Your hand ...

Your hand shows me something unique. I'm blind, but you gently guide me. I hear voices and know I'm in a room. I feel the wrinkles of your hand. It is marked by the experience of mankind. I know I can trust. I decide to let go and find out what you want to show. I sit and the word "chay" is already familiar to me. Something is being mounted in front of me. The sound of metal hitting wood proves to me that they are setting a table. You guide me there. Compel me to open my hand and find what you want: to offer me a tissue.

At first touch, I feel the velvet of a Persian sympathy. Like the comfort of a coffee taken in the company of a storyteller. There, in the middle of nowhere, just the cars broke our conversation. At this point, there wasn't a tourist and a guide. We were two human beings sharing a good conversation and a cafe that tucked the soul and cast the cold away.

We proceed to see what other pieces of fabric you offer me. This is rougher, almost aggressive. It doesn't want to let my hand touch it. My hand doesn't belong there. As I don't at the rally celebrating the anniversary of the police that controls moral. It was in the beautiful Iman Square in Isfahan. The same that a few days before received me so well. Now the black veil, such as prejudice, coveres women and boy-men are dressed in camouflage-uniformes. It was a party that I didn't share and I drove out of square.

Your hand guides me to the next piece of fabric. And now it's so different. Becames lighter. Lets the fresh air of a soothing conversation along the river. Free from prejudice or moral. A timeless moment and without geography. Except that of our dreams and emotions. So once again I feel the hospitality of the people who live here. Something that touched me with all the depth. I humbly thank you with the certainty of not being able to repay such a generous gift.

I do not need to be guided anymore. I'm eager to discover what else there is. As my hand passes this new piece, the fabric emits a special sound. As special as hearing the call to prayer in the Mosque Imam. I walk alone in its spacious cloisters and the sound becomes transcendental. The melody of those words don't enter my ears but my soul. It's poetry embodied in sound. I am raising to another state, to another consciousness. I walk with the melody in my head and I am just awakened to the sound of the flute that plays in the music hall of the Ali Qapu Palace and go into another moment of contemplation.

I think the most beautiful fabric cannot exists until my hand touches a last piece. I have no words to describe it. It is the purest I could feel. It moved me. It changed me. I shudder to think of it. It would be a crime at this stage to try to describe it ...

Finally I recover my eyesight. I see what my hand felt. A tissue filled with moments, embroidery perfectly in a country we call Iran.