She spotted him in the crowd and made her way over to us, stopping every few feet to say hello to one person or kiss the cheeks of another, the customary Iranian way for greeting friends. The closer she got, the more prominent her beauty became, until she stood in front of us in all her glory. Her dark green eyes reminded me of Kaa from The Jungle Book, hypnotizing me if I stared too long. Her cheekbones sat high on her face, contoured to perfection by her makeup. Her eyelashes were so long they swept her eyebrows every time she blinked.
I felt completely inferior.
“Hey,” she said to her brother as she gave him a hug, ignoring me at first. Then, as if she’d just noticed his arm wrapped around my waist, she casually swept her eyes across my dress. The inferiority just worsened.
“So this is the infamous Sara, I assume?” There was a patronizing tone to her voice as she said my name.
“Yes, this is Sara, my girlfriend,” Maziar said with more aggression than she seemed to appreciate, her eyes crinkling like she’d just tasted something bitter. She quickly regained her composure, allowing her emotions to linger only moments across her face.
Bita didn’t stay long, moving on to people she found more interesting. Regardless of where she was though, I was aware of her presence, making me feel uncomfortable again. Her novelty began to wear off, replaced by the irritation taking shape in the pit of my stomach.
Later in the evening, I happened to glance in her direction, catching her in a flirtatious conversation with a guy I hadn’t been introduced to. He was tall, skin browned by the sun, wavy blond hair nonchalantly falling around his face. He had piercing blue eyes that glowed from across the room. He looked like her personal Abercrombie model as she playfully drew circles on his chest while she spoke. He definitely wasn’t Iranian.
“Who’s that with Bita?” I asked, leaning in toward Azi.
“That’s Scott. She’s dating him.”
“Huh, interesting,” I mumbled to myself, filing the information away in my mind.
I felt Maziar tap my shoulder. “I’m going to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back. You good?”
“Yes,” I said, apprehensively watching him walk away. Something about being alone in a room with his sister screamed danger to me.
“I need to go find Emanuel,” Azi said as soon as Maziar turned the corner. “He’s been playing pool for hours. Knowing him, he’s gambling away his inheritance.” She smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
I suddenly found myself utterly alone. My heart began to race and my hands became clammy. I walked to the bar to get a drink, hoping the alcohol would calm my nerves. I chastised myself for acting so ridiculous. I could do this; I could be alone in this crowd for a few minutes.
As I grabbed my drink, I turned to find Bita standing behind me. Gone was her placid expression of earlier, replace by venom burning in her eyes. I was certain she’d waited all night for Maziar to leave long enough for her to get me alone. She reminded me of a scorpion, her tail swaying as she got ready to strike. I refused to let her know she made me nervous, so I passively stared back at her.
“I hear you’re not Jewish,” she said.
“You heard right,” I responded, not missing a beat even though her comment caught me off-guard.
“You’re wasting your time, you know that right? You must not be very bright,” she said, an evil smirk plastered across her face.
“I beg your pardon?”
She actually laughed then. It reminded me of Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty, the laugh of someone teetering on insanity. “Being with my brother is pointless. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”
“And why is that?” I replied, consumed by a veil of anger so thick I could barely see straight.
“Because you’re not Jewish.” She said it in a very matter-of-fact tone, as if that were explanation enough.
I was fuming, my entire body beginning to shake. I was about to launch myself at her to scratch up her pretty Botox-filled face when Maziar appeared beside me. He knew something had just happened between us, even if he didn’t know the details. He placed his hand on my arm to steady me, then turned icily toward his sister. First shock, then fear flashed across Bita’s face.
“What are you two talking about?” he asked, his eyes intently focused on her.
“Nothing,” she said. “Sara and I were just getting acquainted, that’s all.” Then she flashed her smile at him before making her way over to her friends.
“Are you okay?” Maziar asked, once she was gone. I was so angry I couldn’t even answer, which was explanation enough for him. He grabbed my hand. “We’re leaving.”
