Foreigners

We decided to translate a play into Persian, and to get as close as possible to the reality of the language and culture. So we thought living in a rural village might help. A farming family in Gilan province rented us a single room on their property. They owned a cattle farm, and like most northern villages, their yard was filled with chickens and roosters. Some uninvited guests—like jackals and wild cats—also visited us at night.

Our hosts, Kobra Khanom and her husband, Hossein Agha, were the epitome of generosity. They set aside a share of their eggs, milk, cream, and other homemade products for us. If she saw we were deeply engaged in our work, she would bring over a portion of whatever she had cooked. Whenever we thanked her, she would simply say, "It has a smell! I always make extra. You're working! Work is good."

Kobra Khanom’s son was an electrical engineering student at Gilan University. His curiosity about our work led him to ask endless questions, and soon, we were having long discussions about writing. He was a talented writer himself. Eventually, he took us to the village library and suggested we hold theater classes for the locals. Before we knew it, we were surrounded by a group of excited teenagers, rehearsing scenes together.

Everything was going well until we started working on a project with some colleagues abroad, which required a high-speed internet connection for video conferences with our colleagues. With the help of the neighbor’s son, we set up an internet connection in our home, and everyone in the household shared it.

But things changed after our first Skype call with our foreign colleagues.Hearing an unfamiliar, strange language in her home, Kobra Khanom became suspicious. Probebly she was thinking, is it possible that we were spies? Are we hiding here? She never confronted us directly, but through her son’s questions and her subtle change in behavior and, no matter how much we explained, we sensed her deep concern. So, we left—peacefully.

Leaving her house, however, didn’t mean leaving the young theater enthusiasts behind. We continued working with them, and soon, the passionate stories of Shakespeare and Ibsen made their way into villegers home—including Kobra Khanom and Hossein Agha’s.

Over time, she realized that foreign languages weren’t just for espionage. When we dedicated our translated play to her and the village—and her son read it to her, she recognized parts of their own lives in it. She sent us a message: with the help of her husband, Hossein Agha, we could build a separate room in the corner of their orchard and live with them.

Perhaps this was the best reward a "foreign" writer could receive.