In the house of Khomeini we feel an explainable calm; we have been adopted by a man who climbs hills and takes home strays. Though presently en route, the situation is sour. ‘My friend likes the hills,’ I say to the policeman; my hands go up and then down over the undulating form of a mountain backdrop. ‘He likes the moon,’ as I stretch my arms and envelop colossal luminescence with two hands- the biggest brightest fullest moon I have ever seen. We are going be, in all likelihood, arrested for capturing images of a police station and are inspired to convince the police otherwise. ‘He likes the colors of the sky,’ and I point at shaded layers of darkness hanging over mountains; hanging under moon. ‘This,’ I dismiss the building that is this man’s house of authority and stare him in the eyes; ’this really is not interesting.’ Both hands rest on my heart; ‘on my heart.’ We salaam this mere traffic cop and my companion leaves with an accomplished high-contrast image of a police station and a sky. The man who takes home strays brings us to the house of his family and treats us like kings for two days. He shares a life’s archive of images with us and is proud of his life. With recurring themes of cowboys, hill walking, swimming, football, conscription, beards, rivers, lakes, snow, mother, father, brother, sister and classy 1940’s style haircuts and suits, he should be.

-KW, Tabriz.

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But after leaving his house we walked on the streets and the smell of martyrization cought my sense...........

Soldier, were you told that a weapon can’t think?  did anybody tell you that if you comrades die – they wont come back?

Also the tears of your mother couldn’t bring you back!

Soldier Look at your face – it is smudged with blood.

Is it your blood? – do you feel pain?- where is the wound? Mine is at my heart – when I see your blood – when I see the blood of anybody -  soldier reach out to me your hand -  let go of the trigger that shakes the world – without you nobody has power -  without you there is no war – without you there is no trigger, button, lever or switch. Soldier you and your blood are our rescue. Let go soldier reach out your hand and I will heal your wounds – I soak your wounds in the spring and together we drink out of it – come with me soldier come –

SW, Mashad 2006