The last time I spoke to my father, he was about to board a plane from Tehran to Kyiv. He and my mother, both devout Shia Muslims, had been leading a tour of Shia holy sites in Iraq and Iran. When he called me from the airport, I was driving my 11-year-old son to soccer practice in Mississauga. There was nothing unusual about the conversation. I come from a tight-knit family, and my father and I spoke on the phone four or five times a day. (There’s a reason he always tried to get the best Rogers plan.) I told him I loved him. He boasted about how far he walked that day. He was always trying to reach his daily goal of 10,000 steps. The call disconnected midway through, and something inside me knew I couldn’t leave it at that. I called him back and told him, as I often did, that he made me the person I am today.
Flight PS752 disaster
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An Iranian student lights a candle during a memorial for the victims of the Ukraine plane crash, in University of Tehran on Jan. 14, 2020.
