Arash statue in Iran

If you read my blogs regularly, you know that I love to keep small souvenirs from different periods of my life. If someone were to find my box of grocery receipts, hand written notes, theater tickets and such, they most likely would put them directly into a recycle bin. The popular idiom: “one man’s garbage is another man’s treasure” would be the perfect way to introduce my next story.

Throughout my life I have been characterized as a hopeless romantic, a label I wear proudly in spite of the pain it sometimes brings. Once I have opened my heart to someone they remain there for the rest of my life. What is curious, is how I can be walking down the hallway of my apartment and forget where I’m going, or why, before I reach my destination. But one or two pieces of paper from my box of keepsakes can bring back a story from decades ago in remarkable detail.    

In May of 1977, I single handily organized a demonstration at the White House to ask President Carter to include “Gay Rights” at home in his global call for human rights. The demonstration was called “Save Our Children From Anita Bryant.” I was a recent refugee from Anita Bryant’s homophobic state of Florida. At the time I worked in a small bookstore at Dupont Circle on Connecticut Avenue. During my campaign to promote the White House demonstration, I met a “Persian” man named Arash.  

Arash, an Iranian scientist specializing in cancer research, was working on a two year project in DC. I thought he was the most exotic man I had ever met. He had piercing brown eyes and jet black hair that covered his entire body. His facial hair was as soft and shinny as the hair on top of his head. The first adjective I would choose to describe his appearance might be pretty or beautiful, and yet he reeked of masculinity! As we walked down Connecticut Avenue together, all heads would turn, both male and female, to steal one more glance at this extraordinarily handsome young man.

As I look back now, I can see the possibility that Arash was attracted to me because he thought I was also exotic. I had long wavy blond hair, sideburns and a Fu Manchu mustache. He was generous in his praise for my courage and convictions as an openly Gay man, something that was not only impossible, but dangerous in Iran.

I was 28 years old when I met Arash. It’s a time of transition when boys are curious to find their place in the world of adult males. I found Arash’s stories of growing up in the Middle East both fascinating and challenging. His sense of masculinity turned everything I believed up-side-down. He was not allowed to even entertain the idea of being open about his physical attraction to men, but somehow he was able to grow up without the barrier to intimacy I had obtained growing up in America. Because of my short relationship with him before he returned to Iran, I was left with an understanding of what real fear tastes like. It was probably also the first time I understood the true meaning of brotherhood!

Arash was adamant about one thing. He was Persian NOT Arab! He was named after a Persian folk hero, an archer. He took his name so seriously he had taken up archery as a hobby. For me it was a perfect image that supported the dichotomy of his physical beauty and his powerful sense of masculinity. While I found all of this new information about Eastern culture and history fascinating, I was unable to ignore the Roman counterpart of Arash who had pierced my heart with his arrow!

Exactly three days after my successful demonstration at the White House, the movie Star Wars opened. Arash invited me to join him at the Uptown Theater on Connecticut Avenue the following Saturday for the matinee. Even though we arrived one hour before show time, the line already made its way completely around the block. I was so proud to walk to the end of the line with this beautiful man at my side. It seemed everyone I knew in DC was already waiting in line.

In November of the same year, when the Shah of Iran attended a State Dinner at the White House, my thoughts turned to Arash who was preparing to return to Iran in January of 1978. At this time I was very naive about the politics of Iran. Arash had educated me about the mythology of his culture, but never mentioned current politics. His ability to study and work in the US were directly related to the close relationship between our two governments.

After Arash returned to Iran, my attention was focused on every article that appeared in the Washington Post about politics in Iran. The entire year was a chronicle of the deterioration of the Shah’s power. This was the same year I began to develop a close working relationship with many people involved in the Democratic National Committee. Nearly one year after the Shah had attended the State Dinner at the White House I noticed a small card with the Presidential Seal in a wastebasket. I was curious why someone would throw away such a keepsake. It was an invitation for a member of Carter’s cabinet to the state dinner for the Shah. Of course now, I could assume many things about why the cabinet member would choose to throw the invitation away at that particular point in time. But at the time it was just another keepsake to remind me of my beautiful Arash! So I tucked it into my pocket and put it into my box of memories where it has remained until now.

The entire year 1979 was filled with anxiety and fear for what had happened to my friend Arash. Each time I read about public executions of homosexuals, I would wonder if Arash had been among them. And if he had, I would think to myself, was it something I had done or said that allowed him to let down his guard and be found out?

So I find my feelings about the Egyptian protests to be directly linked to Arash. I stand with the people in Tahrir Square. I share their calls for an end to oppression and corruption. I believe they truly want liberty! And when people point to Iran in fear, and call for the continuation of the status quo to assuage that fear, I hear Arash’s words, “Persians are not the same as Arabs!”