The policeman’s hand hovered near his holster. “I said, step back.”

Jahan stood his ground, his breath ragged but steady. The midday sun bore down on the cracked pavement between them, turning the air into a furnace. Around them, passersby slowed but kept their distance, their eyes darting between the officer’s barked orders and Jahan’s clenched fists.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jahan said, his accent faint but undeniable. The officer’s gaze narrowed, dissecting his words as if searching for hidden defiance.

“You’re acting suspicious. Let me see some ID.”

“I was walking home. That’s not a crime.”

“It is if I say it is.”

The words struck like a lash, and Jahan felt something primal stir within him—an anger fed by years of stares, whispered insults, and the weight of being out of place. He reached into his pocket slowly, but the officer’s hand twitched toward his gun.

“Easy!” the officer barked.

Jahan froze, his heart pounding. His fingers trembled, not from fear but from frustration. His tongue felt heavy with the burden of restraint, of fitting his thoughts into a language that wasn’t his own.

And then, he let it spill.

“Man ke goftam jurmi nadaaram!” he said, his voice rising, spilling into his native Farsi. The words poured out, fast and sharp like a rushing river, the syllables slicing through the tense air. “Hame zendegim ro be gharebi gozashtam, faghat inja zende bemoone—va alan behet begam, man az to nemitarsam!”

The officer flinched as if struck by a foreign wind. The bystanders shifted uneasily, some murmuring. But Jahan kept going, his voice swelling, his words rolling like thunder. His language—his true voice—broke the invisible chains tightening around him.

The officer’s posture faltered. “What… what are you saying?” His tone had lost its edge, replaced by something Jahan couldn’t place: fear? Curiosity? Confusion?

Jahan paused, breathing heavily. He pointed at his chest and said, slower this time, “I’m a human being. That’s all you need to know.”

For a long moment, the two men stood there, the heat pressing down on them. The power dynamic had shifted—not fully, but enough to crack the facade. The officer’s hand slid away from his holster. He nodded stiffly, muttering, “You’re free to go.”

Jahan turned and walked away, his native words still lingering in the air like a protective shield. He didn’t look back. For the first time in a long while, he felt unbreakable.