Without a Dream 

Without a Dream   -   in Persian   بدون رؤیا 

By John Kazerooni (In Memory of My Classmate)

Some wounds sink so deeply beneath the skin that they forget how to bleed. They do not cry out. They do not surface. They settle quietly—soft at first, then deeper—until they become a permanent, silent part of who we are.

Arman was ten years old. At an age when the world should feel endless, when dreams should stretch far beyond the horizon, his world was already small and closed. Not by choice, but because life had quietly shut its doors on him.

He sat in the classroom like the rest of us—on the same wooden bench, beneath the same dim light. But while our eyes followed the blackboard, his gaze drifted elsewhere—somewhere heavier, more painful, more distant.

He had lost his father at the age of nine. And with that loss, something unseen shifted inside him. Childhood stepped aside, and in its place came a weight he had never asked to carry.

Each day, six souls waited for him at home—three sisters, two younger brothers, and a mother filled with silent love. Her eyes spoke more than words ever could. Her silence carried the weight of everything she could not say.

In his world, being the firstborn son was not a role. It was a quiet surrender. A life handed to him without question—without asking whether he was ready, or willing.

After school, when we returned home to study, to play, to forget the day, Arman’s day was just beginning. 

He worked until late into the evening, chasing the simplest need—bread for the night. Beneath a sun that showed no mercy, through alleys that did not see him, he went door to door, gathering what others had thrown away—scraps of metal, broken and forgotten things, and sometimes, if luck stayed with him, a piece of dry bread or a small, leftover meal.

He carried them home as if they were treasures—as if they held light. On better days, he could sell what he found and earn a few coins. With those, he might buy a piece of cheese—just enough to quiet hunger, if only for a night.

And slowly, without even noticing, he began to fall behind. Behind in school. Behind in life. Behind in rest, in joy, in dreams—and in childhood itself.

His assignments were left unfinished. His eyes were always tired. His hands, worn and restless, never knew stillness.

And in the classroom, there was no place for a story like his. The punishments, the sharp discipline of teachers, became part of his routine—a circle with no end.

His hands learned pain before they ever learned freedom. They grew numb—not because the pain was too much, but because it never stopped. Because when something hurts long enough, it no longer asks to be felt.

And yet, within him, something stronger than pain endured. Love.

He carried his family in his thoughts—in their laughter, in their fragile joys, in the small safety he tried to build for them. He lived for his mother, in quiet devotion, trying to lift the sorrow from her shoulders without ever speaking a word.

Arman had no dreams for himself. He did not live for himself. He no longer imagined a future where his hands could rest, or his heart could feel light. Whatever dreams existed within him belonged to his family. His sisters grew into lives of dignity. His brothers finished their education. And he… never truly had the chance to live.

Yet his mother, holding his memory, would sometimes smile—a soft, peaceful smile, free of worry, even if only for a moment. And somehow, that was enough for him.

He never asked, “Why me?” He never wished for more. Never pitied himself. Never set anything aside for his own comfort. There was no time for such things.

Some lives are not measured by joy, but by quiet giving—by sacrifices so constant they become invisible, even to the one who makes them.

And Arman gave, and gave, and gave—until there was nothing left to give but himself. And when he left this world, he carried no regret. Only a quiet peace. A lasting stillness. An eternal rest. Because his mother had been proud. Because his sisters had found dignity. Because his brothers had found a future. And in his heart, that was enough to call a life complete.

Now, his memory does not settle easily within us. It lingers—like a question suspended in the air, waiting for an answer we are not ready to give.

Was he a victim of fate—his story written before he could speak?

Was he a victim of society—a world that saw him, but chose not to see?

Was he a victim of where he was born—where childhood is not a right, but a privilege?

Or is the truth scattered everywhere—in the systems we accept, in the silences we keep, in the questions we have learned not to ask?

And perhaps the hardest question of all:

In a world that cannot see silent suffering, how does change begin?

Perhaps it does not begin with noise. Perhaps it begins with seeing—with noticing the child in the corner, quiet, burdened beyond his strength, and asking why… before it is too late.

Because somewhere, even now, there is another Arman—walking, enduring, giving—without ever holding a dream of his own. And like a dark bruise beneath the skin, his story remains—unseen, unspoken, yet deep… and undeniable.

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