There were two of them: Mohsen and Bohsen. Though, it’s possible that the second one wasn’t truly called Bohsen. As for the first, we might ask how we used to call him—he’s living in Melbourne now, and I understand he’s still in touch with a mutual friend of mine. The second one, however, we can no longer ask. It is said that he passed away about three years ago. He’s gone.
One morning, I woke to find an entry in my journal from a decade ago—an entry that, now, holds great significance for me. Why, I wonder? Perhaps it’s because I often find myself reminiscing about the past, particularly about Auckland—the way we met, how we communicated, and how we scraped by with menial work on the construction sites. I think of my friend often. And they—Mohsen and Bohsen—left a small imprint on that part of my life.
At the time, that life seemed so grey, so unremarkable. Yet, looking back after all these years, I realise there was something special in even the dull and monotonous work on Auckland’s building sites. I met so many interesting people then. For instance, who knows Goderdzi Maharashvili these days? I worked with him painting social housing apartments ... But let’s return to Mohsen and Bohsen.
I can’t quite remember how we first met. Perhaps my friend could recall if he were still here, but I only remember one Friday when they said they’d treat us to Iranian food on Monday.
On Monday, we worked on opposite sides of a house: we were on one wall, they were on the other. By lunchtime, the younger one—Mohsen—came over to us and said it was time to eat. They kept their promise. They brought lunch for the four of us.
It was polo, Iranian pilaf, and I think mast, Iranian yogurt drink. If you think about it, it wasn’t anything extraordinary. But what made it special wasn’t the meal itself; it was the gesture, the kindness shown to us by these two Iranian migrants. We sat on the ground in the shade of a fence, eating polo and talking.
“Was Iran nice before the revolution?” I asked the elder one.
Bohsen—maybe that was his name—clicked his tongue, thinking for a moment, then spoke slowly, painting a picture of a paradise:
“Of korse, very good. Oll vas good, yes. You take Irani pasiport, no need to wait in queue—boom, you go. No problem. Amerik? Yes, you go, green lite always. Resturant, drinking, oll okay.”
The conversation was in English, though it carried the heavy rhythm of his Persian accent, the words shaped by the cadence of his native tongue.
“And now?” I asked again.
“Ah, now? What now?” Mohsen, who was younger and sharper, interjected with a flash of defiance. He was a refugee, once a dealer of illegal satellite dishes from Azerbaijan.
“Is it true many people smoke opium in Iran?”
“Of korse, smoke. Opiym, very good, nice. Very, very nice,” they both answered together, nodding as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
According to Bohsen, everything was wonderful in the Shah’s Iran, everything was allowed... It was only later, after reading and talking to other Iranians, that I realised things weren’t as perfect as he had described. Perhaps the revolution wouldn’t have happened if Reza Pahlavi had been a “good king.” I longed to say that good kings, by their very nature, do not exist. Yet I held my tongue, unwilling to shatter the castle they had built with love in the air. They simply didn’t seem like the sort who believed that all kings are parasites, clinging to the necks of the people in those unfortunate lands where they have not yet been overthrown. They longed to be kings themselves, to indulge in lives steeped in opium and filled with journeys to Amerik ...
Some time after we met, Bohsen returned to Iran. He could, unlike Mohsen, for he wasn’t a refugee. He travelled to Iranian Azerbaijan, hoping to find a mute and beautiful wife who would do everything for him, just to live in New Zealand. But he didn’t find her. Returning to Auckland, he died of an overdose. The old man was around 60, maybe a little more.
There were two of them: Mohsen and Bohsen. Though, it’s possible that the second one wasn’t truly called Bohsen. As for the first, we might ask how we used to call him—he’s living in Melbourne now, and I understand he’s still in touch with a mutual friend of mine. The second one, however, we can no longer ask. It is said that he passed away about three years ago. He’s gone.
One morning, I woke to find an entry in my journal from a decade ago—an entry that, now, holds great significance for me. Why, I wonder? Perhaps it’s because I often find myself reminiscing about the past, particularly about Auckland—the way we met, how we communicated, and how we scraped by with menial work on the construction sites. I think of my friend often. And they—Mohsen and Bohsen—left a small imprint on that part of my life.
At the time, that life seemed so grey, so unremarkable. Yet, looking back after all these years, I realise there was something special in even the dull and monotonous work on Auckland’s building sites. I met so many interesting people then. For instance, who knows Goderdzi Maharashvili these days? I worked with him painting social housing apartments ... But let’s return to Mohsen and Bohsen.
I can’t quite remember how we first met. Perhaps my friend could recall if he were still here, but I only remember one Friday when they said they’d treat us to Iranian food on Monday.
On Monday, we worked on opposite sides of a house: we were on one wall, they were on the other. By lunchtime, the younger one—Mohsen—came over to us and said it was time to eat. They kept their promise. They brought lunch for the four of us.
It was polo, Iranian pilaf, and I think mast, Iranian yogurt drink. If you think about it, it wasn’t anything extraordinary. But what made it special wasn’t the meal itself; it was the gesture, the kindness shown to us by these two Iranian migrants. We sat on the ground in the shade of a fence, eating polo and talking.
“Was Iran nice before the revolution?” I asked the elder one.
Bohsen—maybe that was his name—clicked his tongue, thinking for a moment, then spoke slowly, painting a picture of a paradise:
“Of korse, very good. Oll vas good, yes. You take Irani pasiport, no need to wait in queue—boom, you go. No problem. Amerik? Yes, you go, green lite always. Resturant, drinking, oll okay.”
The conversation was in English, though it carried the heavy rhythm of his Persian accent, the words shaped by the cadence of his native tongue.
“And now?” I asked again.
“Ah, now? What now?” Mohsen, who was younger and sharper, interjected with a flash of defiance. He was a refugee, once a dealer of illegal satellite dishes from Azerbaijan.
“Is it true many people smoke opium in Iran?”
“Of korse, smoke. Opiym, very good, nice. Very, very nice,” they both answered together, nodding as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
According to Bohsen, everything was wonderful in the Shah’s Iran, everything was allowed... It was only later, after reading and talking to other Iranians, that I realised things weren’t as perfect as he had described. Perhaps the revolution wouldn’t have happened if Reza Pahlavi had been a “good king.” I longed to say that good kings, by their very nature, do not exist. Yet I held my tongue, unwilling to shatter the castle they had built with love in the air. They simply didn’t seem like the sort who believed that all kings are parasites, clinging to the necks of the people in those unfortunate lands where they have not yet been overthrown. They longed to be kings themselves, to indulge in lives steeped in opium and filled with journeys to Amerik ...
Some time after we met, Bohsen returned to Iran. He could, unlike Mohsen, for he wasn’t a refugee. He travelled to Iranian Azerbaijan, hoping to find a mute and beautiful wife who would do everything for him, just to live in New Zealand. But he didn’t find her. Returning to Auckland, he died of an overdose. The old man was around 60, maybe a little more.
Each account can create up to 10 public channels The imprisonment came as Telegram said it was "surprised" by claims that privacy commissioner Ada Chung Lai-ling is seeking to block the messaging app due to doxxing content targeting police and politicians. Unlimited number of subscribers per channel Hui said the messages, which included urging the disruption of airport operations, were attempts to incite followers to make use of poisonous, corrosive or flammable substances to vandalize police vehicles, and also called on others to make weapons to harm police. Matt Hussey, editorial director at NEAR Protocol also responded to this news with “#meIRL”. Just as you search “Bear Market Screaming” in Telegram, you will see a Pepe frog yelling as the group’s featured image.
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