I did not worship him as some did, but I respected him deeply.

I believed he was doing what he thought was best for Iran and I was honored to serve him.

Being part of the entourage meant sacrificing any normal personal life.

I worked long hours, often starting before dawn and finishing after midnight.

My schedule was dictated entirely by the supreme leaders movements and needs.

I could not make plans with friends because I never knew when I would be called to duty.

I could not maintain relationships because no man wanted a wife who was never available.

My apartment in Thran was just a place to sleep between assignments.

My life was my work and my work was my life.

I told myself this was a worthy sacrifice.

I told myself I was serving something greater than myself.

I told myself that personal happiness was less important than national duty.

It was a Thursday evening in March 2023 when my phone rang with an American number I had not seen in years.

I was sitting in my apartment in Elah reviewing documents for an upcoming press conference.

The Supreme Leader was scheduled to address foreign journalists the following week and I needed to prepare translations for his expected remarks.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table and I glanced at the screen.

The number had a California area code.

My heart stopped for a moment.

I knew immediately who it was.

I had not spoken to my mother in almost 3 years.

Our last conversation had been brief and awkward.

She had called to wish me happy birthday and I had rushed her off the phone claiming I was busy with work.

The truth was I did not know what to say to her anymore.

We lived in different worlds now.

She was a stranger who shared my blood but nothing else.

I stared at the phone as it continued to ring.

Part of me wanted to ignore it and return to my documents.

But something made me reach for it.

Something made me press the green button and lift the phone to my ear.

I said hello and heard her voice for the first time in 3 years.

She sounded older than I remembered.

There was a tremor in her words that had not been there before.

But there was also something else, a warmth and a peace that seemed to flow through the phone line like sunshine.

She asked me how I was doing and I gave her short polite answers.

I told her work was going well.

I told her I was healthy and comfortable.

I did not tell her about my position with the supreme leader.

I did not tell her about the power and prest I had accumulated.

I did not tell her anything real because I did not trust her with my truth.

She listened patiently to my empty words.

And then she said something that caught me completely off guard.

She said she had something important to tell me.

She said her life had changed completely over the past year.

She said she had found something she had been searching for her entire life.

I asked her what she meant and she took a deep breathe before answering.

She said she had given her life to Jesus Christ.

She said she had been attending a church in Pasadena and had accepted Jesus as her Lord and Savior.

She said she had been baptized in the Pacific Ocean on Easter Sunday and it was the most beautiful day of her life.

She said she was born again and filled with the Holy Spirit.

She said she finally understood the purpose of her existence.

She said Jesus had set her free from years of pain and loneliness and regret.

And she said she wanted to share this gift with me.

I listened to her words in stunned silence.

My mother had always been a nominal Christian when I was a child.

She went to church on Christmas and Easter, but religion was never the center of her life.

She never talked about Jesus the way she was talking now.

There was passion in her voice.

There was conviction.

There was joy that seemed almost supernatural.

and it made me deeply uncomfortable.

I had spent nearly 20 years being taught that Christianity was a corrupted faith.

I had been told that the Bible had been changed and that Christians worshiped three gods instead of one.

I had been taught that Islam was the final and perfect revelation from Allah and that all other religions were false paths leading to hell.

My mother was telling me she had given her soul to a religion I had been trained to reject.

She was telling me she had found truth in a faith I considered a lie.

I did not know how to respond.

I felt anger rising in my chest.

I felt embarrassment that my mother had fallen for what I consider western religious nonsense.

I felt fear that she would try to pull me away from everything I had built.

I told her I was happy she had found peace, but that I was not interested in hearing about Jesus.

I told her my faith was Islam and I was devoted to it completely.

I told her I did not need a saving because I was not lost.

My voice was cold and sharp.

I could hear her wins through the phone.

She did not argue with me.

She did not try to convince me or debate theology.

She simply said she understood and that she would respect my beliefs.

But then she said something else.

She said she was going to pray for me every single day.

She said she was going to ask Jesus to reveal himself to me.

She said she believed with all her heart that one day I would know the truth and the truth would set me free.

Her words felt like an attack even though her tone was gentle.

I felt like she was placing a curse on me disguised as a blessing.

I told her I did not want her prayers.

I told her to keep her Jesus to herself.

I told her that her new religion was dangerous and foolish.

I told her that if anyone in Iran knew my mother was a Christian evangelist, it could destroy my career.

I told her she was being selfish by putting me at risk with her religious fanaticism.

My words were cruel and cutting.

I wanted to hurt her.

I wanted to make her stop.

I wanted to silence this Jesus talk before it infected my carefully constructed life.

She listened quietly until I finished my rant.

Then she said she loved me and she always would no matter what I said to her.

She said goodbye and hung up the phone.

I sat alone in my apartment holding the silent phone in my trembling hand.

I had just spoken to my mother for the first time in 3 years and I had used the opportunity to wound her as deeply as I could.

The phone calls continued over the following months.

