Sunday, November 19, 2006

I come from Tehran and no, there are no camels where I come from. There are cars and honking taxis that pass women in black veils or short, colorful scarves that barely cover their heads. In this beautiful prison of banned dreams, there certainly isn't a statue of liberty; men and women liberate themselves with cafes, cigars, smuggled drugs and secret relationships. In America, I am a writer. I can imagine, dream, live, breathe as an Iranian, an American. I can add color to anything; if only I could paint the gray streets of Tehran with my words.

Elaheh Farmand

Falls Church

I opened the e-mail message and audibly gasped. Staring back was a photo of me as a 2-year-old, a photo I had not seen in 32 years. Apparently, under the cover of night, someone was able to enter the house I grew up in, in the fenced in city of Varosha, Cyprus -- a ghost town, frozen in time since the day in August of 1974 when the Turkish troops marched in and we had to flee in panic. The stranger was able to trace me through an Internet site run by people in love with the city and yearning for the day of its return. He was anxious to find "the child with the piercing eyes," said his message. For a moment the ringing phones and clients on hold had to wait. This was my past calling, and I had to take the call.

Andreas Chamalambous

Washington

Find a way to give insight into your life in under 100 words. Authors of selected entries will be notified and paid $100. Send text (accompanied by a home phone number) via e-mail (lifeisshort@washpost.com), fax (202-334-5587) or mail (Style, Life Is Short, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, D.C. 20071).