A Lump in the Throat

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Published 6:30, April 30, 2026

A NARROW STRIP of wooden planks on the sand leads us to the sea. We leap along the boards. We are a group of university classmates who have come to the north of Iran on a loud bus ride. Hiding smiles whenever our eyes meet is a secret game Amir and I play. Standing together at a respectful distance, we take a group photo. In the picture, Amir is leaning slightly forward, a mischievous smile on his face. I’m wearing a straw hat over my black scarf, holding it in place against the wind. There are only two people between us. Years later, when I pull this photo out of the box of pictures I brought with me to Canada, the distance between us is two continents.

I check my phone, where my Instagram page is still open; there are no new notifications, just an announcement about yet another lockdown in Ontario. Gatherings of more than five people are now banned. I get up and gently close the bedroom door so I can hear my own thoughts over the sound of the children’s online classes. I take another photo from the box. It’s a group picture of our entire class standing in front of the theatre building.

It is the first time after twelve years of school that we are sitting with boys in the same classroom. Saying “hi” takes a kind of courage that only some of us have. Writing letters is the only way we know how to communicate. The first love letter is received by my beautiful friend in the first term. She calls us all to read and discuss it together. Surprised by how casually she treats the whole situation, and with a mixture of guilt and curiosity, we all settle into a quiet corner to listen to her. With every sentence she reads, our laughter grows louder, and everyone tries to outdo the others in mocking the writer with greater creativity. But the letter is filled with beautiful lines: “I should stop reading the news and I must only think of you.” I feel envious of her for being indifferent to such romantic words. Amir doesn’t have significant features, but he is well read and has already shown himself in classes. His writing is honest, raw, and impatient, exactly how a love letter should be.

In the following weeks, more letters arrive from Amir. My excitement about reading them fades. If he ever decides to write to me, I don’t want to recognize the same sentences. Once my beautiful friend realizes we’re no longer intrigued by the letters, she moves on to her next love interest. But Amir has become a companion to our girl group to stay close to her. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance with her, and we treat him kindly for that very reason. Every day, he arrives with a newspaper and lingers around our bench. We sit in the courtyard between classes, reading the news and talking about politics, movies, and books. I realize I have so many things to say to him, but his gaze is always elsewhere.

Summer arrives. Students who had come to Tehran from other cities return home. Amir goes back north. I stay behind with the girls. Without them, life seems impossible now. We walk through the empty corridors of the faculty, our laughter echoing off the walls. We take photos next to Mash Esmaeil’s bronze statue, the famous goat. In the afternoons, we sculpt shapes from clay and plaster in the sculpture workshop. Then we walk into the empty theatre department. My beautiful friend says she can summon spirits. We do not believe in such things, but we sit on the floor in the dark rehearsal room with our hearts racing. She draws letters on the ground with white chalk and lights a candle. Her finger moves on the plastic cup, shifting from one letter to the next. We feel a shiver throughout our bodies. I wonder what we are supposed to say. I tell my friend that maybe we shouldn’t ask anything at all. What if the ghost doesn’t like questions, what if it follows us back and stays with us in the dark corners of our rooms. She doesn’t answer. She smiles, just slightly, and with a concentrated gaze demands:

“Name the boys who are truly in love with us.”

She pronounces our names one by one, and the wandering spirit moves over random letters. As the cup moves toward the letters A, M, and then I, I lean in closer, watching carefully. When the last letter turns out to be D, I lift my head in disappointment and wonder whether my friend is doing this on purpose. We make a few jokes about the names the spirit has given us, then cautiously step out of the dark studio feeling lucky that the security guard hasn’t seen us. We sit on the lonely benches in the deserted courtyard to let the sun warm our bodies. Even the campus cats seem to have vanished. Then we leave to stroll along the university street, browsing books before going home, wondering if the spirit has followed us.

