Returning Home
As blurry faces came into view, I saw smiles awaiting me. I exit the gate and run up to my Dad and sister. “It’s been too long!” my father exclaims “Welcome home.” My sister is looking down on me; she does not look happy to see me. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that I missed you scaring my friends and I out of the house, but you know I couldn’t live without it,” she breaks her serious face as she hugs me tight. After studying in England for a whole year, being back in Iran was certainly unfamiliar at first. No one spoke English, only Farsi, and no one was in proper uniform like at my school back in England. “I hope you’re hungry,” my sister adds, “the whole family is at home waiting to celebrate your arrival.” My stomach had been grumbling for a while, being that I scarfed down the last of my english biscuits for the entire plane ride within the first twenty minutes in the air. I thought of the delicious Persian homemade meal that I have missed for so long. I smiled as we left the airport.

Problems at the Embassy
After a full and long night of happiness, story-telling of my adventures becoming an ‘Englishman’, and lots of eating, I lay in bed anxious for tomorrow. My father enters the room; “You nervous?” He sits at the end of my bed. “I just want to get it over with. I don’t want there to be any problems, but fear that there will be,” I explain. “You’re a smart kid, you even speak English! They will have no problems approving your visa,” my father tries to soothe me. “Come on Dad, you know that’s not what I’m talking about,” I mutter. For a couple months now, there has been a rebellion growing within Iran. People have been rising up against the Shah and protesting in the streets. These men and women want to return to traditional religion and create full equality between the rich and poor. But we are Jewish. If the Shah is overthrown, my family could be in jeopardy. People are calling it the ‘Iranian Revolution’. Lately, the protests have become increasingly more violent, especially near the American Embassy, where people are trying to get their visas stamped in order to leave and enter America. I want to continue my education outside of Iran; to go to a high school in America! But I too, must get my visa stamped. “I know Nicol, but the appointment took so long to get, so you have to go,” my father reasons. “Now get some sleep, you are going to want to get there early in the morning.”
I wake up as early as I can, but I can barely keep my eyes open due to jet lag and the time difference. My sister agrees to go with me to the embassy. I quickly eat n?n-e lav?sh, flat bread with sweet honey, a definite difference I noticed, as it wasn't the thick, crunchy biscuits and strawberry jam from England. My sister and I head out. As we walk down the street, a shrill scream comes from the direction we are walking towards. We stop and turn to each other. My mind swirls with the possibilities of events that could cause that hair-raising cry; “Someone might be hurt!” I scream. I take off, running towards the shouting and rioting. “Wait, Nicol! Lotfan, please!” She runs far behind me. As I turn the corner into view of the Embassy, I see a giant hive of protestors swarming around the gates trying to worm their way to the front just so that they could get a chance to sting the American soldiers with comments that the poor men could not even understand. Although the uniformed men did not understand the harsh words being spat by the protestors, they understood their orders, and that protection of the Embassy was more important than the life of the man trying to do harm to it. I see a figure quickly move past a window in one of the buildings next to the Embassy. I watch closer, it moves again. Right when the figure moves close to the window and I see a Persian man in a suit peer his head out, my sister rounds the corner; “I swear Nicol, I am going to kill you,” she huffs while regaining her breath. I turn my head to continue watching the strange man, but the camouflage uniforms have already noticed him pull out a gun and are outside aiming at the building with machine guns. Without warning, the street erupts with war. Out of all the windows and doors of the building, suits and guns pop out to fire at their enemies. The uniforms release the fury of the machine guns, glistening shells of the bullets showering the street. The next minutes are deafening. The clattering of the machine guns mix with sounds of shattering glass, people screaming, and the opening and closing of doors. All of the protestors as well as myself have run to corners and gaps between buildings for shelter. I sit there shivering in fear as a man covers my body to protect me from falling debris. I later know him as Faddey Sadeghi. He lifts up my head and screams “If you want to get in to the embassy, you must go now!” he points to the entrance, completely open and without protestors blocking it. “I can help you get in,” he rushes me, “but it has to be now!” At that moment I realize my sister is not with me. Looking out onto a street that was once civilized, I search for her body. Tears are streaming down my face as I prepare for the worst. “There!” I cry out to Faddey. My sister is lying right where she was when she caught up to me. I could not bear that her last words to me could be, “I am going to kill you.” Faddey runs out onto the street while the earsplitting gunfire continues, and lifts up my sister. He does not return to our pocket of shelter, but rather turns and starts running over to the entrance of the embassy. Wiping tears from my eyes, I quickly take after him.

Young Boy’s English
“Emergency! Emergency!” I scream in English as we enter the courtyard of the Embassy. The confused soldiers rush to us, hands reaching down to their sides and grasping their speedy weapons. My English came in handy as I shakily spoke to the guns and uniforms; “She needs help, please! Don’t hurt, I have appointment.” The guns are lowered and a uniform speaks, “Medical get her help,” soldiers rush over and carefully take my sister from Faddey’s arms. Faddey follows the men to watch over my sister. “How do you know such good English, young man?” the soldier regains my attention. “From school in England, Mr. Soldier… Nicol Payab,” I shyly announce while sticking out my hand. “I have an appointment.”

The Golden Ticket
I enter a room that looks much like the head master’s office back at school. The walls are painted a dark red with incandescent lighting. On the wall behind the chestnut wood desk is a framed portrait of a military officer. The desk is cluttered, all with unread forms and unorganized files. A grand dark leather chair rests behind the desk. The guest seats on the opposite side of the desk are smaller and hold less authority. There are shelves, but instead of books there are military memorabilia from past expeditions. There is a window, but instead of it being slightly ajar with nice curtains it is tightly sealed with extra bars to further protect the room. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” Mr. Soldier says as he sits in the grand chair. “You are looking to get your student visa, I see. Will you be traveling alone?” “No,” I take a seat. “My dad will come with me, and then return home after I settle.” He continues to ask me questions like this, and I continue to answer. He questions me about life in Iran, life in England, what I studied, how I got along with other students, why I wanted to continue my education in America, and others similar to those. After an endless stream of carefully assessed questions, Mr. Soldier decides that I am overqualified for his approval. He passes me a student visa reading “USA” on the front with an eagle clenching arrows in his talons, every detail engraved in gold.
I stand up and thank Mr. Soldier. Faddey is waiting for me outside. “How did it go?” he asks. I hold up my visa. “Is my sister ok?!” I hurriedly ask, panic setting in again.  “All is well with your sister,” he assures me, “she just fainted from shock of the gun sounds and is a bit bruised from being hit by the bullet shells.” I cry out in relief, “Can we go see her?!”
While walking over to the Embassy’s infirmary, Faddey and I formally introduce ourselves. He tells me how he, as well as I, was going to the Embassy to get his visa stamped. “I want to live in New York. I plan on getting a degree in Psychology,” he proudly informed me. I tell him of my plans to continue as a student in high school. When we finally arrive at the infirmary, I immediately spot my sister. Passing other beds containing the aftermath of the battle in the street earlier, I finally reach my sister. “Did you get your stupid visa?” She’s annoyed, but acts like nothing had happened. “Yeah. Are you ok? Do you need anything?” I am staring at the bruises on her arms. “No, let’s just get out of here.” She rushes to put on her shoes and we walk out. Before we leave, we stop to thank Faddey once more and wish him luck on New York and getting his degree. He wishes the same for us. Exiting the embassy, unable to comprehend all that had happened today, we walk in silence until we reach home.