It was the last day of winter, March 20th, 1975. My dad picked me up from school at noon, right after my final exam of the trimester. We then set off for Tehran in our brand-new BMW 2002. Despite the cold and snow, we were determined to arrive in time for the first day of spring, the Persian New Year celebration.
My mom and sister had already flown to Tehran to join my paternal grandmother. It was a yearly tradition for all the children, their spouses, grandchildren, and extended family to gather for the New Year. We would celebrate the occasion with a grand feast and exchange gifts.
As a child, I always looked forward to this time of year. It was a period of joy and excitement. Adults would shower us with gifts, often including cash. In the days leading up to the New Year, my dad and I would visit a bookstore and purchase over 50 books, which my grandmother would distribute to family and guests. We would spend our days playing games, indulging in sweets, and visiting relatives. After a few days of festivities, we would embark on a family trip.
The celebrations would conclude on the thirteenth day of the new year, and it was back to school for us.
My dad, a typically aggressive driver, covered more than half of the 640-kilometer distance in about three hours when the engine light suddenly illuminated. He pulled over to the side of the road, and steam began to rise from under the hood. He immediately suspected it was the water pump belt, but we were at least half an hour away from anywhere that might have one, assuming the stores were still open.
While my dad was trying to figure out what to do, a red BMW 2002 pulled up in front of us. The driver asked if he could help. My dad explained the problem, and the driver said he didn’t have a belt but might be able to think of something. He went back to his car and asked his wife for a pair of pantyhose.
He helped my dad fashion a makeshift belt from the pair of pantyhose, fetched water from his car to fill the radiator, and sent us on our He was a stranger, yet he refused any compensation for his kindness.
My dad started carrying a spare belt, and a year or so later, we repaid the kindness by helping another family stranded on the side of the road with a similar car. We provided them with a spare belt and assisted them in getting back on the road. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the concept of paying it forward, but I noticed people were always kind and willing to help one another.
Fast forward to the post-revolution era, and kindness seemed to have vanished as well. People would often be stranded on the side of the road, far from any civilization. Unfortunately, if someone stopped helping, they risked being robbed. Or they would feign car trouble to lure unsuspecting helpers into a trap.
The situation had deteriorated to the point where even in populated urban areas, people were afraid to help one another. Countless stories circulated, warning people against offering assistance to strangers. The prevailing message was clear: if someone appeared to be in need, it was best to avoid getting involved.
One particularly harrowing incident involved a physician who, while driving home from work, encountered a desperate young mother with a newborn baby caught in a heavy rainstorm. The physician offered to drive them to a nearby bus stop or closer to their home. The woman accepted the offer and got into the backseat. However, during the journey, she threatened to falsely accuse the physician of being the baby’s father and scream for help unless he paid her a substantial sum of money. The physician calmly replied, "Go ahead. There's no way you can prove that. Testing revealed that he was, in fact, infertile, and his presumed biological children were not his.
It was the winter of 1997. My wife and I were returning from a skiing trip. Midway through the journey, she mentioned feeling tired. Instead of waiting for a designated rest stop, she pulled off onto a side road, intending to drive until she felt comfortable stopping to switch places. Unfortunately, she parked too close to the shoulder, and the car slid into the ditch.
We were stranded, feeling helpless. With no cell phone signal and the sun beginning to set, the desolate road offered no hope.
Just when it seemed our luck couldn’t get any worse, a kind woman pulled up beside us. She inquired about our situation and, upon learning we had no phone, offered to help. She insisted on taking my wife to a nearby gas station to seek assistance, perhaps from a tow truck driver. She advised me to stay in the car, keep the engine running, and ensure the heater was working.
As they were leaving, I saw a truck approaching. The driver stopped, explaining that he had seen our predicament and wanted to help. With his assistance, we were able to pull the car back onto the road. Shortly after, my wife returned with a tow truck driver. Surprisingly, the tow truck driver refused to charge us, insisting that he hadn't done anything significant.
In June 2002, while traveling in New Brunswick, the fuel light in my SUV illuminated. I was nearly at a gas station, less than a kilometer away, when the vehicle abruptly stalled. I went to a nearby convenience store to purchase a small fuel container, planning to walk to the gas station. As I was leaving, A work truck stopped by my vehicle. The driver, who had extra fuel for his equipment, generously poured about 20 liters into my tank without asking for any payment. He simply said, "If you see someone in need, help them."
In April 2005, while en route to Yellowstone National Park, I decided to take a shortcut. Initially, the detour seemed promising, but it soon turned into a perilous situation. I became stuck, and fortunately, a hunter came to my aid. Using his ATV, he managed to pull my car free. His only advice was a cautionary note: "Be careful; road conditions here are unpredictable, and this place can be dangerous."
The score was three to nothing.
It was the winter of 2011. A heavy snowstorm was raging as I drove back to Toronto for our ski chalet at Blue Mountain. Snow was falling at an alarming rate of nearly 30 centimeters per hour. As I navigated the treacherous road, I spotted a dim light off the side. A car had veered off the road and landed in a ditch, its driver unable to regain control on the icy, snowy surface.
I pulled over and explained the situation to my wife and daughter. We knew we had to help. The young woman in the passenger seat was visibly shaken, and the driver appeared to be in shock. They were newlyweds and bride's uncle had given them a tow cable as a gift just the day before. We attached the cable to their car and my trailer hitch, and I slowly pulled them out of the ditch.
Overwhelmed with gratitude, they showered us with hugs and insisted on helping in return. I simply smiled and replied, "We're here to help each other."
When fascism takes hold, it inevitably brings immorality in its wake. Whether it's the Islamic fascism of Iran or any other form worldwide, it disrupts the societal balance, paving the way for immorality. This can arise for many reasons, from increased lawlessness to desperate acts of survival. Opportunists exploit the chaos, and ultimately, anarchy, distrust, and dishonesty flourish. The longer fascism persists, the deeper the darkness becomes.
As the saying goes, once a glass is broken, it can't be perfectly repaired with glue. It won't hold water and will remain unsightly. The best approach is to prevent breakage altogether. However, if damage occurs, it's crucial to halt the expansion of the cracks. Ultimately, like the glass, societies have a lifespan, and eventually, a new generation will arise to rebuild. Sadly, this renewal may not occur within our lifetime.
(c) I personally took these photos and videos and own the rights to them. Please feel free to use them as you wish.
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