THE FOLLOWING YEAR, when we return to the faculty, we are a little older. We’ve broken someone’s heart, and we’ve had our own broken too. Now, we have devoted ourselves to the art of theatre. We have realized that this love we carry within us, for art, the stage, and words, will not leave us anytime soon. We watch movies with deep pleasure, on forbidden, low-quality VHS tapes. The first time we see a film by Ozu or Kieślowski, our lives change forever. We read Babak Ahmadi’s reviews and lose ourselves in the dreamy landscapes of Tarkovsky’s films. We consider ourselves cinephiles. We attend art gatherings, visit museums, and follow contemporary art. We have embraced a bohemian lifestyle. We write theatre pieces and perform them on stage. Wearing paint-splattered coats, we spend our days in the workshop, building sets from morning till dusk. We hammer nails into plywood, paint, and sew fabrics. We no longer write letters; we write dialogues.

My beautiful friend has been caught up in a tragic love affair and no longer laughs the way she used to. But we don’t have time for her either. Amir has been paying more attention to me these days, but in secret, because now that we all know each other so well, everything has become more complicated.

I pull out another photo from our trip to the north. We are on a bus. The girls are seated in the back rows, all dressed in black. The boys are in the front. Somebody is taking a Polaroid of the photographer.

When we return from the trip, I feel ready. I look for a chance, a moment that might bring us together, a perfect scene. Amir is participating in the university’s theatre festival. I’ve written a script. We’re both at the closing ceremony, each nominated for a different award. I wear a long black manteau with a black shawl over my head. We, the girls from the Faculty of Art, don’t wear the traditional headscarf. The university rules do not apply to us. Girls from other faculties look at us with a mixture of bewilderment and pity. The artsy ones, they call us, a term used both as an insult and a compliment.

We are walking toward the closing ceremony hall. The cawing of crows echoes among the tall pine trees. Something hits my black shawl. I look down and see a white stain, the mess a mischievous crow has left on my carefully pressed and neat outfit. My friend laughs and says it brings good luck. The stain won’t come out, even with soap and water. I try to cover it, hoping it won’t be too noticeable later, when Amir and I go out to celebrate after the ceremony.

The hall is almost full. Girls have saved us seats. We stay for two hours, clap for the winners, and leave empty handed. It’s a winter night. The white stain on my shawl glows harshly in the dark. Amir is surrounded by friends. He looks at me briefly from a distance. All he must see, in this darkness, is the white stain. My friend asks if I want to share a taxi. Not wanting to go home alone, I follow her almost listlessly. In the cab, I press my forehead against the window and watch the streetlights flash by. Tehran feels hypnotic and melancholy.

I pass the hallway and check my eldest’s room. The door is half closed. He is watching YouTube while the teacher speaks. I return to the photos. The next one is a snapshot of the Asr-e-Jadid Cinema, with the poster for the Fajr Film Festival on display. The girls are shaking their tickets in the air.

Standing in line for hours just to see our favourite movie on the big screen is one of the indescribable joys of our world: arriving two or three hours early, waiting in the queue where we meet fellow cinephiles, diving into passionate debates about cinema, and losing all sense of cold, fatigue, and time in anticipation of another film from our favourite director. We flip through the festival schedule, circling the films we want to see with a red pen. Then we carefully fold the program, tuck it into our pockets, and carry it around like a little token of happiness.

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It’s the anniversary of the 1979 revolution, and joy is temporarily allowed. These are the only days when we’re not worried about the morality police, and we don’t have to stand in separate lines outside the cinema. We’ve already seen the magical film by the Taviani Brothers on TV. This time we hope to see a less censored version on the big screen. At 11 p.m., we exit the cinema. We’re not in the best mood. We’ve realized they fed us the same censored version again. But the street is busy and bright. Tehran, like us, seems more vibrant, and even its traffic feels alive.

This year, a film by Mizoguchi, the Japanese filmmaker, is set to be screened at Asr-e-Jadid Cinema: Ugetsu Monogatari (The Tale of the Waning Moon), a beautiful film that Babak Ahmadi has written about in his book:

During the time of the Civil War, a man leaves his home and his wife. He endures many hardships. He meets a princess, and they fall in love. Eventually, he realizes that he has fallen in love with the spirit of the princess and that she is not a real being. Years pass, and the man returns home.