My mother called me every few weeks despite my hostility.

Each time she would ask how I was doing and share small updates about her life and each time she would mention Jesus.

She would tell me about sermons she had heard at her church.

She would share Bible verses that had touched her heart.

She would describe the community of believers who had become her new family.

She would tell me about prayers that had been answered and miracles she had witnessed.

I responded with irritation and dismissal every single time.

I told her I did not want to hear about her religion.

I told her to stop trying to convert me.

I told her that Islam was the truth and Christianity was a deviation.

I quoted verses from the Quran that contradicted her beliefs.

I used arguments I had learned from Islamic scholars to attack her faith.

But nothing I said discouraged her.

She absorbed my attacks with patience and grace.

She never raised her voice or responded with anger.

She simply said she loved me and that Jesus loved me too.

Her persistence infuriated me.

Why could she not just accept that I had chosen my path? Why did she keep pushing her religion on me? Why did she refuse to give up? In the summer of 2024, I made a decision that I thought would solve the problem permanently.

I told my mother that I could no longer speak with her.

I told her that her constant talk about Jesus was disrespectful to my beliefs and dangerous to my posion.

I told her that if she could not have a conversation without mentioning Christianity, then we had nothing to talk about.

I told her I was cutting off all contact until she learned to respect my boundaries.

My mother was silent for a long moment.

I could hear her breathing softly through the phone.

When she finally spoke, her voice was thick with tears.

She said she was sorry I felt that way.

She said she would always be there for me whenever I was ready to talk again.

She said she would never stop loving me and she would never stop praying for me.

She said one day I would understand why she could not stay silent about the greatest gift she had ever received.

Then she said goodbye and I ended the call.

I blocked her number on my phone.

I deleted her contact information.

I erased every trace of her from my digital life.

I told myself I was protecting my career and my position.

I told myself I was doing what was necessary.

But late at night when I lay alone in my expensive apartment, I felt a hollowess in my chest that I could not explain.

I had just cut off the woman who had given me life.

I had rejected the mother who had held me in her arms and wept when I was taken from her.

I had silenced the only person in the world who loved me without wanting anything in return.

And somewhere deep inside me, in a place I refused to acknowledge, I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake.

The months that followed my decision to cut off my mother were supposed to bring me peace.

I had removed the source of my discomfort.

I had silenced the voice that kept challenging my beliefs.

I had protected my career and my position from the dangerous influence of her Christian faith.

But peace did not come.

Instead, something as strange began to happen inside me.

I started thinking about my mother constantly.

Her face appeared in my mind when I woke up in the morning.

Her voice echoed in my ears when I tried to fall asleep at night.

I remembered the way she used to hold me when I was a child in California.

I remember the smell of her perfume and the sound of her laughter.

I remember the small silver cross she had pressed into my palm at the airport when I was 10 years old.

I had thrown that cross away years ago when I fully embraced Islam.

But now I found myself wishing I still had it.

I could not understand what was happening to me.

I had built walls around my heart to keep my mother out.

But somehow she was breaking through those walls without even trying.

I told myself it was just nostalgia.

I told myself it was weakness that I needed to overcome.

I threw myself deeper into my work, hoping that busyiness would silence the longing in my chest.

The feeling intensified as the year 2025 came to an end.

December, I arrived with cold winds and gray skies over Tyran.

The city was busy with preparations for the new year, and I was busy with my duties as the supreme leader’s interpreter.

But no matter how hard I worked, the longing for my mother would not leave me alone.

It was like a hand pressing against my chest, pushing me toward something I could not name.

I would be sitting in meetings with government officials and suddenly I would see her face in my mind.

I would be reviewing speech transcripts and suddenly I would hear her voice saying she loved me.

One night in late December, I woke up from a dream that shook me to my core.

In the dream I was standing in a beautiful garden filled with flowers I had never seen before.

The colors were so vivid.

They seemed to glow with their own light.

My mother was standing at the other end of the garden, reaching out her hand toward me.

She was smiling with such pure joy that it made my heart ache.

I started walking toward her, but with every step I took, she seemed to move further away.

I tried to run, but my legs would not cooperate.

I called out to her, but no sound came from my mouth.

Then I woke up gasping for breath with tears streaming down my face.

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling as the first light of dawn crept through my window.

The dream had felt so real.

The longing to see my mother had become a physical pain in my chest that I could no longer ignore.

By the first week of January 2026, I made a decision that seemed completely irrational.

I decided I needed to see my mother.

The thought came to me suddenly while I was sitting at my desk in my apartment.

It was not a gradual realization.

It was an overwhelming compulsion that seized my entire being.

I needed to go to America.

I needed to see her face.

I needed to hear her voice.

I needed to be near her.

The feeling was so powerful that it frightened me.

This was not how I normally operated.

I was calculated and careful in everything I did.

I planned my decisions and weighed the consequences.

But this urge to see my mother defied all logic.

It made no sense given my career and responsibilities.

