An Architecture of Connection - PART 6: No Longer Following the Story
Thank you for your patience these past few weeks. I had to step away unexpectedly due to a family illness. I’m back and grateful you’re still here.
Previously: On a late-night flight to Tehran, I spotted Mayor Karbaschi boarding the plane. A series of small, strange alignments had led to this moment, and something in me felt I was meant to speak with him. I didn’t know exactly why, but I crossed the curtain anyway—and what unfolded felt both ordinary and quietly momentous.
Read the previous post by following the link below.
“Jenab Karbaschi (Mr. Karbaschi, but very formal), I was wondering if you’d allow me to make a short film about you?” I finally asked after a lull in the conversation.
He smiled, a little taken aback. “You know, a lot of filmmakers have approached me about this, and I’ve said no.”
I registered the resistance but chose to ignore it.
“It would be a short film. Nothing extravagant. A student project,” I said, each sentence meant to prop up the one before it. Everyone wants to help a student.
“How many days will you be in Tehran?” he asked, suddenly serious, brows furrowed, glancing down at the paper he had been writing on before my arrival.
“Ten days. I will be a fly on the wall. You won’t even know I’m there,” I said, continuing to push, sensing the doorway opening with each nudge.
Karbaschi looked up at me, smiled, shook his head as if chastising himself ahead of time for a foolish decision he was about to make.
“We will meet at my Hamshahri office,” he said suddenly. His tone had already become official. The energy no longer felt like a meet-and-greet. He was establishing the power dynamic. I wanted something from him, and he was making it clear he’d be the one calling the shots.
Wait! Did that actually work?
Calmly, he began giving me instructions, the same way I later saw him direct the army of people who were happy to serve under him.
“Write down this number,” he commanded gently but with a voice that was less alive than before.
“And give me your house number too. My assistant, Mr. Tehrani, will call you at 9 a.m. sharp tomorrow.”
I did my best to stay composed, to act as if I’d expected him to say yes all along. I wrote down the number he gave me in my small notebook without flinching. But inside, I was stunned. A whole symphony of screams echoed through my mind and chest. What had started as a small dare—a way to test my mettle—had quickly turned into something else. It felt like a doorway into something larger: a chance to participate in what, at the time, felt like a quiet revolution.
I was being given access to a leader who was trying to elevate the needs of the people within a system that insisted it always knew best. Another small step toward answering the question gripping the country: Can a political system be both Islamic and democratic?
Let me be clear about where I stood in all of this. It’s not like I believed I could actually be part of the country’s democratization movement. I was thinking “big,” but staying small, never allowing myself a bird’s-eye view of my role. I piddled around, content to be titillated, to have adventures, to dip my toes into the game and play the side character—even though I knew I could be much more. Where was I going with these interests, drives, compulsions, talents? What was the point? Those answers came much later.
But asking Karbaschi to make a film about him was also personal.
I hadn’t lived in Iran for years. I wasn’t fully considered Iranian anymore, not by those around me, and at times, not even by myself. Dreaming up this project felt like a way back in. A way to prove—to them, and to me—that I still belonged.
I wanted to get back to my seat so I could digest what had just happened. I shook Karbaschi’s hand and told him I was looking forward to our meeting tomorrow.
“What happened?!” Nargess asked breathlessly, back in economy.
“I’m gonna make a student film about Karbaschi,” I said, dazed, hoping that speaking the words out loud would bring my new reality home.
I don’t think Nargess believed me. Her eyes said, You’re just making this up, right? She was speechless for a moment, then finally let out a quiet, “Wow.” It didn’t matter. Still reeling from the shock, I was only half aware of the world around me.
The plane landed well after midnight. I grabbed a taxi and got home around three or so in the morning.
My dad was propped up in my parents’ king-sized bed, wide awake despite the hour. He was in bad shape, but better than I’d expected. The stroke had weakened the entire left side of his body. His face was drooping, and he was struggling to speak, but I don’t think I’d ever seen him happier to see me. He couldn’t stop smiling.
I thought it would break me, seeing the man who had carried so much presence—the life of most parties—now subdued and struggling. But instead, I felt relief. Gratitude. I was there. I had made it. We were together. The whole family. And that felt like… everything.
What stood out most, and shaped my reaction more than anything, was his determination. Even then, just days after the stroke, it was clear he was intent on regaining his mobility. What I loved most about my dad was still there. The heart attack and the stroke hadn’t touched his unruly and enduring spirit.
Glad for a chance to bring some lightness into the room, I began to share the news.
