Far from restless Tehran, in a desert of peach hues and surrounded by rugged mountains, a solitary tree has sunk its roots into the very heart of existence. Centuries rush past — prophets are born, wars paint the seas crimson, fanatics rise to power, lovers merge as one, and laughter echoes the plague — while the tree’s branches sway in the wind day after day.
After twenty years of obedient service, a man is promoted to the position of investigator. In his hands fall thousands of protesters who, by chance, poured into the streets at just that moment. And he is not alone — all across Iran, government officials wake up in warm beds, many surrounded by loving families, and after breakfast, they don the robes of executioners.
Thousands of former children who once kicked a ball with friends in the schoolyard, dreamed of a fluffy pet, fell in love for the first time, and gazed longingly at the stars have become part of an unjustifiably bloodthirsty system. It has no face, no morality — only the grinding wheels into which ordinary people fall one after another, along with their ordinary dreams.
Toward the ancient tree, which has never once caught a human gaze, flies a bird with soft blue plumage. It is drawn by the shade — a place to rest on the way to unattainable freedom. Its claws grip a branch, and from it falls a strange fruit — a cluster of chilling buckshot. The sand parts in fear, and the metal disappears from sight.
The wife of the newly appointed investigator had always felt safe behind his back. A good, if somewhat cramped, government apartment; understanding and mutual submission; tenderness and the unfading flowers of passion. If such marriages are predestined, then surely they are arranged only in heaven, under the watchful eyes of detached cherubim.
In the evenings, they prayed to Allah together; at night, they discussed their shared future and dreamed of a three-room apartment that would surely come with a judge’s position. And sooner or later, it would serve as a reward for obedience to the system — for it has only two tools at its disposal: the whip that lashes the disobedient, and the sweet that melts on the tongues of the submissive.
The scorching sun, having risen on the wrong side, torments the defenseless tree. Fortunately, a gust of wind rushes by and notices the injustice — it gently brushes the leaves and carries away the heat, but at the same time, another fruit falls from the crown. This time, the buckshot pierces a hijab; the fabric bristles and conceals the metal within its folds.
The daughters, jokingly called the “Seeds of the Sacred Fig”, grew up cared for and with almost limitless prospects within the established order. For their sake, the father sacrificed his conscience and sank into doubt, while the mother kept the hearth like a holy relic amid the Persian dunes. In the shade of parental protection, the children grew stronger day by day.
And yet life is not confined to the hopes of a family — it constantly deforms, tossing into the whirlpool of change anyone who dares to glance at it carelessly. Apples fall to the ground and slowly roll away from the womb, but over time, they more and more clearly move toward the horizon — into a world free of parental boundaries.
At first, the night’s darkness is pierced by flashes of light that soar into the sky and then burrow into the earth. Finally, a screech echoes — a car circles the tree, and darkness once again settles over the land. But even at dawn, no one steps out of the vehicle — not because the intruder’s life has flown away, but because there was never anyone behind the wheel. And yet, the third fruit bids farewell to its kin and tears through the spectral flesh, watering the roots with blood.
One day, like a colossal fire born from a tiny spark, the younger generation will raise their heads and look around. They will realize that the world they grew up in is not confined to their parents’ will and care — it is far broader and more diverse. Freedom will rush to their heads, and sharp, biting words will pour from their mouths, calling the old order into question.
The pursuit of comfort — to which millions of now-decayed minds, including the well-known Rudolf Hess, once devoted themselves — turns out to be a cozy cage. And to obtain the key to it, one must renounce their own conscience at the entrance.
In the bustle of daily life, it may seem that the world contains few shades, and on particularly gloomy days, it appears to divide clearly into black and white. But this is an illusion that will eventually dissolve in the pre-dawn fog. It turns out that the conflict between fathers and children is cyclical — there are no righteous sides, and each fights for their own vision of comfort. Some hide behind faith or care, while others chase permissiveness.
An ordinary morning, one of those unnoticed by anyone, will split the earth open. From the tree struggling to keep its balance, a final metallic fruit will fall — followed by bark resembling scalded flesh. Splinters will pierce the sand, and when the last leaf turns to dust, the sun will go out. At last, long-awaited nothingness will reign — a humble peace beyond human passions and petty desires.
