Last night we had gone to this club in the city. Inside we saw this guy arguing with a coat check girl at the club, urging her to quit. It seemed like she was his ex girlfriend. She finally said that she had had enough of him and did not want anything to do with him anymore. He was ejected by the bouncer around 3:00 a.m. We heard him screaming drunken threats to shut this place down. He left but returned to the establishment with a plastic container with gasoline. He spread the fuel at the base of a staircase, the only access into the club, and then ignited the gasoline. The club had no fire exit, it only had one door. Some of those trapped punched a hole through a wall to an adjoining union hall in an attempt to escape. Eighty nine people died in the resulting fire, mostly from from asphyxiation or trampling.
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...

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