Life in Iran Is a Wistful Elegy for the Past

On a Trip Back to My Father’s Homeland, I Found a Country Made Generous by Its Sorrow

It was late April, and the snow had only just melted in Meygoon, a mountain town north of Tehran.

I had arrived in Iran the night before and was staying with a family friend. The Afghan housekeeper, Ata, invited me to play indoor soccer with him and his friends at the local sports hall. I was in goal. The whole team consisted of refugees from the war in Afghanistan, a million strong in Iran. They spoke to each other in Dari, the Afghan dialect of Persian, and I struggled to …