Nazanin Afshin-Jam - The Tale of Two Nazanins

I was sitting at the computer desk, wedged in between the kitchen and the dining room in the downtown Vancouver condominium belonging to my sister and her husband. The aromas of oregano and basil from the bolognese sauce simmering on the stove drifted through the rooms, with their high ceilings, hardwood floors and modern furniture.

While the garlic bread was baking and they were chopping vegetables for the Greek salad, I checked my emails for the first time in two days. I scrolled down the messages in my inbox. I was receiving more than a hundred messages a day from people I had met when travelling as part of my duties for Miss World, as well as from complete strangers who had heard about me. Many of these emails were from people in Iran or Iranians in exile congratulating me on my pageant success and philanthropy; many others sought my help with one charity or another or endorsements for their products.

Normally I enjoyed reading these emails and helping connect people who could help each other. But over the past month, I had been feeling more and more fatigued. There are so many emails and so many people wanting things, I dont know where to start, I mumbled.

Whats that? my sister, Naz, called from the kitchen. (Our similar names had often led to confusion.)

I dont know how to reply to all these people, I answered. A student in Iran wants money for his university books; a German cosmetic company wants me to be the face of their products; a young woman wants tips on how to model and win a teen pageant; and a man in Iran wants help in assisting children burned during a school fire.

The truth was, I had no hours left in my days. I tried to concentrate my time on the emails that were most urgent and reply to the rest, as best I could, with lines such as While I understand your plight, I just do not have the time to fully dedicate to helping you properly. I would then connect them with people I knew who might be able to help them. But now I was feeling so overwhelmed that I couldnt keep up with the pace of emails, what with my already jam-packed schedule and trying to write songs for the album I was making with my brother-in-law Peter.

Dont be so frustrated, Nini, my sister replied from the kitchen, using the Persian word for baby, which is the nickname my entire family uses for me. Stop doing that for a while and relax. Dinner will be ready soon.

I started to pull myself away from the computer, but just then my email dinged, indicating a new message.

The subject line said: YOUR HELP URGENTLY NEEDED.

As I read the email, I found myself entirely present in the moment, fully aware of the sounds coming from the kitchenthe dripping of the tap and the ticking of the clock on the wall above the stove. I could feel, and hear, my inhalations and exhalations.

What? I whispered as I leaned into the computer and read the email a second time.

What is it, another stalker? Naz asked, pulling up a chair to sit beside me. She was referring to some of the men who had been writing me since I had been named first runner-up at Miss World. Men of all ages, shapes and sizes sent their photos and resums to me, as if through a dating service. Some had mailed me gifts, paintings and poems. I knew these men were harmless, but part of me was afraid that one might come along who wasnt.

One of these men, for example, had sent me more than a thousand emails about his personal life, which was in disarray, and pleaded with me to be with him as the solution to his troubles. He threatened that if I didnt give in to his demands, he would hurt me. I reported him to the police after he had ccd me on emails he had sent applying for jobs in Vancouver. Since he lived in California, the police issued a notice to the Canada Border Services Agency, so that if he ever tried to enter Canada, his presence would be noted.

No, no stalkers, I said, pointing to the screen. Look at this.

Peter leaned over me and read the message out loud:

Dear Nazanin,

A teenager, with the same name as you, is desperately in need of your help. The Islamic Republic of Iran has condemned her to death after she stabbed a man who was attempting to rape her. Can you help?

Sincerely, Vincent

Peter sighed. Shes a girl who is on death row in a prison in Iran, he said. And you are a girl here in Vancouver, Canada. Theres nothing you can do. Shes probably already dead.

I glared at him. I cant ignore this!

You dont know anything about this girl, Naz butted in. What if this is a hoax? What if this man Vincent is just trying to get close to you like the stalkers?

Ill research it to see if this is trueif this girl, Nazanin, really exists, I said.

When are you going to have the time for that? Peter asked. You have your voice lessons in the morning, were writing songs in the afternoon and youre in the recording studio until nine or ten at night.

I have to do something, Peter, I said sternly.

All three of us gazed again at the computer screen. I didnt even know Iran executed teenagers, I eventually whispered. I know nothing about Irans prisons except

Babas story, Naz finished my sentence. She was referring to our father, Afshin.

If this girl Nazanin exists, she needs a lawyer, not you, Peter said.

Yes, I said softly. But maybe I can help her get one. Let me at least look into it.

Nini. Naz spun me around in my swivel chair so that I was looking into her black eyes.

Naz, I started to protest, thinking that she was about to tell me all the reasons not to take on this challenge.

Instead, she put her hand in the air and told me to shush. I know you always follow your heart, so see what you can find out about this girl, but try not to let your career fall behind. And be careful. Be very careful.

Why? I asked.