Shades Starvation in a City of Extremely Hot Summers

Marzieh Larki
Urban activist, sustainable development researcher, resident of Ahvaz, Khuzestan

Ali Kiafar
Urban planner, researcher, university professor, resident of California

This is the story of a man, a humble, ordinary citizen who has established a very special relation with a tree. But it is also the story of a city, especially very hot in the summers, suffering from lack of enough trees, enough shades, and fading urban quality. It is also the story of many other cities in our homeland — Iran
They say his name is actually Naaji -meaning savoir in Persian and he is indeed a savior. His hair
is uncombed and disheveled, and he wears an old, dust-colored dress. It’s clear that both he and
his dress have weathered many summers and winters — each in their own way. His eyes are fixed
on a window overlooking the street, while he holds a tree tightly in his arms

.
When asked, “Why are you hugging the tree?”, he struggles to speak the words, his language
broken and hesitant, but he manages to say:
“The tree is kind… it reminds me of my mother. The tree is my mother.”
Wearing worn-out clothes and marked by the heat of the sun, he appears every afternoon in the
narrow green median of Zand Street, just before the Cable Bridge. For hours, he embraces the
tree. When you look into his eyes, you feel that behind that steady gaze lies profound wisdom.
The man doesn extend a hand in need, nor does he ask for food or attention from passersby — or
the few who stop to watch him, usually with puzzled looks or questions hanging on their lips. He
simply comes each day, hugs the tree, stays for a few hours, and then leaves.
There is a quiet, continuous fusion between him and the tree, forming a haunting image etched
into the fabric of tree-starved, sun-scorched Ahvaz. A city that, for years, has turned its back on
trees, emptied itself of shade, and forgotten just how merciless a Khuzestan summer can be
without shelter — how it abandons its people under the blazing summer sun until breathing itself
becomes a struggle.

In City Reading sessions and Khuzestan-themed gatherings, the lack of trees in Ahvaz has often
been discussed. But this man — the savior of trees — is a new kind of act. Some say his name is
truly Naaji (Savior), and what a fitting name that is. Perhaps he is the savior of the city shades.
He speaks no words, yet through his actions, he reveals a silent truth: a truth lost between bricks
and steel—the right of the people to the city, and the city's responsibility to its people
The tree man is a symbol—a messenger of a forgotten right that has, for years, been buried in
dust and neglected in a treeless, shadeless city. A city where the man embraces a tree as his
mother, and the children of the city see the tree as theirs, must not be left to die from the poverty
of trees.
Naaji must be truly seen. He is a sign of vitality, the embodiment of a love for being — for living
fully and claiming every corner of what a city is and ought to be. His silent protest, whether
intentional or not, should be acknowledged as an art form of resistance. Not just Naaji himself,
but the tree, the shade, and the long-ignored rights they represent must be recognized.
Not only city planners and policymakers – the ones who shape and profit from the city but also
citizens must have a hand in producing, redefining, developing, and enriching urban spaces —
spaces that serve and belong to the people. This is precisely what Naaji has been doing for years:
without making noise, without recognition, and without companions — an act of quiet solidarity.
In every city and every land — whether in arid, sun-scorched climates, the dusty foothills of cold
mountains, or any corner of this pain-worn country—the tree man, Naaji, has, perhaps without
even realizing it, become an urban activist. A citizen who, through a simple embrace, stands
against the erasure of living spaces, who protects the tree with nothing but his own body —
defending the city with bare hands and open arms.
Ahvaz is a city where a man named Naaji embraces and kisses a tree each day — a tree he
knowingly calls his mother. His act becomes a profound and intelligent form of beauty –one that
stands in silent contrast to those who cut down the tree outside the house of Ahmad Mahmoud,**
to those who cut down tree along Nezami Street, and to those who, driven by hunger, raised axes
against the city’s trees and sold them for a pittance.
We must not allow the tree man to remain the city’s only savior, embracing its trees alone. He
must be honored and valued, for he has become the keeper of the city’s memory, the memory
that has forgotten its trees.
Footnotes:
* This is a story of Ahvaz, but it could just as easily belong to any city.
** Ahmad Mahmoud was a renowned novelist from Khuzestan. His Scorched Earth, along with
The Story of a City, Zero Degree Orbit, and Sacred Temples’ Fig Tree, are among the most
important novels of the past seventy five years in Iranian literature.