“My last memories of Iran are the mountains near the Turkish border. I was on the back of a horse behind a man I had never seen before. My mother was beside me on another horse. She barely could keep her balance so she hold on to the horse very tight. The roads were small and even though I was only 3 years old I realized very well that we could fall into the ravine any moment. My dad had left a few months earlier but got stuck while crossing the Turkish border. He was kept in a prison and he had no idea how my mother and I were doing. One day he heard that a 3-year-old boy and his mom fell into the raven near the border. He panicked and screamed. He was so upset that he demanded the guards to give him a newspaper. When we arrived in Turkey I finally saw my him again. Within a few months he had changed from a strong father into a weak and skinny man with a beard. I didn’t recognize him anymore so I would hide behind my mother’s legs. Only after he started talking and making jokes in his unique was, I realized that this man was my father.”