Neeka

“We are tired. Tired of the many ways we are continually told to shut up and obey. Tired of being worried about constant arrest because a strand or two of our hair might peek out. Because a patch of our skin might show. Tired above all—above all in God’s almighty planet—of being bombed. Night after night after night.”
― Marjan Kamali, Une enfance en oraison

“The red lamps on the metal stands swung above them. Mina saw all the streets of Iran in her mind's eye, hundreds and hundreds of red lamps for the boys who died, thousands and thousands for the dead in that war, so many lives cut short. She wanted to tell her grandfather that her new country wasn't what he accused it of being. But here she was again, in one country wanting to describe the truth of the other country—knowing she never really could.”
― Marjan Kamali

“She knew how to swing her legs on that hyphen that defined and denied who she was: Iranian-American. Neither the first word nor the second really belonged to her. Her place was on the hyphen, and on the hyphen she would stay, carrying memories of the one place from which she had come and the other place in which she must succeed. The hyphen was hers—a space small, potentially precarious. On the hyphen she would sit and on the hyphen she would stand and soon, like a seasoned acrobat, she would balance there perfectly, never falling, never choosing either side over the other, content with walking that thin line.”
― Marjan Kamali, Together Tea

“Yes, she loved him. The truth of that was like a wave that washed over and submerged her in salty torrents, knotting her hair and stinging her nose, pulling the life out from under her. Of course she loved him. The earth was round, day turned into night, he was in front of her and she loved him.”
― Marjan Kamali, The Stationery Shop