An Emotional Atmosphere

We got in touch with A.A. through an old friend in Tehran. He’s a leftist farmer in Gilan with a passion for poetry and literature—something he eagerly brought up the moment we met.

A.A: I’ve loved literature since school. I failed every subject, but literature? Fifteen, sixteen. Once, I even got a seventeen.

He had a peculiar insistence on speaking fluent, accent-free Persian, without any traces of Gilaki language. As we reached Rudsar, he pointed to a doctor’s office sign.

A.A: This doctor is excellent. He prescribes beyond his own knowledge. There’s also a self-taught doctor here—people come from all over Gilan to see him.

He led us toward the place where we’d be staying, reminding us one last time:
A.A: Let me do the talking. I’ll create an emotional atmosphere. It’s better this way.

We entered a cobblestone alley, at the end of which stood our destination.
M.G. was the principal of an elementary school and a farmer. He had worked the land with his father since childhood, built his own house, and rented out its upper floor to help support his family.
We shook hands—his large, rough palm gripped mine firmly. He cast a shy glance at Shirin.

M.G: Welcome, sister. Please, come in. We’re colleagues—no need for formalities.

The place was perfect for us—mountains on one side, the sea on the other, and an educated family as our neighbors. We told him we were looking for a long-term rental. M.G. seemed to like us and agreed to let us stay. We settled on a price verbally.

M.G: Stay as long as you like. Think of this house as your own.

A.A. had successfully created the "emotional atmosphere" he wanted. Every time he passed by, he would visit, eagerly reciting his latest poems. After much insistence, I even convinced him to share his Gilaki poetry with us.

Eleven years have passed since then. Much has changed in this country.
But M.G. has kept his word.