Ma’soumeh will be late returning home, because the day is sunny,

Because a ceasefire is declared, because The Theatre Park is stuffed

With students who talk to her, so it’s after three when she remembers

She promised her mother to help with visit of a bereaved friend

-to make the coffee while they talk. She hurries to the metro, entering

a middle carriage rather than the women-only, crossing the city centre

to Azadegan and home. “Sorry, sorry, I forgot,” she tells her mother

who is in the kitchen. “It’s all right, my dove,” Yasmin says, “She’s under

stress, I’m making her food, go and talk to her. She’s Ziba. She goes.

“Auntie Ziba, hello I’m Ma’soum……..her words tail off because she knows

The woman is not hearing. She is silent and rigid on the sofa. She waits

Hoping her mother will arrive, but minutes go by without any change.

Unable to bear it longer she sits down beside Ziba, shoulder to shoulder

Cheek against taut cheek and is silent. Slowly Ziba’s anger and cold

Grief begin to seep into the child, an unimaginable desolation opens

Within her, so that she cannot speak or move but only share a sobbing

which suddenly comes from Ziba, who pulls her across her breast as

Yasmin runs in and embraces them both, weeping. Minutes pass

Until Ziba says, “Thank you, thank you, my sweet, my dear child,

for reminding me that although my child is dead, I am still alive.

“Tell us,” Yasmin whispers, “Tell us what happened.” Ziba settles

Into the sofa. “It was the third day of the protests, some rebels

Had been killed, but Soraya said she needed to share the danger

And I tried to argue, but she was resolute, “I’ll be fine, see you later”

After four hours she was not home so I went to find her. Some protesters

Told me there was shooting at the Velayat Parks. When I got there, no molesters

Only bodies on the asphalt by the go-carts. I shouted her name

And a weeping girl pointed me to a bundle on the ground, which became

Soraya, at least her clothes, her face was gone. ‘She ran,’ they told me ‘So

They shot her legs and she fell. Then they stood above her, with slow

brutality and shot her face. We are at college with her: she is a martyr.’

That’s what happened to my girl. So, I hate the government of my gangster

 Nation as much as Donald Trump and all his bombs.” “It’s like I’m born here,”

Ma’soumeh says, “From now on, I will always fight your daughter’s corner.”