By A. Torkzadeh
Editorial Page Editor
The Signal, 1993

I didn't know the name of the woman who raised me, but I always knew she was a Kurd. "Naneh" — our equivalent for nanny — wore Kurdish clothes, bundled up her meager belongings the way Kurds do, and when we behaved, she told my baby sister and I exciting tales of growing up in Iran's Kurdistan. In my child's mind, accustomed only to the concrete and asphalt of Tehran, I saw myself in baggy pants and turban, frolicking on top of haystacks and chasing unruly donkeys. In my reverie, a youthful Naneh was a playmate, although privilege had already condemned her to worlds beneath me.