We Live in a Singing World by Iman Habibi (Sparks & Wiry Cries)
By Iman Habibi
We live in a singing world. Growing up in the ’90s in the post-war metropolis of Tehran, my family, like many others, would often take refuge in shomal (“North”), a beautifully green and lush area between the Alborz mountains and the Caspian Sea. We were mostly off-grid. The well water was unsafe to drink so we had to drive to the nearest town to fill large containers with drinking water. Electricity was intermittent and more often out, so we relied on oil heaters and gas stoves, and to make phone calls, we had to drive to a call center in the nearest town. There was a lot of time to spend alone, in the company of family or nature, with the citrus and pomegranate trees my grandfather had planted, which made a sublime addition to the fragrant jasmine and rose bushes.
As a child, I remember walking through laurel-hedged gardens speaking to dew-dropped leaves. The fig tree was a perfect climb, and I took my books there to read, taking extra care to not touch the white fig sap or the leaves that could easily irritate the skin. The small ants loved climbing the sweet fig tree too, and that was perfectly fine by me. I always enjoyed watching ants at work, laboriously carrying things up and down the branches. In a clearing of clouds, the night sky enshrined its glittering treasure chest. You didn’t have to look up for long to see a shooting star. The background music was divine; the birds took care of the descant, and the pedal came from the sea breeze as it rustled through a row of stout poplar trees across the street. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the poplar trees. The roosters were the most reliable alarm clocks. The small tractors on the road or the song of the adhan (prayer call) from the mosque of the nearby village were gentle reminders that other people were around. Read More