Portside

I Am a Refugee

By Majid Naficy

For Zohreh

I'm left alone in this big elevator

With a dream of a piece of land in my head.

Down there:

A refreshing scent of lawn,

See-saws, swings, roller-coasters,

And the honk of an ice cream truck.

Up there:

A depressing letter from Iran,

Old pictures,

Hard French spelling

And unwashed dishes.

I am a refugee.

I heard the news of my husband’s execution in the foyer

Where the telephone never stopped ringing.

In the dining room we put his picture on the wall

And along with Chilean refugees we held a moment of silence.

Rosa was restless,

And no one knew French.



Since then four years have passed.

The Chileans have returned to Chile

Rosa speaks French,

And my hair has grown gray.

My neighbors are all Arab workers.

Every morning we take our small kids to school

And come back with big baguettes.

Sometimes we get together at CGT parties.*

We smile at each other

In a crowded dance,

And watch fireworks, and political films.

The weight of Rosa doesn't allow me

To see the defeat of fascism.



At the time of our escape to Turkey

Rosa was eight months old.

But her father was arrested

Two days before our departure.

All along the way

From the gate of Khoy in Iran

To the lake of Van in Turkey

Someone was pulling me back,

But I did not let go of my horse's mane.

All hills were full of flowers,

And there was no sound but

The whispering of our Kurdish guides.

Istanbul was only a hotel for me

With a constant flow of refugees,

Water shutoffs and police raids.



Now I am in the city of Lyon,

Lenin Boulevard, Building 23.

Have I left something somewhere?

I push nine and come back.

When the elevator opens,

I hear nothing in the dark hall

But the barking of our neighbor's dog.

I return to the elevator.

“Hurry up! Rosa will get restless.”

Two empty eyes look at me

And an open mouth asks:

“Quel étage, madame?”

I push the button and stand silent.

Is there a piece of land where I can find peace?

May 20, 1987

*- “General Confedaration of Labor” in France.

Majid Naficy, the Arthur Rimbaud of Persian poetry, fled Iran in 1983, a year and a half after the execution of his wife, Ezzat in Tehran. Since 1984 Majid has been living in West Los Angeles. He has published two collections of poetry in English: Muddy Shoes (Beyond Baroque, Books, 1999) and Father and Son (Red Hen Press, 2003) as well as his doctoral dissertation at UCLA Modernism and Ideology in Persian Literature (University Press of America, 1997). Majid has also published more than twenty books of poetry and essay in Persian.