I was six. A little Persian girl sitting at the airport in Frankfurt Germany. 1984 I believe. My mom and sister were sitting besides me. My father stayed in Iran. Little did I know, that those were the last moments I would spend in my life, as I knew it. The next thing I remember, was waking up in a crib style hospital bed. I was a victim of a terrorist bomb left in a trash-can on the 2nd floor. We were lucky. Several people lost their lives. I just had a skull fracture…4×4, maybe 17 stitches.
That bomb changed my life. It was one of the last moments I remember feeling like a part of a normal family.
After a few years, through seemingly unrelated events, we moved to the United States. My father remained in Iran, coming to visit when his work allowed. I never called. I barely wrote. I last saw him in 1995. Seven years passed and he died of a heart attack, in Iran. We were a universe away, not at his bedside. This was the second Bomb in my life. I had been part of a family torn apart by borders and politics. This bomb exploded within me. It simmered and boiled until it flooded over the edges, debilitating me with a depression that haunts me to this day.
I try not to be a victim though. I’ve dedicated most of my time to giving more and consuming less. I think we all share a common thread. . . a bomb that detonates in our life that either hinders us, or propels us forward. I’d like the chance to tell my story.
