Meeting an Iraqi in Hyatt Hotel’s Elevator in Tehran after the War

He got in on the 20^th floor. Handsome.

“An Iranian?

A foreigner?”

I asked myself.

He looked both familiar and strange.

His beard was familiar

But the look in his brown eyes…

“Where are you from?” I dared.

“Iraq”

I startled. Leaned against the corner.

The last country on the planet

That I expected, though a neighbor.

“What are you doing here?”

“Playing Volleyball.”

“Playing Volleyball!” I yelled loud.

“You killed my uncle,

Made my pregnant aunt widowed

My cousin Mohammad orphaned before he was born.

And my friend Fatima was only twelve

When you killed her father

She- she fainted over her father’s coffin.

You killed millions of young men

Sons, brothers, fathers, uncles

Destroyed people’s houses and cities

Bombed our schools, and hospitals

To come here to play Volleyball?!”

I ringed my hands round his neck

“You are dead man!

You’d better not come!

You are soooo dead!”

The elevator stopped on the ground floor.

“Welcome to Iran”

I heard my soft voice though could not smile.

And he stretched out his arm towards the door,

“After you, lady”

And I stepped out.

A breath in peace.

The next day I heard

Iran-Iraq Volleyball game result

Was equal, too.