Dream of Freedom by Mahsa Seifi

There is no need to describe the days. They have always stood here beside me, forcing their monotonous seconds upon me. Of this magnificent world, all that remains to me is a fragment of pencil graphite, the rusted door of this cell, and a damp black hole.

What can be done? Life is unpredictable and unavoidable. For someone who has spent years counting days in this place, complaining about cockroaches, dripping water, mold, and the stench of decay would seem ridiculous. These things are no longer around me. They are a part of me now. Struggling in this swamp leads to nothing but madness and despair.

So I sit, and as I do every day of the year, I dig the earth in a green forest, answering the sun and the sweat upon my brow with a smile. Such things are ordinary and within reach for anyone on this earth, yet farther away than anything else for an old man trapped inside a dark pit.

On a piece of paper, I write the word Forest beneath today’s date with quiet satisfaction. Today’s name is Forest, just like every other day before it. In the beginning, I used to write Death. I invited him into this dungeon, but he refused to come to such a ruin. So instead, I invited Life.

I was a fool.

He had been here all along. He simply wanted to be remembered, to be loved. Life craves attention. Give him the slightest bit of it, and he cannot resist showing himself.

So I gave him everything he wanted, and in return he gave me the forest. Every day, we walked together through it, taking pleasure in the boundless freedom of my little world of imagination.

The days passed, and with every green leaf and crimson bud of hope, I felt more alive. I would look at the narrow beam of light that found its way into the dungeon and tell myself that it was the very same light that touched young shoots, cherry blossoms, love, the earth itself, and birds soaring free above it all.

At last, it had found a way to reach me, and so I gave the sun a name. I called it Justice.

Perhaps I have forgotten to introduce my dear companion. He, too, is imprisoned here a prisoner of his own sins who curses himself every day.

At first, I spoke to him so he would feel less alone, so that this captivity might weigh a little less heavily upon him. But as time passed, I realized that his imprisonment did not end with these walls. He had built himself another ruin, narrower and darker than this one, and he had been the one to pass judgment.

So I left him alone.

I was afraid he might pass judgment on me as well.

As though I had spoken my thoughts aloud, he turned to me and said,“The sun is Justice, and we lie beneath a tree of sin, fool.”

I paid no attention to his words. I knew that sooner or later he would find me among the branches of that withered, lifeless tree.

I took a bite of the bread the jailer had brought and imagined myself eating it while walking through blossom-filled streets, among people who loved one another, hated one another, hoped, despaired, grew weary, came alive, stood alone, or perhaps were even happy.

Even stale bread tastes good when seasoned with the illusion of freedom.

Among all those meanings, I searched for my own. What was I among them?

For a moment, I envied them all. I grew angry at how meaningless I seemed, how I could not find a name for myself in a world overflowing with names.

Restless, I looked up at the moon. Tonight it shone brightly. Yet a day would come when only a crescent would remain, before it grew full once more.

As I thought about that endless cycle of becoming and fading, I found a name for it. I called the moon Love.

Beautiful. Enchanting. And yet, unstable.

Unlike the sun, it lacked the strength to break through clouds and wait behind them for them to pass. Love was fragile before adversity. It stumbled. It faded.

No wonder it carried so many sorrowful memories, rising one day in joy and sinking the next into darkness. And yet everyone accepted it, flaws and all.

“They are mad, just like you,” he said. “Love is dangerous. Love kills.”

He frightened Hope.

I looked at him with eyes pleading to be understood.

“She followed her own moon. I could not force her to stay.”

“You are selfish. You could never let go of hope. You stayed silent because you believed she would come back to you. But she left—and she never returned.”

“That’s not true. I gave her my word. She trusted me.”

“Which mattered more, your promise or her life?”

“At the time… her freedom.”

He laughed a loud, merciless laugh. For the first time, I was afraid.

“I never knew a person could remain free beneath a mountain of earth.”

I was tired. I did not want to be condemned in his courtroom. And I was afraid.

“I cannot stop someone from loving another person. Who was I to imprison her? Nor could she force herself to love me.”

“And yet you became a prisoner of a foolish promise.”

I lowered my eyes.

“I made my choice, just as she made hers. She died pursuing freedom, and I remain trapped within its illusion. We were both victims of our own decisions.”

