At the market this morning I visited one of my favorite vendors. She never mentioned that she was from Iran, but I recognized what she had labeled as a “stuffed cookie” as a Koloocheh, a classic northern Iranian walnut-cardamom pastry that I was surprised to find in Thunder Bay, Canada.
She put down her phone so she could take my order (a stuffed cookie and rose tea, please) while I made the usual small talk.
“The snow is finally melting!”
“Nice, isn’t it?”
“I’m excited to start the garden”
But the war was on my mind, as it was certainly on hers, so I asked how she was doing.
A pause.
I asked again, more gently.
She told me that her mother was on the phone, the first call she’s had with her in over a week since the fighting started.
“They’re getting bombed,” she said, nearly sobbing. “My nephew keeps begging me to bring him to Canada with me and I can only tell him I’m trying.”
I told her that I understand how it feels having family there, that my brother is in the conflict zone.
“Ah, so he’s in the military?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her which one. I only said yes, and that my heart is with her and her family, and left her to continue talking with her mother..