College Essay

         We landed at four in the morning, mere hours before the election booths opened in Tehran. My parents were both born and raised in Iran, but this was my first visit. It was an overwhelmingly strange feeling, being in a country where everything from the culture and tradition to food and religion was different. It felt surreal at first. It didn’t immediately occur to me that I was seven thousand miles away from home in a country where the Bill of Rights meant nothing; however, it didn’t take long for that realization to set in.

         After a short rest, my parents excitedly went to the voting booths. Every one in my family, along with millions of Iranians, voted for the pro-reform candidate Mir-Hossein Moussavi, who promised to lead the country toward democracy and open up Iran to the growing west. Every news station predicted Mr.Moussavi would be victorious, but when the results came in, the incumbent Mahmoud Ahmadinejad declared victory. This meant at least four more years of social injustice and economic depression under a repressive theocratic regime. What I heard from my family and many others in Tehran was, “Where is my vote?” What I saw in the streets tied my stomach in knots.

         Millions of frustrated Iranians flooded the streets. Clashes erupted between the security forces and protesters. Tear gas burned people’s eyes, police dragged protesters by their legs, bullets pierced chests, and innocent lives were lost. The world saw the picture of Neda, the young woman who was shot and killed, and I saw the brutality of a government towards its own people with my frightened eyes. I felt so much anger towards my parents, and yet I felt so guilty to be angry. Why was I here when all my friends were enjoying their summer on the beautiful beaches in Florida? But then, how about my relatives in Iran, didn’t they have the right to taste freedom?

         One gloomy evening in my uncle’s house - he himself a man who carried the scars of this brutal regime-I started to replay the events in my head and thought about what I had witnessed during those three weeks in Iran. The famous words of Patrick Henry echoed in my head, “Give me Liberty, or give me Death.” Isn’t that what Neda died for?  Suddenly, I was not angry at my parents any more. I was grateful to be in Tehran to witness a nation’s struggle for democracy. For the first time I realized how fortunate I was to be an American. I understood how precious the gift of liberty is.

          We finally boarded the airplane to return home, and from the corner of my eyes, I saw tears streaming down my mother’s fresh wrinkles. I grabbed her hand and told her, “Mom things will get better for Grandma, I promise.” When I returned home, I was not the same person living in my own bubble in Florida. I had seen the world and how the other half lives.