I wish you were here to help.
Love,
Rahimeh
Could Abdollah help? In America, they said, “The truth will set you free.” Now that I had seen Abdollah’s picture in Maman’s secret album, I decided that no matter how scary it was, I would ask what really happened to him. I was done whispering Abdollah’s name to myself at night, alone in my bed.
The next day, I gave Maman a cup of tea and spoke Abdollah’s name aloud for the first time since he had disappeared. “I miss Abdollah.” I said his name so low, so hesitant, I wasn’t sure Maman heard me. I felt the sweat start in my lower back. I watched closely and held my breath.
Maman’s face and body shifted as I looked deep into her eyes. Finally, after a decade of being silenced, first by Khomeini’s secret police and then by my parents’ decision to hide the truth from us, Maman locked eyes with me. “I miss him, too, azizam.”
I felt as if I was waking from a long sleep. “I didn’t want to upset you by asking, Maman Jaan. But I think of him often.”
“I was waiting for you to be ready. I know it’s so hard for you, darling.”
I placed my arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “I would like to make a copy of that wallet-size photo of Abdollah. I can enlarge a copy in my photography class and we can frame it.”
Without asking how I knew about the picture, Maman ran to get the metal cookie box and pulled out the little album. Suddenly animated, she lifted out each picture, and explained where they were taken and when. “That one is at the beach near the pomegranate farm,” she said, pointing to the one with Abdollah posing on the sand. She carefully laid out the ripped photos that had been put back together like a puzzle with yellowing tape on the bed. Baba and a relative, she explained, had cut Abdollah out of those photos so Maman wouldn’t be triggered into a crying spell. Maman turned to the last page: there it was, Abdollah’s last picture, the black-and-white photo of him in his navy blue suit taken just before his arrest.
“Take this one. It’s yours,” she said as she handed it to me gently. I could see the light in her eyes brighten.
I cupped the picture in my hand and kissed it. That night, when I talked to Abdollah, I was able to look into his eyes, grateful that the faded picture of him in my memory was coming back into focus.
Although I didn’t have the words to explain the change I sensed in my heart, I felt that Maman and I had just stepped together onto a path covered in sunlight. I wondered when my brothers would fall in step beside us.
As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who was ready to talk about Abdollah. Two days later, Zain found Maman fanning herself with a laminated Hafez poem sheet and sitting cross-legged on her prayer rug in the afternoon.
“You came back from school early? What’s going on Zain? Is something wrong?” Maman took off her white scarf and folded it.
Placing a bowl of fruit near her prayer rug, Zain sat facing her. “I think I might upset you by what I have to ask.”
“What’s wrong, azizam?”
Zain lowered his head and began to speak.
“Everybody told me a different story, Maman. Back then, when I was a kid, Hadi said Abdollah was in America; then we came to America and he wasn’t here. I want to know the truth.” Zain started to lower his gaze. “What happened to my brother, Maman? What really happened to Abdollah?”
When, at the same age, Hadi had asked the same question to Mr. Gaffari and Baba back in Iran, he had never gotten a real answer. But Zain had better luck. He asked the parent who no longer wanted to avoid the past. He asked the one who had been dying to talk about our brother.
Maman met Zain’s gaze and took his hands in hers. She didn’t tell him everything, but for an hour as they talked about the history, she told him in parts the terrible events that led to Abdollah’s arrest. She told him about the aftermath that we lived through, but were too young and confused to understand.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this sooner?
“At first, we were in disbelief, shocked. I don’t even know who told you kids he was studying in America. He loved you children so much. We even thought if you knew the truth, we would lose one of you to grief. Back then in Iran, you hid painful things from your children.”
Baba had a younger sister who died at seventeen, just a year older than Abdollah. Baba was devastated. She was in a domestically abusive relationship. She was beaten badly, and died young. Even though Baba was just a child, he carried tremendous guilt over her death. Baba’s brother also had a daughter around seventeen years old, who was one of the first women to contemplate taking off her chador as many were doing under the Shah’s new, more Western policies and encouragement. The family married her off to a man – a clergyman, in fact. He, too, was abusive. When she was pregnant, he kicked her down a flight of stairs, and she and her baby died.
When Zain confronted Maman, she broke the secrecy and spoke candidly for the first time, and the patterns emerged. One was marrying off teenagers who were perceived as “going down the wrong path” – when, in reality, they were beginning to mature into adults. Another pattern was that both my parents had younger siblings they had lost, and the way their families dealt with it was not to tell the other children any details, no goodbyes, to “protect them from the truth.”
