Here is the Buin va Miandasht, the land of five ethnic groups, five religions, and five languages. Here is the land of stories, rituals, and languages; here is the land of lands.


Aunt Akram moved in under the Korsi. She looked at the sunbathing of the winter, shining on the snowy side of the courtyard. Again, the knitting needles should be restored. She should finish the woolen garment of his granddaughter today. She whispered the Georgian song. This song and hundreds of others that its ancestors drove from the land of Georgia; how well she has kept them in her memory.

The wings of Jajim with colorful wool in the hands Tajmah, a Bakhtiari woman, were intertwined in order to survive the imaginary scheme in the mind of Tajmah and on the carpet, and her Lori song made the carpet rug more beautiful.

And Zari, a woman whom the Fate did not deserve her to make her a mother, was full of the birth of creation, giving birth to the dolls that were mates of the girls of this land for hundreds years ago.

As every night in the church, Anahid stood in front of the altar and felt relaxed. The magic of the tranquility of the church and the village that brought him from the splendid Tehran to an ancestral village. She had come back to repair the church that his ancestors had built with love for hundreds of years ago. She blessed the Church with the Messianic spirit of love.