Last time I was in California I paid a visit to the Universal
Studio's, there was an native American section, there was a big shop
which sold Sioux souvenirs, there worked Sioux guys there (maybe mixed
and not 100% Indian) I was looking to the pictures of their leaders and
their arts. It was a hot summer and I was everyday at the beach so I was
very brownish, I also had long hair. A guy told me where I am from, I
told him from Senegal, he said you don't look African at all, I said I
am originally from Iran. Then that guy said Great God, I thought you
were native American too, an older guy told me that he also believed
that the Sioux have caucasian influences, so they have a big nose and
bigger eyes, not a little nose and narrow eyes as the Mongolians, but
very interesting was the motifs on their carpets, which that old wise
man said also they look very Iranian, I saw a book with all of Sioux
motifs in it, also their religion resembles ours, their God is
Wakan Tanka, which means like holy spirit, this is like the
pre-Zoroastrian Aryan religion, in which Zarvan Akarnush was the time
unlimited and there was a holy spirit (Spenta mainyu/ Espдnd Minu) and
an angry spirit (Angra Mainyu/ Дhrimдn). Zarathustra introduced
monotheism, by which Ahura Mazda was the only God, but the holy
spirit remained as a divine force, but the angry spirit was regarded as a
destructive evil force, the devil.
So I think that there should have been a people who have emigrated to the America's from our region, some 4000 years ago.
"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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