Ma’ soumeh is a quiet girl aged 12 who lives in Tehran.

After studies, she likes to walk through the city wearing

Discreet Islamic clothing, with aim of seeing the birds

She knows and loves, ordinary ones -she might flirt

With storks, but doves, woodpeckers, bulbuls, sparrows,

are her true delight; and although she does not relish parrots’

screeching she likes their green impudence. A solitary female

is suspect by the Morality Police but they are not so brave

during the US/ Israel bombing. If a siren sounds or explosions

are near she knows the nearest below-street car-park will cushion

the blast. She stops at a bench to eat the lunch her mum provided,

stew with rice, from her thermos. It’s not very hot but it slides

down easily as a reminder of home. Last week the tall hedge

to her left was full of nesting bulbuls with chicks since when

much of its leafage has been blown away. As she leans into it

a uniformed arm snakes round her neck and pulls. She bites

hard, without thinking. “Dirty little bitch” a voice says. She turns

to see a woman officer from The Morality Police nursing an arm.

“Sorry” she says, “I thought you were a man, attacking me. I’m trained

To react.” “Quite well trained,” the policewoman says, “You’ve maimed

Me.” “So sorry, I’ve got my first aid kit here. Let me wipe it, see the skin

Is bruised not broken. This is an antiseptic plaster. It was my uncle

He’s in the Quds, taught me self-defence.” “How did I get into this fankle?

You’re tough, you’re smart, and your uncle is in Quds. What’s his name?”

“He’s Kouroosh Khorani.” “KK, yes I’ve seen him on TV. He’s famous.”

“Don’t worry, he knows I’m a pest.” “So, what are you doing all on your own,

Peering at bushes?” “Birdwatching.” “Why?” “They’re so beautiful. Look

These are bulbuls, nesting. The female is feeding the chicks. A drone shook

Their bush to bits but this nest survived.” “Ah, she’s neat, grey, and brown

like a good muslim woman!”  “And a black headscarf too!” “But down

there, a bright yellow ass, that beats us.” “Vent, the bird books say, and listen,

the male is on that tree, singing.” “A chook-chook, then a flutey bit. Is he whistling

at us?” “At other birds, who might raid the nest. But come round this side

and see what the drone did.” Splattered outwards for thirty yards lie

bits of nest and bird, a wing, a head, the scrawny dinosaur of a chick.

“As they say, the death of a civilisation,” the policewoman says, quickly

Standing upright as a car passes by. “Peacemaking is not so hard,”

The girl ventures. “Yeah, we just did it,” the adult agrees, “perhaps

The big guys must learn to birdwatch. Thanks for your lesson,

And good luck. My name is Nazanin. And yours?” “Ma’soumeh.”