“Do you think I’ll get to see Iran again?” The question hangs in the air—quiet, fragile, heavy, with longing. My father asks it in the twilight of his life, as he battles the cancer that seeks to weaken him. It is not his voice alone I hear, but the echo of millions: those who fled the land they loved, and those who remain behind, still waiting for the day Iran might be Iran again. He fled to London in the aftermath of the 1979 revolution , narrowly escaping the noose of a theocracy that