They were friends. They may now be enemies.

Iran and the United States were inseparable allies ... until they were bitterest enemies

The news got me thinking about Taj.

It came up on my phone as a New York Times alert – a holdover from my days as a full-time news guy – “Israeli airstrikes hit Iranian nuclear facilities.”

I’ve been following the story ever since

.How much does coincidence rule our lives? Some folks might point to such things as God’s Plan, but I sincerely doubt the Creator of the Universe had much to do with an apartment lease falling through that sent me and my roommate on a single-minded quest to avert homelessness. We found a place that was semi-occupied, but preferable, all in all, to a leaky tent under the interstate bridge.

That’s how I got to know Taj.

Back then, in 1975, the Imperial State of Iran and the United States of America were all but inseparable allies. The Pahlavi dynasty sat upon the Peacock Throne, wielding absolute power with full support of the government in Washington.

Foreign alliances don’t normally entangle college students in Southeast Minnesota, but the Shah’s government eagerly encouraged young Iranians to pursue college degrees in the United States…and when Harvard, Northwestern, and the U of M were full, increasing numbers started showing up at Winona State.

One of them would be sharing an apartment with Dave and I.

It was culture clash from the get-go. That first night the Persian music played at full volume had all the musical charm of two yowling tomcats locked in mortal combat. The kitchen smelled funny and we were absolutely certain the incomprehensible jibber-jabber between our new roomie and his compatriots was as critical of us as our whispered commentary was uncomplimentary toward them.

But when you’re sharing a toilet, shower, refrigerator, and thermostat, things either get better or they go straight to homicidal hell. We learned compromise. He turned the music down, we left fewer dishes in the sink. He and his friends made an effort to use English when we were in the room, we learned not to offer Muslim visitors sausage pizza.

Bit by bit we learned to get along. Bit by bit we became friends.

He was from Mashad, a city I’d never heard of. His father and family were farmers, so were mine. He wasn’t a particularly observant Muslim, though, as he put it, “My father prays…” I was anything but a good church-going Lutheran, but my father also “prayed.” When his father came to this country to visit, my father invited him out to see an American farm up close. The two of them had a great day talking crops, livestock, prices, and how annoying the government could be. Two farmers, a world apart, leaning on a fence, seeing eye to eye.

Taj and I shared that bathroom, kitchen and sofa for nearly two years. I finished college and moved out in the spring of 1977 with plans to get married and do what needed to be done. We shook hands and parted with a hug. My life got busy. It would be a long time before I saw him again.

In 1979 the Shah was overthrown. The Islamic Republic of Iran was proclaimed. On the world stage, close friends became bitter enemies.

I lost track of Taj. I heard he and the rest of the Iranian students had left the country, destinations unknown. I presumed most of them went home and wished them well, thinking the taint of time spent in the heart of the Great Satan would ill serve them in the crowds chanting “Death to America” in the streets of Tehran.

I didn’t find any familiar faces in those chanting crowds. I hoped for the best.

Several years, two kids, three cities, five houses later, Taj called. He was visiting in the Twin Cities, planning to come to Winona and hoped we could see each other.

We did. He was well; married, hoping for a family. Unwelcome in the Islamic Republic, he had resettled in Germany.

We vowed to keep in touch and did, tenuously.

Years passed. Taj called again from the Twin Cities.

He was visiting with his son, hoping to come to Winona. They stayed with me for the week.

His deep black hair had turned white. My children were grown and far away. He’d lost a son. I’d lost my wife. We mourned together. Parted with a hug.

I don’t know what’s become of Taj’s family in Iran…the uncles who came to visit bringing pistachios from the family farm or those I one time heard of but never met. I don’t know the fate of Hamid, Fatima, or the other noisy, exuberant students who sat with me in class, were in and out of my living room, and vanished in the maelstrom of revolution and war.

What I do know is they were friends and deeply regret they may now be enemies.

Bombs from my country have fallen on their countrymen, their friends, their families.

Perhaps, on them.

Iran is no abstraction.

Iran is Taj.

I wish him well.