“No,” I said, yanking it away. “We’re staying.” I refused to let Bita win.
An hour later, he dragged me out of the door.
“Okay, talk to me,” he said, once we were in the car.
I shook my head, more at myself than at him. “I…” I said, but didn’t continue.
He waited patiently beside me, keeping me in the corner of his eye. I knew I needed to give him an answer, but I just couldn’t find the words. The anger was still burning through my veins, the despair in quiet pursuit.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I finally said, and to my surprise, he didn’t press any further. He just drove me home in the silence the night had created.
I was full of hatred toward his sister, but more so than that, I was encompassed with the fear of knowing that I had been right about us. We were doomed, a cliché ending just as I’d expected.
When he pulled up to the house, I opened the door before he’d fully stopped, needing to put distance between us. I didn’t glance over my shoulder as I muttered, “Goodbye.”
I heard the faint sound of his response, but I was halfway up the drive and couldn’t make it out. I didn’t turn to look at him as I put the key in the lock or after I walked through the door, but I knew he waited in the darkness of his car. I was too overwhelmed to worry about his feelings, at a loss for the words or energy needed to deal.
Hours later, when I still lay staring at my ceiling, I kept replaying the conversation I’d had with Bita in my head, all the while coming up with witty comments I wished I had made.
The next day, Maziar insisted I tell him what had happened with his sister. I briefly gave him the Cliff Notes of our conversation, not allowing him to push me any further. He apologized for Bita’s behavior and tried to assure me she was of very little concern. I didn’t believe him, but I desperately wanted to, because the alternative was too much to bear. That little nagging voice had made its way back, with the pressing dedication of a Persian mother. At times, I wanted to resort to banging my head against the wall just to shut her up.
I couldn’t help but let Maziar convince me that I had it all wrong, that in fact his family was only a minor blip in our story. I hung onto his words as if they were my life jacket, with the strength of sheer desperation. I knew better, but for once I didn’t want to be right.
Life, however, had different plans. It would teach me that ignoring my intuition would only lead to disaster.
Chapter Eight
I knew that Hanukkah was an important Jewish holiday and referred to as the eight-day Festival of Lights, but I didn’t know much else. There were so many instances in which I felt like we were failing in this relationship, that I didn’t want to make my lack of knowledge another reason. I did some research.
Centuries ago, the Holy Land of Israel was ruled by Antiochus III, King of Syria. At the beginning of his reign he was favorable towards the Jews, but after losing a battle to the Romans, he became a tyrant. A believer in paganism, he was adamantly against religions and began suppressing all Jewish laws. Worship became forbidden, all the scrolls of the Torah were confiscated and burned, and they were no longer allowed to circumcise their children, rest on the Sabbath, or keep kosher. An old Jewish priest and his faithful followers refused to adhere to the king’s demands and left for the hills of Judea. Antiochus attempted to wipe them out, and alt
hough he outnumbered them, the Jews were victorious, reclaiming their Holy Temple in Jerusalem.
When they sought to light the temple’s menorah, they found that there was only a single day’s supply of oil. Miraculously, this oil somehow burned for eight days. Thus, began the tradition of lighting a candle each night on the menorah, for each of the eight days.
Maziar had told me that his family celebrated the holiday by rotating parties at different houses each year, for the first and last nights. This year, the first night was at his parents’ house. For some reason completely baffling to me, Maziar kept insisting that I join them. I had barely managed to get over the trauma of the encounter with his sister.
At this point, I’d had minimal interaction with his parents, consisting mainly of a greeting at the door if I was picking Maziar up from the house. They were never rude, as is not the way of our culture, but very proper, and icy cold. They showed little interest in knowing the woman their son was dating.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Maziar. They barely talk to me. They don’t even like me! Why would they want me there?”
“They don’t know you yet, Sara, that’s all. It’ll be fine. It’s just dinner.”
