Therapy for Souls

03. Tour a proporio rischio

Tragedy is inescapable. Every day, there are new attacks, new casualties, and new reasons to fear for the next generation's future. Even if you live in a peaceable country like Switzerland where crime of any sort is essentially non-existent, you're still affected. You can't shake off the horrors occurring in the world—not when the Internet and media make them easily accessible.

I remember thinking concerts housed sanctuary. Nothing serious ever happens at concerts. Okay, sleazebags can harass women in the crowd. Artists usually call those people out if visibility allows. But nobody can commit a serious crime at a concert because they have the whole security thing down to a T. Or so I thought.

The attacks in Paris and Manchester demolished my "concerts are places to escape reality, therefore they're immune to being targeted" hypothesis. For three gunmen and a suicide bomber to do what they did in such positive, carefree atmospheres, especially in two of the biggest Western European nations, is beyond me. I was shocked by the Eagles of Death Metal shooting; the Ariana Grande bombing left me absolutely speechless.

And paranoid. Those attacks triggered my paranoia brain signals. If an Ariana Grande concert can be targeted, who's to say mine will be safer with incredibly heavy security? The youngest person who died was a pure, innocent child—she was eight! Where's the humanity in that? It happened two months ago and I'm still overly anxious about opening night tomorrow.

So many thoughts have been racing through my mind, the primary one being my background. Everyone knows I'm half Persian; I have the closest connection to Islam than any other major female pop star since my mother's side is Muslim. My biggest fear is some white supremacist attacking me or holding my fans hostage because of who I am. ISIS isn't the only threat to humanity, you know.

There is so much evil rooted in a plethora of people, but ISIS receives the most attention because they're "Muslims" and 9/11 demonized their religion. I bet anything that if a white male tried to kill me or my fans, they'd say he's "mentally unstable" or some other bullshit excuse. But if, in this hypothetical situation, he is someone with a darker skin tone, he would be labeled differently—a thug if he's black, a terrorist if he's of Middle Eastern descent.

There is no difference in race or religion. If someone wants to intentionally murder mass innocents, then they're simply a murderer. Differentiating murderers based on melanin or religion is the stupidest form of segregation because it doesn't matter. Their goal is the same: to kill without remorse.

My team is probably ten times as collective as me. They're not worried about any terror threats or an attack. They've assured me that nothing will happen, not after Ariana's One Love Manchester Concert showed solidarity and strength from our industry. They say I'm in safe hands and I shouldn't live my life in fear, but an inner voice tells me otherwise.

Giovanna says I shouldn't stress about something that has less than a tenth percentage of actually happening. She thinks I'm fretting over a hypothetical event that won't come true. Concentrate on the show, Parisa. That's what I should do. I've tried to shake it off so my fears don't psych me out, but I can't. She doesn't know what I know, nor does she know what I've been through.

"Please tell me you've had something to eat, Par. You hardly ate a thing over the past couple days," she voices after taking a seat. "You're not sick, are you? Is that why you won't eat?"

"I'm fine, Gi. I swear I'm okay," I drone. I pick up my phone and see that it's 10:30. "I'm just exhausted. I need rest."

"You also need food to keep your strength. We can order takeaway for dinner and someone can fetch us a pint of your favorite gelato."

"Pistachio and coffee?"

Giovanna smiles and pats my head. Ugh, I hate when she does that! It makes me feel like a child—as if being petite isn't enough.