“But you were a fool.”

“That night,” he said, “you lay in that ridiculous field staring at the moon, convincing yourself that the woman you loved was free and happy.” His voice sharpened. “You thought you were setting her free. Instead, you led her to her grave.”

“No.” The word escaped me before I could stop it. “No one dies because of freedom. She was following it. She saw a mirage, and I was powerless to quench her thirst.”

“But you walked beside her all the way to it.”

“How was I supposed to know it was a mirage? I trusted her eyes more than anything else in this world.”

I paused.

“I still do.”

“Why can’t you accept that no one is to blame?”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly:“Because she is no longer here to say so herself.”

“You want me to be a murderer,” I said, “because it makes this place easier to understand. Because it turns suffering into a story with a villain. You’re afraid there may be no one to blame, and I cannot give you the answers you’re looking for. But I cannot carry the weight of your rage. I cannot bring her back. You’re afraid that all your anger has nowhere to go. You’re lost.”

He seemed to surrender.

For a while, I heard nothing but thunder and the steady dripping of rain. I looked toward the dark, forgotten corner of the cell. Exhausted and hollow, I rested my head against the wall. It felt as though a war had finally ended and I was nothing more than a weary soldier in a trench of mud, staring up at the sky, leaving every nightmare behind the front lines.

I tried to return to the forest, to the saplings and to the sun—but the old man followed me. He chased me through every thought, and I feared that one day he would catch me and I would remain trapped here forever.

I woke with a start. I searched for him, but found nothing except damp stone walls and shadows.

Beneath the moonlight that was writing the night’s final memories, I fell to my knees, crying like a child searching for his mother. I clawed at the walls, hoping the old man might somehow seep out from between the cracks.

Perhaps he had gone or perhaps he had never been there at all.

I think a long time passed before I heard someone pounding on the door. Maybe I had disturbed the jailer’s sleep.

Still dazed by regret and grief, I noticed a line of ants carrying away a piece of my stale bread. For a moment, I became fascinated by their struggle, by their life.

Suddenly all my troubles seemed absurdly small. They carried that worthless piece of bread with such determination, such purpose, as though it were the most precious thing in existence. This place was a prison to me, but to them, it was a shelter a warm and safe shelter filled with food.

I was watching them with a strange happiness, almost envying their certainty, when I heard his heavy footsteps.

Everything came rushing back.

I sprang to my feet and rushed toward him, throwing myself at his legs.

“We have to talk,” I pleaded. “We have to understand one another.”

“Our words won’t bring anyone back.”

“But they might set me free.”

He laughed.

“Selfishness. Still selfishness. Just like that night in the field, lying there worshipping yourself, convincing yourself that she was free, that you had delivered her to her dreams. You kept your ridiculous promise. And what did it change? Tell me. What happened in the end?”

He smiled bitterly.

“Tell me how free you found her.”

I was tired. So tired.

Slowly, I rose to my feet.

“You think I’m happy?” My voice trembled. “You think I was happy when I found her like that? Happy that she didn’t choose me?”

I shook my head.

“No. God knows I’m not.”

Was I happy when morning came, and the lips that had spoken of freedom the night before the lips that had left me a farewell kiss were frozen with fear among the burning wheat?

Was I happy when she looked at me with those shining eyes and spoke of freedom, while I stayed behind and wept for her freedom and my loneliness?

“No,” I muttered. “No.”

“She ran after her dreams.”

A long silence followed.

“But she trusted the wrong fruit,” I said softly. “She picked a worm-eaten fruit and bit into it believing it would save her.”

I looked at him.

“Do you think I haven’t imagined another ending? What if that boy had truly been the love she dreamed of? What if he had taken her to the city? What if she had found everything she hoped for?”

I smiled sadly.

“Then I would still be standing in that field, watching the moon, keeping my promise. But that isn’t what happened.”

He stared at me, speechless.

“It didn’t happen,” he whispered.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

“And I kept my promise, even when it became my own prison.”

At last, he began to cry quietly, helplessly and we remained there together.

Then there came a knock at the door.

I stood. Outside, a storm was raging. If whoever stood there remained in the rain much longer, they would be soaked through.

A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes.

Slowly, I rose and hurried toward the door.