4. Matcha

 

I called my parents on the Monday after we came back from LA. I had to go to LA. As hard as it was to pack. As hard as it was to think of having a vacation and trying to relax and enjoy myself when bombs are falling around my childhood streets, parks, cafes and bookstores.

I had to do it for my daughter. Why should she be punished and have her trip cancelled when she has done nothing wrong? Her view about Iran was already shattered by the news. She was looking forward to seeing her grandma and her newly born cousin.

I did it also for my husband who wanted to see his friend, take a day or two off work and maybe even enjoy the fact that his parents and brother’s family were all in LA and not Tehran. I couldn’t deny him that.

I did it for myself because I needed to stay away from my phone and the horrific images. I was falling apart. I couldn’t eat much. I had thrown up a couple times. I was crying everyday by myself and sometimes in front of my family. I needed to regain my strength and stay strong for my family and especially my parents. 

When we came back to Palo Alto the situation seemed like it had gotten worse. How long will this go on? How long can people survive like this? How long can I go on like this, trying to live and go on in my world, the world before the war started, as if nothing had happened? How long? 

I called my parents on Facetime knowing too well that it won’t connect. I started dialing their number staring into nothingness feeling numb from tears and worry. It connected. My parents picked up after days of me trying to reach them through my friends who lived in California but their parents live in Iran, just like me. Torn between two worlds. My friends’ parents would call my parents in Tehran and ask them to call me. 

It connected. They looked hopeful and in control as usual. I was worried and shattered as a broken mirror. My dad was still hopeful and assuring me that they are fine and everything will be fine. Then my mom told me something that I will forever be grateful for.

Just as summer had started I had discovered Matcha. A Japanese green powder that had completely transformed my life. I was suffering from so many migraines and digestive problems and then I came upon a video talking about the health benefits of Matcha. People were lining up in Palo Alto at a Matcha place that had recently opened and it seemed crazy to me to stand in such a long line because I actually tried it once and hadn’t liked it. Too bitter for ice cream. But I thought now that I knew about the benefits, I should give it another try. 

Before the war started, I had shared in a phone call with my parents about Matcha. I knew it could help my mom too. I had shared pictures of it and how I make it at home and how it had transformed my life to a life without pain along with Iron supplements, that my mom had actually always asked me to take. You and I are both anemic, she always said. 

That day in the fog of war, confusion and worry my mom shared that today she had gone to get groceries in Tehran and found Matcha. This was not bread or eggs or even chicken. It was Matcha. She showed me the package she had bought. I was almost in tears again but I held it together this time. 

As the bombs were falling and the number of dead and injured rising, I was still trying to drink Matcha. Now I thought of it as the elixir for a pain free life, the magic green potion. I needed to keep the pain away, especially now. I needed to hold onto something that was unchanged. There was no way I could take on the pain of migraines and the war at the same time. I would crumble. But I kept thinking about the fact that the thought of my mom finding Matcha is now such a farfetched and an unachievable thought in the midst of an actual war.