He talked me in circles, countering all my concerns. I left each conversation wondering if it truly was all in my head.
A Hanukkah celebration, however, was more than a simple dinner. If Maziar was wrong, I’d endure a night of guarded stares and disdainful expressions with an audience of strangers. This was not an event I could escape from without major repercussions.
Maziar continued to insist. I knew he was hoping that things would go better this time, leaving me less hopeless about us. Eventually, after speaking with Leyla, I gave in.
“Don’t you think it’s better to know what you’re up against now, so you can set up your defenses?” she asked.
“I guess,” I replied hesitantly. The truth was that I was afraid of what I would find, that my fears would only be confirmed by the interaction. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, knew this would be an all-out war.
“It’s going to be okay,” Leyla said, trying to give me a reassuring smile.
I wished I believed her.
The night of the party, I spent over an hour trying to figure out my outfit. I wanted to look beautiful, naïvely hoping it would make them like me. Finally, I settled on a pair of black pants and a forest green top that lay loosely at my hips. My dark brown hair fell in curls around my shoulders, softening my features.
“You look beautiful,” Mom said as I walked into the kitchen.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Maziar is lucky to have you,” Dad replied in confirmation.
My parents were ecstatic that I was finally included in one of Maziar’s family gatherings. They’d been worried that my lack of involvement was an indication that he wasn’t serious about settling down with me. When I’d told Mom about tonight, she’d interpreted it as moving in the right direction, which, to a Persian mother, meant toward marriage. I felt a pang of sadness when I realized they had no clue what I’d gotten myself into.
Forty minutes later, I pulled up to his parents’ house. I forced myself to get out, even though my legs didn’t want to move. I made my way over to the door, taking a few deep breaths to gather the courage to ring the doorbell. Mom had armed me with flowers and baked goods, so his family would know she’d succeeded in teaching me manners. I was hoping it was a good enough peace offering to get me through the night. Maziar opened the door a few seconds later. I was so grateful that it wasn’t Bita or his mother greeting me that I almost threw myself into his arms. Looking like a hussy ten seconds into the night was a bad idea, though, so I stopped myself.
The entryway opened up into a foyer with a winding staircase to the second floor. To the right was a large living space with fancy Louis XIV furniture, couches and chairs with high backs, framed by decadently carved wood. This type of furniture was common in Iranian households. Directly in front, the foyer bled into a large hallway that led into the family room. To the left of that was their dining room, and a little farther it opened up into the massive chef’s kitchen. I didn’t know how to cook, which was a definite flaw on my Iranian wife resume, but if I did, I would have loved that kitchen.
There were people everywhere. He started to introduce me to each person as we walked through the house. There were about twenty-five members of his family there. He then took me into the kitchen where his mother, Naghmeh, was plating appetizers. She greeted me with her usual polite, cold demeanor. I gave her my offerings and was grateful that Maziar didn’t linger very long. His father, Parviz, was sitting in the den with a few of the other men. He was much easier to bear, polite but distant, nowhere near as intimidating as Maziar’s mother. I could almost swear I felt a fleeting kindness behind his deep green eyes.
Once I had been introduced to everyone, Maziar got us drinks, and we went outside where the younger crowd was socializing. That’s where I met his cousin, Neda. Immediately I could see she was not like the others. She had a different air about her. She wasn’t decked out in name brands, but instead, her entire outfit looked like something that could be bought at Banana Republic. Her dark brown hair was up in a ballerina bun and she wore big silver hoops. Her fingers were filled with an eclectic collection of fashionable Bohemian rings, adorned with stones of various colors and sizes. Her tanned skin complemented her baby blue eyes. She was stunning.
She smiled when she saw us, motioning to the empty seats beside her.
“Hi, I’m Neda,” she said brightly. “Maziar’s told me so much about you.” Her energy was infectious.