One evening, he arrives in his village and sees that his house still stands, a light glowing inside. He finds his wife, poor and sorrowful yet still kind, preparing a modest dinner and sitting by the fire. In the early morning, the man wakes to find himself alone. From the neighbours, who barely recognize him, he learns that his wife has been dead for a long time, buried in the garden of their house. He finds the grave.

I repeat the magical Japanese words Ugetsu Monogatari under my breath like a mantra, thinking of the black-and-white, dreamlike images I will see in the darkness of the cinema. I’m ready to let the lines between dreams and reality dissolve, as Ahmadi described. I believe this may be a sign.

Since talking about films is all we do, I tell Amir about Ugetsu Monogatari. He would love to see it. In anticipation of that day, I read Ahmadi’s writing several times to immerse myself in the film’s atmosphere. The awaited day arrives. We meet in the department hall after class. The film is scheduled for noon. Slowly, we begin to walk together. It’s a sunny, beautiful day. What I haven’t factored in are my wandering classmates. They see us leave and, without a word, begin to follow.

The line isn’t very crowded. We buy tickets and head to the theatre. One of the classmates suggests grabbing something for lunch. I want to protest, but Amir quickly goes to the snack bar and returns with four sandwiches. I tuck the sandwich into my bag, and we go inside. Once in, the darkness of the room strikes me. I’m blind for a moment. I freeze in my spot. A hand gently touches my back and guides me toward the seats. When my irises adapt to the dark, I see Amir sitting next to me; he smiles. I can smell his perfume. For a moment, our shoulders touch; quickly we adjust in our seats. The film begins. The image quality is poor and sounds are muffled. There is no subtitle. The audience starts to complain, and soon there’s a buzz. Acting unperturbed, I continue staring at the screen. Occasionally, Amir turns and looks at my face. I don’t know what he is thinking, only that I wish my profile looked more attractive. Someone in the audience whispers: “Shush.” A few people laugh. The shaky, distorted image of a man in a kimono flickers on the screen. Minutes pass slowly, and then, suddenly, the film stops and lights come on. The projectionist enters, announcing that it will take some time to load the second reel. Sighs of frustration fill the room. A friend suggests that we have lunch. We take out our sandwiches. The smell of Kalbas is embarrassingly sharp. I can’t believe I’m watching Ugetsu Monogatari like this. I take a bite but cannot bring myself to chew. A lump forms in my throat. My cheeks are stuffed with Kalbas, and my lips quiver. Amir looks at me with confusion and, not knowing what to do, offers me a soda. Almost half the audience has left. Finally, the second reel begins. In the darkness, silent tears slide down my cheeks.

He leans in and whispers, “Are you okay?”

“It’s the movie.” I don’t believe a word I’m saying. I take a sip of soda, hoping to soften the painful lump in my throat and fix my gaze on the distorted images and the incomprehensible sounds.

I TAKE ANOTHER group photo from the box. This time, we are in the mountains. We are standing on the edge of a clay roof. Amir wears a blue shirt, arms crossed, head slightly raised. The girls are captured in a moment of carefree laughter. At the other end, I’m looking at something off camera, almost sombre. Now, each of us lives in a different part of the world. My beautiful friend emigrated to Europe after her divorce and makes documentaries. I ended up in Canada, and between raising children and settling into a new country, I’ve distanced myself from theatre and art. Amir stayed in Tehran and became engaged in political activities through his art. I still imagine him standing alone at the entrance of the Asr-e-Jadid Cinema, with a cigarette in his hand and a faint smile.

I gather the photos and place them back in the box. The kids are still sitting in front of the computer, and I can hear the teacher’s voice: “Mute yourself, please.” I pick up my phone. It’s early evening in Tehran. I open Instagram and reread Amir’s message:

In these hours that I do not know how long I’ll remain here, on this bed, I think of you, and only you. Of your gaze in the darkness of that cinema. Of that autumn afternoon when we solved a crossword together at the faculty. I never dared to write you a letter. But I wrote a poem. Though late. Very late. Yet, as the sunlight slowly slides down on my pale blue blanket, the fact that you are not here to hold my hands and tell me, ‘Everything will be all right,’ gives me, somehow, a sense of relief.

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