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Obligatory hijab still nests in me. It strikes again as I land in Iran. The young officer has beard stubble and wears an olive shirt that bears the golden thread insignia of the word Allah on his right chest. His eyes are surrounded by heliotrope hollows. He looks tired and disengaged, and doesn’t bother to raise his eyes to look at the one who claims to be the holder of the passport. He doesn’t say welcome to Iran. How I wish I could enter that garden one more time to see those fiery rings. But my mother tells me — before I go back in 2018 — that the Sun Street is closed to the public. Nobody knows what has happened to that house since the Islamic governmen.
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