The first time I saw my dad cry was when we went back to Iran after twelve years. When I stepped off the plane, I got goose bumps all over my body from the scent of melting asphalt and spices. The customs official thought that me and my dad were brothers. When we emerged from the arrival hall, 20 crying faces were waiting for us. I recognized them from photographs. I looked at my dad and saw how his eyes filled with tears.

When my dad was young he always listened to Faramarz Aslani. A Persian singer songwriter who wrote songs with political lyrics. When we visited relatives in Tehran, my aunts took turns at housing us. Three days in northern Tehran with my oldest aunt and then three days in southern Tehran with my youngest aunt. In between we were at my middle aunts for three days. One of my cousins hid cassette tapes under a loose floor plank in his room. He picked up a tape labeled with Persian letters. A gift, he said, smiling. I listened to the tape for years. Learned all the songs. Stuck mostly to one. A few years later I called Povel and asked him to learn the song on the guitar and to sing in Farsi with me.

That year we celebrated the Persian New Year at my parents' home in Hisingen in Gothenburg. Povel and I were at my parents to get good food, read the prophecies from Hafez-book and to exchange gifts. When the packages were opened and the food had started digesting we sat on opposite chairs and began to sing. My father looked like someone had beaten him in the face with a soft warm blanket. It was the second time I saw him cry.

Text: Navid Modiri