Without Words and Between Worlds: Watching Iran-USA as an Iranian-American

I watched Iran-USA alone in 1998, thousands of miles away from home, my Chilean roommates indifferent to the first encounter between the American side and “los arabes” (Chile that year had already advanced; the US and Iran had no chance). I was astonished to find myself crying at the pre-game exchange of gifts, the Iranians characteristically going over the top with the ta’arof, white roses, a silver tray, a handmade wooden frame, alongside the traditional penant. The two teams gathered for a joint photo and the rest of the match was like a dream.

Twenty four years later and I’m watching Iran-USA with my son, this not-so-tiny miracle, his morning nap delayed by the occasion, if not by mutual agreement. We are in our own home, just miles down the road from my childhood home. Again I find myself weeping, uncontrollably, during the opening ceremony.

This year there will be no exchange of gifts, no shared photo before the match. Camaraderie comes at the end, the now famous images of the American players consoling their stricken counterparts, compassion for the Iranians crying on the pitch as another World Cup comes to an end for their country.

My wife recently asked me why these games, why *this* game, matters so much. It’s a fair question. I’m not a soccer person, I couldn’t name but a handful of players from either side. Why do I care? Perhaps my inability to name a reason, under the weight of all these years of animosity, anguish, and disappointment, perhaps in the absence of words lies the only meaningful answer. What is there left to be said?