In January of 2020, I would have liked to think that my palette and extra-curricular activities had improved significantly since the time that I was 8, but alas, my favourite pastry was still a pirashki and I would greatly look forward to the days that I could go on delivery runs to North Vancouver with my father. So, when my dad asked me to accompany him on a delivery trip the day before I was supposed to fly back to Toronto for school, the answer was an unequivocal yes. Our trip had all the main staples of our delivery runs growing up: we played music a bit too loud on the way, we chatted and caught up with each other, and my dad would drop by the various stores he needed to pick up or drop off items to while I sat in the car and wrote the invoices. Finally, at our last stop, we arrived at the Persian bakery that sold the pirashkis that I had trekked the long trip for. As we entered the bakery, everything was normal. I formally greeted the baker and asked her how she was doing. I eyed at all the baked goods to encourage my digestive system to start running. My dad ordered the biggest-looking pirashkis with the crispiest edges. I thanked the baker as she handed me my doughnut and I immediately felt the warmth of the pastry in my cold hands. That day, I must have perused the baked goods section for a few minutes too long because my stomach was begging for the doughnut as soon as it was placed in my hands. So, instead of rushing to the car and waiting for the engine to run before I took my first bit as per tradition, I decided to take my first bite right there in the bakery. 
   

As I bit into my pirashki and I started chewing, I heard a few gasps in the bakery. I noticed the baker turning the volume up on the TV that was sitting in the corner of the shop. I saw lingering footage of a plane and the headlines of ‘Breaking News’ flashing across the screen. Suddenly, the pirashki in my mouth became a little too difficult to swallow as a growing lump in my throat was competing for space. I watched the TV for what seemed like decades with my fellow patrons. We were all in utter shock. On the drive home, the rest of my now cold pirashki layed in the backseat while I sat in the front trying to fall asleep as my mind ran in sheer panic. Who did I know that was on that flight? 

For the rest of that month, I felt feelings of grief and anger that were inconceivable to me. Before the flight, the United States was having tensions with Iran as they had shot down Soleimani, an Iranian military official. Much of the Iranian community was glad to see Soleimani dead as he had been the cause of death for hundreds of innocent, freedom-seeking, Iranians. However, at the same time, the community was afraid of what might come of this act of aggression as tensions were high and the possibility of war seemed to be on the horizon. When Flight PS752 was shot down, the concern in my body liquified into utter devastation as I slowly learned the names of the passengers on the flight, those who I did not know and those who I did. Among the familiar names were the names of the wife and daughter of a man who owned Amir’s Bakery in North Vancouver. As the community rallied around the grieving father and now-widow, I realized that this man had a very similar role in the Persian community as my father did. This was the part of the attack which has pained me the most. Iranians have always known that our lives are regarded as being disposable to the Islamic Regime that rules over Iran. Iranians in the diaspora are also heavily aware that they are targets of the Islamic Regime and its war on Iranians that oppose them. However, knowing how common the flight route of Tehran - Kyiv - Canada is and how easily the Iranian government is able to murder innocent Canadian citizens who are simply living their daily lives, without a blink of an eye, and without consequence as of January 2023, is both enraging and terrifying.