من چریک نبودم الفارسية 1447

No one remembers their own birth. If it were possible, many might well regret having come into the world and prefer to return to the womb. But do not assume that I, too, am among those who regret being born. I would gladly be born many times over, for each birth, in my view, offers the chance to learn something new—ever newer. What could be better than loving a beautiful and mysterious existence? I even believe that enduring suffering on the scale of Job would be a fair price to pay for attaining such love. It is not birth itself that matters, but rather what the one who is born fashions out of their life.

According to my birth certificate, I was born on the first of Ordibehesht 1335 (April 21, 1956) in a room whose ceiling and walls were covered in mirrorwork, in the house of Haj Mizabdollah in the Sardazk neighborhood—so named because of the abundance of thieves once found there, and known as the territory of Dash Akol, the hero of Sadeq Hedayat’s well-known story.