Behrooz Badakhshan

narrated by Mehr Khansalar

Behrooz Badakhshan was born in the spring of 1964, and before he could entrust his manuscripts to publication, he passed away in the spring of 2021. Contrary to the complexity of his creative mind, the story of his manuscripts is simple and familiar: much of the work was lost, and what remained was gathered so that, with the efforts of his friends, it could finally be published. One year after his passing, in 2022, three chapters of his unfinished novel Sahra-Rowghan (“Oil Desert”) were published alongside his complete play Bisutun. And now that his novel Badri has gone to press, only the complete screenplay A Place to Sleep and a collection of his play and screenplay drafts remain, which will be prepared soon.

Now that a part of his work is ready for publication, allowing Behrooz Badakhshan to be seen more clearly, I realize that Behrooz is not just these works. Behrooz was also his sharp, candid, uncompromising critiques; all the stories he could recite by heart; all the sentences he wrote during our storytelling gatherings—sentences we nurtured together in hopes of shaping them into good stories someday. Behrooz was as much his biting, incisive humor as he was his chivalrous nature and sky-bright generosity. His contradictions were unique, and it was precisely these contradictions that fashioned a personality at once intimate and yet out of reach.

The bustle and his wholehearted laughter alongside moments of deep silence and writing within his mind; his love of being among people alongside a boundless solitude he shared with no one; his worries, his obsessions, and so much more. Behrooz was all these contradictions—a being full of the passion of life, with a profound longing for death. A longing that became the tragedy of his life. A death that, perhaps, could have freed him—let him fly.