabbing her arm, walking her toward my car. We went through a narrow opening to get out of the terminal, while lips smiled, hands caressed our head and kindness poured over us. All my fears and anxiety vanished, and my sense of belonging settled back into its usual place of residence.