Marjan Kamali

As girls, we’d sat on the same elementary school bench in downtown Tehran. Together we scratched out hopscotch grids in our neighborhood alley and raced to school with satchels bouncing against our hips. With Homa, I had zigzagged through the mazes of the Grand Bazaar and shared ice cream sandwiches and dreams for the kind of women we’d become. In her stone kitchen, I learned to cook. With her hand in mine, I jumped over the largest bonfires. When we’d hiked up Alborz Mountain and seen Tehran laid out beneath us, it felt like the world could be entirely ours.