Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East by Jared Cohen Read Free Book Online Page A

and our sisters were suffering and we really wept.”
    I looked around the circle of students that had gathered around me and saw heads nodding up and down. And this touched me. The previous year there had been an earthquake in the ancient Iranian city of Bam, claiming the lives of more than twenty thousand Iranians. While Americans who watch the news likely registered this as a tragedy, I would imagine that few Americans wept on behalf of their Iranian brothers and sisters and I felt guilty that I had not previously offered my condolences for their losses.
    Another female student spoke. She had very distinct features and glamorous eyes. Like so many other women in Iran, she had elaborately painted her eyes with dark mascara and artistically done her nails in dark pink polish. She had a completely different way of carrying herself than the other girl who had spoken. She sat comfortably and spoke with a confident and almost aggressive tone. “What do people think of Iran in America? Who do they think we are?” I thought about her question, as it seemed more rhetorical than anything else, as if she already knew the answer.
    “I am not sure what you mean,” I responded.
    “Well, do they know we are not terrorists?” she demanded to know. “We are Muslim and we are proud of our religion, but that does not mean we are terrorists. Do people in your country know this?” She inched closer to me from her sitting position. “You must also know that just because we are Muslim and this is an Islamic republic, that does not mean that we like the mullahs or want this as our government. We hate them! They try to ruin our lives.”
    I wasn’t sure how to contribute. I attempted to fill the silence. “I think part of the problem is that—”
    She interrupted me before I could finish: “When you go back you must tell people that the Iranians have no problems with the Americans. Please tell them what you see here and tell them the truth. Tell them we love America and we really feel when America suffers. Make them know that we are not the same as our government and that we want to have America as friends.” Her pleas rapidly evolved into a tirade on her disgust for the regime. She complained that the economy was growing worse by the day and instead of helping the people, the ruling elite simply pocketed the money from the country’s oil. “They are all the same,” she said, “they steal while we suffer. We are proud people and there is no opportunity for us. Sometimes we question what will be our future. We did not choose this government, but they still tell us how we must live and they give us nothing.”
    Gita returned with her sister. She seemed to think it was funny that I was surrounded by students, although I think I noticed a hint of jealousy. I thanked the students who were sitting with me and I turned my attention back to the sisters. Gita laughed and said, “I think you have made some friends.” She laughed again. “You should get used to this. We don’t see very many Americans. Everyone is going to want to tell you things.” I laughed and invited the two sisters for lunch, but told them that because I didn’t know Tehran, they would have to choose the place.
    We broke the ice quickly when they saw how truly terrified I was to cross the street. They thought my trepidation was funny, but it was not without good reason. In Iran crossing the street is a challenge in and of itself. The traffic is atrocious, bumper-to-bumper at all moments of the day. Cars drive on whatever part of the road offers space, and it is therefore not uncommon to see vehicles of various shapes and sizes driving on the wrong side of the road. Iran is well-equipped with walkways that stretch over the road, but people seem to prefer throwing themselves in front of traffic to ensuring their safety. There are no emissions standards and as a result, clouds of black smoke hover over the traffic and filter into the street. The pollution is so bad