In middle school we were taught that if we owed anyone money after we had died we would have to pay it back with our good deeds on Judgement Day. One student asked if it was possible that when we were buried they would put money in out shroud since on Judgement Day we would probably be wearing the same outfit we were buried in and as such we could simply take the money out of our shroud and hand it to whoever we owed it to. Everyone laughed at this suggestion except the student who was dead serious about his suggestion.
"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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