It made no sense given the tension between us.

It made no sense given everything I believed about her religion.

But I could not resist it.

The pool was stronger than anything I had ever experienced.

I knew that traveling to America would not be simple.

There were no direct flights between Iran and the United States.

The two countries had no diplomatic relations and travel between them was extremely complicated.

Iranian citizens face severe restrictions when trying to enter America.

The visa process was long and difficult and many applications were rejected without explanation.

But I had one advantage that most Iranian applicants did not have.

I was born in the United States.

I came into this world at Sedar Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, California.

I had an American birth certificate with my name on it.

This fact would not make the process easy, but it might make it possible.

I began researching the process immediately.

I learned that I would need to apply for a visa at the United States embassy or consulate in a third country.

The closest options were in Dubai or Ankara or Istanbul.

I chose Istanbul because Turkish airlines offered connecting flights from Thran and because I had heard the consulate their processed Iranian applications more regularly.

I gathered all the document I would need.

My Iranian passport, my American birth certificate which my father had kept in the safe all these years.

My employment records, bank statements showing my financial stability.

A letter from my employer confirming my position and salary.

An invitation letter from my mother in California.

I had to unblock her number and call her to request this letter.

When she heard my voice for the first time in over a year, she burst into tears.

She could barely speak through her soaps.

I told her I wanted to visit her and that I needed her to send me an official invitation letter.

She said yes immediately without asking any questions.

She said she would do anything to see me again.

She said she had been praying for this moment every single day since I cut her off.

Her words stirred something in my heart, but I pushed the feeling aside.

I had practical matters to focus on.

I could not afford to be emotional.

The invitation letter arrived by email 3 days later.

My mother had written it carefully, explaining that I was her daughter and that she wanted me to visit her at her home in Pasadena, California.

She included copies of her American passport and proof of her address.

I printed everything and added it to my growing file of documents.

In mid January, I booked a flight to Istanbul and scheduled an appointment at the United States consulate for a visa interview.

The earliest available appointment was 3 weeks away.

I would have to wait until early February just for the chance to sit before a consular officer and pled my case.

The waiting was agony.

Every day felt like a week.

I continued performing my duties as the supreme leader’s interpreter, but my mind was constantly elsewhere.

I kept thinking about my mother.

I kept wondering if my visa would be approved.

I kept asking myself why I was doing this.

What was this force that was driving me toward America? Why could I not simply ignore it and continue with my life? I had no answers.

I only had the relentless pool that would not let me rest.

I flew to Istanbul on February 3rd and checked into a modest hotel near the Sultan Ahmed district.

My visa interview was scheduled for February 5th at the United States consulate in the Estinia neighborhood.

I spent the day before the interview reviewing my documents and practicing answers to questions I expected them to ask.

Why did I want to visit America? How long did I plan to stay? What was my relationship with the person who invited me? Did I have any ties to the Iranian government? This last question worried me the most.

I was the personal
interpreter for the supreme leader of Iran.

I worked directly for the most powerful man in a country that America considered an enemy.

If the consular officers discovered the true nature of my job, they might reject my application immediately.

They might suspect I was a spy or a security threat.

I decided to describe my work vaguely.

I would say I was a translator for a government broadcasting organization.

I would not mention the supreme leader directly unless they asked specific questions.

I practice my answers in front of the bathroom mirror until they sounded natural and unrehearsed.

The morning of February 5th arrived cold and gray.

I dressed conservatively in dark colors and took a taxi to the consulate.

The building was surrounded by high walls and security checkpoints.

Armed guards examined my documents before allowing me to enter the waiting area.

I sat among dozens of other visa applicants from various countries.

Some looked nervous, others looked bored.

I felt my heart pounding against my ribs as I waited for my number to be called.

When my turn finally came, I approached the window and handed my documents to a sternfaced American woman behind the glass.

She examined my Iranian passport first and her expression remained unchanged.

Then I handed her my American birth certificate.

She looked at it carefully and her eyebrows rose slightly.

She typed something into her computer and I saw her expression softened just a fraction.

Being born in America clearly meant something.

It established a connection to the country that went beyond a simple tourist visit.

It proved that I had roots in the United States even though I had spent most of my life elsewhere.

The woman began asking questions.

Why did I want to visit America? I said I wanted to see my mother who lived in California.

How long had it been since I last saw her? I said over 20 years.

Why so long? I said, “My parents divorced when I was a child and I moved to Iran with my father.

” She nodded slowly as if this story made sense to her.

“What was my occupation?” I said, “I worked as a translator for a media organization in Thran.

” She typed something into her computer and studied the screen for a long moment.

Then she asked me to wait while she consulted with the supervisor.

I stood at that window for nearly 15 minutes while the woman disappeared into a back office.

My palms were sweating.

My mouth was dry.

I was certain they had discovered my connection to the Supreme Leader.

I was certain they were going to reject my application and send me back to Iran in shame.

But when the woman returned, she did not reject me.

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