My Childhood Crossfire

My Childhood Crossfire

By: John Kazerooni 

My wife and I rarely take evening walks in the Mosaic District, a lively and vibrant neighborhood filled with energy and life. Children’s laughter rings through the air as they dart around, while adults stroll and chat, soaking in the cheerful atmosphere. These walks offer us not just physical activity but a sense of calm—a welcome escape from the pressures of daily life.

One evening, however, my sense of tranquility was disrupted by a scene that unfolded before us. A young boy stood crying, his face streaked with tears, as he pleaded with an adult—likely his father—for forgiveness. The father, pointing sternly at the child, raised his voice in anger, his frustration palpable. I didn’t know their story or the context behind their conflict, so I refrained from judgment. Yet, something about the raw emotions on display struck a deep chord, stirring memories from my own childhood—a time when discipline was harsh and often intertwined with love in ways I couldn’t yet understand.

As a child, I was no stranger to punishment. My father’s disciplinary measures often served dual purposes: to assert his authority to my sisters and to redirect the tensions that simmered between him and my mother. At thirteen, like many boys my age, I spent long hours outdoors, finding freedom and joy in play—a brief reprieve from the challenges of a household shaped by the struggles of hardworking parents.

One evening, I came home to an atmosphere thick with tension. My parents were locked in a heated argument, their voices clashing like thunder in a storm. Though their disputes never turned physical, the emotional weight of their words cut deeply. When their shouting subsided, it was replaced by a stifling silence—a cultural punishment known as ghahr. This unspoken withdrawal, sharp and punishing, only widened the emotional chasm between them. Our home became a battlefield where words were weapons, and silence was the sharpest blade.

In the aftermath of their arguments, I often became the reluctant target of my father’s frustrations. His punishments never extended to my sisters or my mother; instead, they landed squarely on me. One evening, my return from play seemed to ignite a new wave of tension. My mother, uncharacteristically, scolded me for spending too much time outside—a minor complaint that, for reasons I couldn’t understand, triggered my father’s wrath.

In a fit of anger, he grabbed his belt and began striking me. The lashes were relentless, each one a release for his bottled-up frustrations but a pain etched into my body. The pain was excruciating, but what troubled me more was watching his fury consume him. His face flushed, his breathing grew labored, and his strikes faltered as his strength waned.

In that moment, something inside me shifted. Perhaps it was defiance, or perhaps it was an instinct to protect both of us from this destructive cycle. I grabbed the belt mid-swing, wrested it from his grip, and threw it across the room. I stood my ground, meeting his gaze with a resolve I didn’t know I possessed, with no tears in my eyes. My sisters’ cries filled the house, their voices begging for peace. Outside, our neighbors, in houses to the left and right, remained silent, unwilling to intervene—a reflection of the unspoken rule that family conflicts were private matters.

The next day, I encountered Ali-Asghar, a neighbor’s son, who looked at me with a knowing expression. His father, a respected figure known for mediating conflicts, had likely shared his observations. He spoke to my parents, offering his wisdom to calm and confront the growing tension in our home, though the peace didn’t last long.

I sincerely believe my mother’s intentions were never truly about me but rather a reflection of the weight of her own struggles. She often used anger as a tool to provoke my father into communication—an imperfect strategy born of desperation. On the other hand, my father disciplined out of a misguided sense of responsibility, believing his harshness was a necessary tool for shaping our family’s future.

That evening in the Mosaic District brought all these memories rushing back. Watching the boy plead with his father reminded me of the delicate balance between discipline and love, authority and compassion. It reminded me of the complexity of my father’s actions: while often harsh, they were rooted in a profound concern for our well-being—a love he struggled to articulate.

As an adult, I now see the lessons hidden in those years. Silence solves nothing; it only deepens the wounds it seeks to heal. Anger, when left unchecked, consumes even the strongest among us. And reconciliation—true, meaningful reconciliation—requires effort, courage, and the willingness to build bridges where none exist.

I’ve learned that love, even when expressed imperfectly, carries a profound weight. And that evening walk reminded me of one simple truth: the bridges we build, no matter how frail, are often the only way to cross the chasms life creates.

Are we addressing the root causes of conflict, or simply projecting our frustrations onto our children? Can harsh discipline erode the trust between parent and child?  How can parents reconcile their own imperfections while striving to guide their children? How can we ensure our actions build bridges rather than barriers within the family? Are we preparing our children for a world of empathy and understanding, or perpetuating cycles of anger and miscommunication? …

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