My father's son

Tomorrow, (June 16, 2009) is my thirtieth birthday, which means that it's been just over thirty years since my father was forced to leave the United States and return to Iran. I have had virtually no contact with him at all with the exception of a couple of letters that made it to me in the early 80's addressed to my mother. Through those letters, I know that I have at least one brother in Iran born to my father's Iranian wife, three years younger than me. He is as much a ghost to me as my father is... more imaginary than real; more folk lore than kinfolk, but a brother none the less.

Today on the television and all over the internet there are images. Iran's youth are finding their voice. They are finding their muscle; their heart and soul. I see young men and women awake, screaming in unison and uniting their mass so they will not be ignored. I cannot help but wonder if one of the faces I see might be my brother's. Long ago I gave up hope of ever meeting my father or any of my Iranian family, but in the eyes of those fighting back today, I see myself. I see faces that look like mine. It lingers. I hope for my family's well being, as imaginary as they may be to me. I wonder if they ever think about me.