I needed a safe place amongst strangers, and Neda provided it. She came with an ease I found welcoming. She instantly opened up, sharing memories of their childhood with me. I found myself laughing comfortably beside her. She made me feel like I was just Sara, not Sara the Muslim girl dating Maziar the Jewish boy.
I spent the rest of the night sandwiched protectively between them. When dinner approached and we were called in for the Hanukkah festivities, Neda and Maziar flanked me like soldiers, seating us on the opposite side of the table from his mother and sister. It became apparent that Maziar had filled Neda in on the situation by the way she was staring at Bita.
“Ignore her,” Neda whispered as she noticed the daggers Bita sent my way.
The festivities began, and I sat silently watching. At first, it appeared unorganized, but I realized quickly that everyone, other than myself, knew exactly what was going on. Suddenly they all stood up and faced the menorahs. There were at least five of them, one for each of the smaller family units. The men put on their kippot, small velvet skull caps, before the children lit the shamash, the middle candle.
“I don’t need this,” Maziar whispered, handing me a prayer sheet. He had it memorized.
They all began chanting three prayers in Hebrew, followed by a beautiful song. Once they were finished, the women started setting the table while the younger children played with their dreidels. Even though I felt uncomfortable, I got up with Neda and helped.
It’s customary for female family and friends to help the hostess set and clear the table. I was neither, but desperately needed to make a good impression. Staying seated wouldn’t help. I was met with stares, some layered with curiosity, some bordering on contempt. I took a breath and held my head high, pretending I didn’t notice. When we sat back down, I welcomed the false security between Maziar and Neda.
As I looked over at Bita, I suddenly remembered the distinct moment before an earthquake, when the faint sound of a thundering train could be heard, signaling its arrival. When our eyes met, I could hear the distant rumble.
“Sara, you doing okay?” she asked, a bogus expression of concern on her face. “I know this is all new.”
I was caught off guard and still trying to come up with a response when Maziar jumped in.
“She’s just fine,” he said, anger exuding from his eyes.
The table had fallen silent, everyone watching the exchange between siblings. Some looked confused. Others, who understood where she was going, just stared.
Maziar’s aunt, Lily Khanoom, suddenly spoke. “What does she mean, Maziar? Does her family not celebrate the holiday?” She seemed genuinely lost.
He’d been backed into a corner. He now had to tell his entire family what I just realized we seemed to be trying to hide. I don’t know where the courage came from, but I looked at Maziar’s worried face and felt the urge to protect him. Someone was getting crucified tonight. Better it be me.
“I’m not Jewish, Lily Khanoom; my family is Muslim,” I said, addressing his aunt directly, too afraid to look around the table.
Lily’s mouth dropped open. I braced myself for the thunder. Her husband, Bijan Khan, the eldest brother on his father’s side, looked up at Maziar. I had spoken, but he ignored it, speaking directly to his nephew.
“What is the meaning of this? You know our ways. Fun is okay, but this is not,” he said, waving his arm in my direction.
Neda jumped in. “And why not, Amoo? We don’t live in the time when you were young. We live here in America. Different types of people interact every day, and some even fall in love.”
Bijan Khan finally looked at me. “I’m sure you are a wonderful girl, aziz, but this is just our way. Everyone must stick to their own; it’s easier. I’m sure your parents feel the same way.”
Naghmeh had been staring at us, and I could feel the icicles forming on my skin. Before I was able to interject about how my parents had no issues with Maziar being Jewish, she spoke up, unable to hold her tongue any longer.
“Love? What is this nonsense about love, Maziar? I told you it was okay to bring her, but I will not tolerate hearing this ridiculousness at my table.”
My heart sank.
“This is not the time nor place for this conversation,” Parviz said. “It is the holiday. We are to be happy and festive. My daughter spoke out of turn and should not have.” He glared at Bita and she sank back in her seat. “These kids are young. What do they know of real love and real futures?” He waved his hand, dismissing our relationship as child’s play. “Let’s go back to enjoying the evening and leave these things for another night.”
Forbidden by Faith Page 4