Hari observes his neighbours and tries to find out where Meelad Dawlaty is from.

The young man’s name was Meelad Dawlaty – we knew that from the mailbox. The name vexed Reza. It was a tantalizing name, as he once admitted, because it could be Iranian, but then not necessarily! The uncertainty appeared to tease and torment him. When I moved in, Reza and Meelad had already lived in the apartment for nearly two years, and yet even a few months after my arrival, they had not talked. Two Iranians in a small Midwestern town, in the same apartment, yet not a word between them!

“If that’s true, then it’s definitely an odd situation,” Reza solemnly said to me.

But the question remained: Was Meelad Iranian?

and concludes:

 Reza and Meelad do speak the same language though, Farsi, and it is only the small matter of a border that divides their respective countries. Except that borders aren’t a small matter at all; for better or worse – I suspect it’s the latter – borders determine our strongest allegiances. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be so tickled at the question of Meelad’s nationality, right?