Letter I

It is the second week of the war. The internet is cut, and after years I have bought stamps and an envelope to write to you. I live in a city whose people have learned to say some things more slowly, some things not at all, and some things they keep only in their food, in the silences between words, and in their hearts, until the pain grows beyond bearing. That is when their hands clench into fists and their throats into screams.

In a time when the rift between people has widened, war does not only tear down buildings. It builds walls between people too. Between friends. Between families. Between those who have lived side by side for years.

Everyone is tired, everyone is wounded, and a wound makes a person merciless.
Each one thinks their own pain is more real.
Their own truth more complete, their own suffering deeper.

We have become like scattered islands, and in this scattering, I move constantly between the islands.

These days I often go to visit my friend's mother. She has Alzheimer's. I sit beside her and pull memories from the corners of her mind.

A while ago, after seeing her, I walked for long hours with no particular destination... my heart was heavy... not only for her.

My heart was heavy for everything.
For a country that I sometimes feel is losing its memory.
For people who no longer understand each other's language.
For friendships that fell to pieces under the weight of disagreement.

Sometimes I am afraid.
Afraid we too will become like her.
That we will forget each other's names. Forget each other's pain. Forget each other's embrace.

My mind is scattered... forgive me.

You asked me for the recipe of an Iranian stew, and these days all I can think about is ghormeh sabzi. Strange, is it not? To tell you the truth, ghormeh sabzi is the one dish I neither cook nor love. I never understood why everyone is so in love with it. The smell of fenugreek has always been a little heavy for me, and that limoo amani at the bottom of the stew has weighed on my heart more than it has lifted it.

I think about ghormeh sabzi not only as a dish, but as a way of thinking. Something that, in this age of haste, still demands patience, reflection, attention, a measure of slowness.

We live in a time when everything wants to be ready quickly. Words, judgments, answers. Ghormeh sabzi is the kind of dish that is ruined by haste. We too are short of such time, of a place to settle.

Did you know that the most beloved dish of this land is made of things that have nothing in common with one another? Parsley, cilantro, leeks, fenugreek, pinto beans, meat, limoo amani.

If one of them tries to make everything like itself, the dish is ruined.
Too much fenugreek turns it bitter.
Leeks alone do not have enough flavor.
Plain parsley in ghormeh sabzi is meaningless.
The beans are firm. The meat is slow to cook.
And yet none of them is charged with erasing the others.
They just stay beside one another. They soften their own sharpness.
Perhaps the way of living together is just this.

Perhaps salvation does not come from one flavor winning. It comes from all the flavors settling together.
Just staying beside one another. Just enough that the flavors do not go to war.

The recipe is simple:

First, chop the herbs. Herbs are like sorrow... if they stay in one piece, they cannot be swallowed easily. They must be chopped until they can be digested. Turn on the pan, keep the flame low, and sauté the herbs with patience. A low flame does to herbs what time does to your thoughts and beliefs. It softens their sharp scent. You must stay with them a long while before it becomes clear what they really want to say. The making of certain things requires patience and practice. Like trust. Like friendship. Like learning.

Mix the herbs with the meat that has been sautéed separately with onions and the beans, and pour it all into the pot. Add water.

Pierce the limoo amani. If bitterness has no way out, it poisons everything.

Let the stew simmer slowly. Now and then, skim the foam from the top. Add the salt at the end... just enough...

The sound of the air defenses has begun. The sky is full of colored stars. I can now tell, from the sounds, the difference between air defense and drone and missile and bomb... it never occurred to me that one day, distinguishing between these sounds, packing a survival bag, taping the windows, volunteering at the hospital at the end of the alley would become part of my daily life.

If one day you read this letter and I am no longer here, cook ghormeh sabzi.
Not in memory of me.
To remember that life is made of small things.
Of the steam of rice.
Of a hand cleaning herbs.
Of a love that made you bigger.
Of the smile that settles on your face when a dear friend, after every bombing, sends a message: "Are you okay?"

Life probably never becomes complete. Time carries many things away with it. Memory fades. Sometimes fear settles into your body.

But one can still live.
One can still learn.
One can still love.
One can still stay beside one another.
Even when we are not this much alike.

...

...

The sounds have stopped...

It is time to set your plates, to serve your rice, and to ladle the stew into the most beautiful dish you have.
Perhaps the only way of saving ourselves is just this: sitting beside one another and eating ghormeh sabzi. Because when it is finally ready, you do not say how long it took. You only understand that it was worth it. Just like life.