Reflections on Flight PS752

For Iranians, the spring equinox marks the beginning of our new year. We celebrate the moment the Earth finishes another trip around the sun and families come together. Common belief is that whatever you do at that moment determines how your whole year will turn out. This year, in the weeks leading up to the new year, I didn’t have my usual feeling of anticipation. Snow piles got smaller and days grew longer. But this year, spring and its sense of hope felt so far away.

I sat down to write about how to find hope and fuel it within myself — a challenge for sure. On Jan. 12, I had been the MC for a memorial event at the Saville Community Sports Centre to honour the victims of Flight PS752, the commercial airliner shot down by the Iranian military a few minutes after takeoff from Tehran. Aboard were hundreds of people, 13 of them with close connections to the U of A. The crash and memorial service had left me drained and hopeless. It felt as if the tragedy got bigger once the public mourning period ended.

Then the world was hit by COVID-19, and hugging became a thing of the past. I think about how much lonelier mourning has become. All events and celebrations of the Iranian new year were cancelled to help flatten the curve and stave off the virus. Not that anyone was in the mood to celebrate, anyway.

In the weeks following the crash, before COVID-19 changed the world, I would find myself driving to work thinking about how many lives turned upside down in minutes. I would relive the moment I first heard the flight number “PS752.” How hard it must be for the victims’ close family and friends, I thought, if it has been this hard for me.

The first equinox after someone’s passing is the hardest for the grieving family in Iranian culture. Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to think about spring this year.

I dragged myself to work, desperate and empty, the world around me dark. I dreaded reading the news. Nothing good had happened in what felt like a lifetime. When I did read the news, there was word of a bad virus going around Iran. As Iranians, we are used to going from one tragedy to another. After PS752, though, I was too emotionally drained to move on. But the truth is, life doesn’t care about how ready we are to deal with distress.

One morning as I was reading the news, a headline caught my attention: “How mattresses could solve hunger.” It was a video about Syrians living in the Zaatari refugee camp in Jordan — where soil is so salty that nothing grows — growing food in old mattresses using only a small amount of water and recycled foam. These refugees had been farmers in their pre-war lives. Living in Zaatari must have felt like losing their essence. I listened as they talked about how hard it had been to go from being farmers to refugees.

But they obviously had not given up.

It felt as if a crack started to open on the wall of a dark room, letting the light in. A tiny ray of light brightened the room enough for me to remember. Remember that I used to be a positive person. What had happened to me?

I guess sadness doesn’t always occur suddenly. It creeps up. When we lose hope, we become like a forgotten plant. I looked at the little pot of wilted daffodils, a gift from my co-worker after the plane was shot down. I got up to get some water. I thought of the people around me. So many had reached out after the crash, I lost track of the condolences. As I poured some water in the pot, I reviewed in my head every hug, email and card. There were so many.

And I realized how important it is to step back from sadness and remember each person who offered support. I had been surrounded by these invisible circles of people in my different communities, trying to help me through. My friends, my work, the U of A, the city, my gym even! As I watered the pot of daffodils, I pictured how hopeless those Syrian farmers must have felt before they started to grow food again.

The daffodils perked up. Maybe I came back to life a little bit, too.

I started to feel a bit better every day. The sadness wasn’t entirely gone, but it had stopped governing me. I’d always believed that life is bigger than death, all I had to do was to remind myself of that. I can’t imagine how I would feel today if I didn’t belong to all these concentric supportive circles, coming together the way they did.

Dealing with the new reality of our socially distant life, I’ve been able to play a leadership role and help other people through this trying time. Every day I reach out to some of my friends and colleagues to help them feel connected. Because that is the secret: staying connected. It has not been easy living without the hugs or physical presence of our friends, but there are many other ways to be there for each other.

I’m trying to be part of those support circles for others. My effort may be virtual, but it is caring and honest. This is how we withstand grief. I like to think that I am surrounded by these concentric circles and the centre is me! To mark the hundredth day after the crash, I wrote a poem, recorded myself reading it, and sent it to the association of families of victims of Flight PS752.

I joined their circle of support and, with the small amount of solace I can offer them, I myself am comforted at heart.

The mix of adequate water and sunlight has brought my daffodils back to life just as all the love and hope did for me. It’s April now and it’s OK if I’m in isolation and it’s OK that I haven’t seen my friends. I’ll be ready for the day they all come back. I will have blooming daffodils and, in the dark days, I’ll look for a crack on the wall to let light peek through.