A memory I have of school days was when we went to Tajrish. There was guy there who would always be walking through the bazaar with his arms stretched out and was supposedly blind. He would be constantly yelling out “آی برادران کمک کنید....” and when people placed money in his hand he would pray for them. We used to play the game “کی کجا با کی چکار میکرد” and it was always hard to come up with all the names even after using all of our classmates and teachers so his name somehow got in the mix. Since we didn’t know his name we just referred to him as “آی برادران”. One night we had gone to Shahr’e Bazi next to Evin Prison and Atisaz buildings and it was the end of the night and we were leaving when outside we saw someone sitting on the curb that kinda looked like him. My friend told me to get closer and see if it was in fact him but his head was kinda down and it was dark anyway so I wasn’t able to tell. So my friend said go and ask him but I didn’t want to and he kept insisting so finally I said “اصلا برم چی بگم؟ ازش بپرسم ببخشید شما آی برادران هستید؟” And with saying that we both burst out laughing. And to top it off amidst our laughter the guy suddenly got up and started shouting “آی برادران کمک کنید....”
"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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