It was a little early in the morning when I was walking to the bus stop when I noticed a mother in the crowd.

I stopped her and asked her what her name was, and she told me her name is Fatima.

I asked if she could show me her mother’s passport.

She told me she was from the capital of the province of Kerman, where she lives.

I asked her if she had a phone number, and if she wanted to call me later, but she refused to answer.

She was just one of a handful of Iranian women who made the journey to meet me, for a photo op. 

When I asked her to give me her number, she asked for her address.

I told her I didn’t know her and that she could call me at my hotel.

She didn’t answer and when I asked why, she replied, “I don’t know you”.

I told her that I am a journalist and wanted to meet her.

She replied, “Oh, I don’t even know you.”

I had to take my photo and wait in line for an hour.

When I arrived at her hotel, she was already waiting outside, and a few minutes later, she told the receptionist, I don-t know you, but if you need me, you can call me and I will call you.

She didn’t want to talk to me, but when I told the staff that I was a journalist, they gave me the number of the hotel.

As I waited, I could hear her voice calling my name, asking me if I wanted to come in.

She then handed me her passport and we both walked in the direction of her house, which was in the same street.

Her name was Fatima, and it was in her name, and the same for my name.

She explained that her mother had been killed in a car accident, but I was confused. 

As we walked, she mentioned how she was born in Iran, but then she said she didn’t speak English and that her father died when she was very young. 

Her mother was very poor and her husband worked as a taxi driver.

Her daughter had a small car, but her father didn’t own any cars.

The family had a very old house in the neighborhood, and I told Fatima that I had some things for her.

Fatima didn’t have any questions for me, and just smiled.

At this point, she went to pick up a bag and I asked, What are you carrying?

Fatima replied,   “A baby”.

She said she was afraid that I would forget and forget her, but also that she was carrying my passport because I am the only one in the family who can read and write in Persian.

Before we left, she said, Please don’t forget me.

It was around 11pm when we arrived at the hotel, and we waited outside for her to pick it up.

I took out my phone and told her to call my parents, who were in another part of the city, where the police had blocked off the road.

Fatima asked me, How long has this been going on? 

I said that it had been going to this hotel for a few days, but the police asked her why we were here and how long we were staying. 

She told them that she had been in contact with my parents and was worried about me, so she had asked the police to let her go.

 After about an hour, she came back, handed me the bag, and said she would pick it for me.

We walked outside, where I handed her the bag and said, “Come back later.” 

After a short time, she returned to her house.

She had a baby in the car seat.

Later, she brought me to the hospital where she was recovering, and told me that she wanted me to meet the police because they told her not to go in the street. 

After that, I couldn’t speak to her. 

I was very confused about this woman who had been telling me that I didn`t have to forget her.

Fatimas mother had lived in the area and had gone to her home several times to visit her family.

She did not speak English, but Fatima was very careful not to speak to me or ask me anything about her.

When I asked what happened to her, she responded that she lost her mother because of a car crash, and then she had to leave the area. 

But why did she want me to come and meet her? 

She said, because she was a reporter and she wanted my attention. 

The police told her she would have to wait in a waiting room and then told her where she could meet me if she needed me.

Fatiman had been the