March 1963
The moon hung like a carcanet in the purple sky and the air smelled of woodsmoke and roasted nuts. Parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors all gathered in the streets. Some of us ate sweet beets we’d bought from the beet-seller’s cart. Others tossed sugared almonds into their mouths.
On the last Tuesday night before the spring equinox brought in the Persian New Year, we lit bonfires. It was tradition to run toward the flames and jump over them to release bad energy and bring in goodness and vitality for the new year.
Now this avenue—this part of the night—belonged to us. Students from Tehran University, Polytechnic University, and Bazargani University stood around in groups. Most of us girls wore trousers. I hopped in place, trying to stay warm in my navy peacoat, scarf, and deep crimson leather gloves.
Next to me, Mehrdad panted, bent over with his hands on his knees. “Making the leap is really not that hard, Ellie,” he said in between gulps of breath. “Anticipating it is scarier than when you’re actually doing it.”
I had jumped over a few smaller bonfires that night but was intimidated by the tall flames of the largest one. Only a few brave girls dared try “the mother of bonfires,” and the ones who did were athletes who had mastery over their limbs, confidence in their physical prowess, and a need for adrenaline.
“It looks impossible,” I said.
Mehrdad straightened and touched my cheek. “I wouldn’t lie to you. You’ll be fine. Go line up. I’ll be cheering you on.”
If he thought I could do it, then maybe I could. He wouldn’t put me in danger, would he? He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze and let go.
I walked to the group waiting their turn to jump over the largest fire and lined up behind a girl I recognized from high school. She nodded hello. I smiled nervously.
In the chilly night air, I rubbed my gloved hands together. Smoke caught in my throat and filled my lungs. I both craved the warmth of the fire and dreaded it. What if my shoe grazed the tip of a flame and my entire body lit ablaze? And why wasn’t Homa here? Why did she care more about her Marxist meetings than about our own Persian traditions?
The line moved up. Soon it would be my turn. I felt I’d made a big mistake. I looked at the sidelines to find Mehrdad. But beyond a few feet, it was too hazy to see. A layer of smoky film made the world indefinite.
The sound of laughter—youthful merriment from the belief that the world is set up for your amusement, your pleasure, your plans—carried into a new year on a wind so dry it almost crackled.
I was suddenly barreled into and almost knocked over. “Have you tried it already, Ellie?”
She wore black pants and her usual no-frills black coat. Her hair circled her face in a wild, curly mane. Her voice was excited and filled with joy.
I hugged her. She smelled like hookah smoke. “What happened—your communist meeting got too boring?”
“The meeting was fine.” Homa nudged her hip against mine. “But I didn’t want to miss out on this with you.”
She wore no gloves. I thought she should have put her hair up; I worried that it would catch on fire when she jumped. “Mehrdad says thinking about how difficult it could be is worse than actually doing it.”
Homa grabbed my gloved hand in her bare one. “We’ll both do it!”
“You want to go first?”
“We’ll jump together.”
“There’s no way. We’ll collide. It’ll block our momentum.”
We had moved up in line as we spoke.
The girl in front of us jogged in place, prepping for her sprint. I envied her confidence. Cheers emanated from onlookers as she dashed to the fire and sailed over it like an Olympic high-jumper.
Then we were next. Homa tightened her hold on my hand and took off. I had no choice but to run with her. Together we rushed toward the flames until the wind changed from chilly to scorching and heat spread across my face. It felt like we would dive into the blaze and run right through the fire.
Out of habit, out of tradition, out of the memory in my genes from my ancestors, I shouted at the top of my lungs the traditional chant of “Sorkhiyeh to az man, Zardiyeh man az to!” Asking the flames to give me their energy and vibrancy and to take away my weariness and dullness. My voice was not alone—Homa’s was in sync with mine. We were almost up against the fire now. We had to rush into it headlong or jump.
We jumped.
Time slowed down. My body buzzed itself calm. The blood running through me was charged.
Floating suspended in the air, all the rest of it blacked out—it was just us up there, flying, flames practically licking at our shoes, the air hazy and dreamy, smoke swirling into our hair, flecks of fire landing on our ankles softly as fireflies. We rid ourselves of the toxic and shed burdens from the past year to enter our new year cleansed. Cleansed by the smoke of the fire. Cleansed by the rush of adrenaline that coursed through our limbs. Cleansed by the soaring leap. Hovering above everything like that, the world felt completely ours.
And then we thudded onto our knees. My wrist turned backward; Homa’s body was splayed. With effort, she staggered onto all fours and helped me up. Together we stood upright and stumbled out of the way so the next person could land behind us.
We walked until we located the shape of Mehrdad on the sidelines. Homa swung my arm up in victory.
I inhaled the night air, amazed and slaphappy at our unaccountable flight.
Unaware that it would be our last.