“Karbaschi was on the Frankfurt flight,” I said hesitantly.
“Who?” I heard someone ask.
“Gholam Hossein Karbaschi, the mayor,” I said a little louder.
“What?! No way! Wow!” They responded. Even my usually apolitical family were taken with him.
“I went up to him and started a conversation,” I continued. My father suddenly smiled, a flicker of admiration on his face. My mom shot me a skeptical look, probably worried I’d done something reckless again.
“I approached him about making a short film,” I continued.
“And he agreed.”
I checked their reactions again. I desperately wanted my parents’ approval in those days. I’m sure that was a part of why I’d approached Karbaschi to begin with. My father’s eyes held that familiar knowing look that said: Of course you jumped into the adventure. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
But there was something else going on.
When I went home for the first time in the summer of my fifth year in the U.S., an outspoken cousin, nearly twenty years my senior, came over with her family for a visit. We were all gathered in the living room when she gave voice to something I’d been quietly feeling since my arrival.
“You’re not even a real Iranian anymore. You’re an American now,” she had said offhandedly.
From the point of view of those who want to but can’t, Iranians who leave for the West are seen as the lucky ones—the ones who escaped. Maybe comments like hers are a way to even the playing field, to wrest back some of that perceived advantage. You can’t have it both ways, her words seemed to say. And she wasn’t wrong.
What people who haven’t had to forge a third, in-between culture often don’t register is just how cutting a statement like that can be—no matter how true. How much it can feel like a quiet shunning.
I looked to my father, who was sitting right next to her, to see if he felt the same way.
“No. Not true,” he said softly, noticing the shattered look on my face.
“Belonging” after emigration is a strange thing. It didn’t take long after entering the reformist political space in Iran to realize that living in the West, working at NASA, being affiliated with a good university granted me access to spaces that were harder to enter for those inside the country.
People wanted to be close to what felt like a breath of fresh air, that unfamiliar part of me that came across as the promise of possibility. They wanted to know what it was like across the water, how possible it was to move there, and whether I could help make it happen.
And yet, the more doors opened, the more I felt like both an insider and an outsider. There was no true homecoming, no matter how much access I was granted. I was being let in because I was an outsider. And that truth was embedded in so many of the interactions, even if unspoken.
My mom, who had been up every night since arriving from the U.S., looked at me quizzically. Being the caretaker-in-chief had understandably made her practical. We’re dealing with life and death here, and you’re chasing a whimsical opportunity? I could almost hear her thinking.
“Making a film? When did you start making films?” she asked, kind enough to engage rather than shut me down.
I hadn’t shared my interest in film with her because if something smelled like following a dream, she had trouble trusting it. Married to an adventurous gambler and living in a post-revolutionary Iran that was growing more unpredictable, who could blame her for the perspective she’d developed?
I had shared my musings about becoming an actor with my dad when I was entertaining the option a few years back. “why the hell not baba… zendegeeto bokon, lezzat bebar (just live your best life and enjoy it)!” he had said. As long as it didn’t intersect with politics, my father was always up for a sideways adventure—the naughtier and more counter-culture, the better.
His smile was getting wider as he sat with the idea of me making a film about Karbaschi. Everyone was more hopeful during those days. It was the first time since the revolution that a more open political system felt remotely possible.
“His office might call in the morning,” I added cautiously. I was wary of being pounced on for being too hopeful, too eager, too gullible, in case the call never came.
I heard a chorus of ridiculing laughter.
“Aareh, to besheen taa eena behet zang bezanan (Yeah, you go ahead and wait for them to call you)!” my mother said sarcastically, making my brother laugh again.
“Baabaa sar-e kaaret gozaashteh (Dude, he’s just messing with you)!” my brother said softly, suddenly feeling sorry for me.
My dad kept smiling, still tickled that I had even approached Karbaschi and made an ask.
Maybe I am being naive… How did I ever believe this guy had time for little old me?
“Maman, they're probably not going to call, but will you be on the lookout anyway and wake me up if they do?”
It was around 5 a.m. when I made my way to the makeshift floor-bed someone had prepared for me. I had one final thought before passing out, utterly exhausted: something strange had happened to me, and it wasn’t really about Karbaschi. Even if the call never came, I knew that in the midst of the confusion and uncertainty of those times, I had stepped into what I can only now call authorship. Something in me knew that I was in the story at that point, not just following it.
My brave friend, I admire your courage. I’m not sure what would I do seeing that crap man!
Looking forward for the next episode. ❤️
I'm so glad you're back! I love this story and can't wait to hear more. <3
I hope everything is OK.