“Everyone told us to handle it with secrecy. I was in my early thirties then, I started to think maybe it was better for you not to know what happened until you were older. I told myself that you would come to me when you were ready.” Maman squeezed Zain’s hand, and he rested his head on her folded leg.
“But to let us think he was alive? Maman, that was much worse.”
Maman ran her fingers through his hair. “It was probably the wrong thing to do. I’m sorry, azizam. I’m so sorry.” She kissed his cheek. “We didn’t know any better; your father and I spent so many years trying to accept that your brother was gone, we could only manage to tell you what we wished could be true.”
REVOLUTION AT HOME
Although I still waited to hear the word “dead” spoken aloud, I had begun to repair the path with my mother. Zain, too, wouldn’t hear more details of the story for many years, but what he had been told was enough for him to forgive Maman. But he didn’t forgive everyone. Now that he knew his brother had been killed by the Iranian government, he had one thing on his mind. Revenge. After he heard Maman’s story, he vowed to study law and sue Iran in the World Court. Someone needed to pay for killing our brother and destroying our family.
And destroyed we were. The aftermath of Iran would never leave us and because we did not talk about what had happened openly, the festering wound – the secrets – got buried deep within our family, like a land mine. It was only a matter of time before it would explode. We had escaped the war-stricken post-revolutionary Iran, but we faced a different kind of revolution in America – a revolution from within.
Our family was blown apart as one child after another vented their long unspent feelings. We each faced our inner turmoil and outer conflict with our new society and culture, the opposition from our old-world father, and the struggles within ourselves. The next few years were marked by rage attacks, wild behavior, and attempts to control the destruction.
Our father also battled with some inner rage, guilt that he could not share. His life’s mission was now to save us and he would do anything, absolutely anything, to do that. But his culture and code of behavior struck us as a dictatorship, and we all fought back in our own way. Waves of anger reverberated through our home. Everyone appeared to be in rebellion, especially Zain and Hadi. We all needed to re-enact Abdollah’s battle with Baba and with the old codes of behavior; our lives revolved around the gaping crater in the heart of our family. We would soon break ranks.
THE SECOND IN COMMAND
Hadi pounded on the hood of the car and faced Zain through the windshield. “Get out, now!”
The blonde girl sitting next to Zain in the front seat stared at Hadi, shock in her big
blue-green eyes. She and Zain were parked on a street around the corner from our house.
“I said, get out!” Hadi slammed both fists on the hood and moved to the driver’s side. He was remembering another brother alone in a car with a girl, without a headscarf or obvious morals, who shouldn’t have been in a car, with a man, married or unmarried. Hadi acted as if he were interrupting a crime, or adultery.
“Hold on! Why are you making a scene, Hadi? I’m getting out, damn it.” Zain took his time stepping out to face Hadi. Zain had also learned something important from his talk with Maman: that Abdollah was a victim, a martyr, and therefore, in his death, Abdollah had become a saint. Now, Zain also understood he would always be living in that shadow. There would be no way to measure up, certainly not with Baba. So why try? And no one could stop him, especially not his other father, Hadi.
“Who is she? What the hell are you doing in a car with her? This is not why I work with Baba to pay for your car, your insurance, and your gas. We don’t work so you can run around town with girls!” His eyes traveled back and forth between the girl and Zain.
The girl, pretty and pale, looked terrified.
“Her name is Shanna. And by the way, I work too, at the same place you do. And why are you yelling? I’m not doing anything wrong.” Zain had a slight grin on his face. “Come on, Bro, come with us for a ride.” Zain had his fists out jabbing the air, pretending to box. His smile stretched across his face. “Let’s go hang out together.
“Come on, get in the car, Bro.”
“What’s your problem, Zain?”
“What’s yours? You’re acting like an old man.”
“Give me your keys and get in the house. I’ll take her home.”
“No way.” Zain jabbed the air at Hadi’s head again.
“Give them to me before I…” The angry vein in Hadi’s neck was about to make an appearance.
“Before what, huh?”
“Give me your damn keys, Zain.”
Zain didn’t move. He didn’t know what Abdollah had whispered to Hadi – or how Hadi was bending under the weight of that promise. He only saw the anger in Hadi’s eyes. Now, he looked like Baba.
“Just because you wear a beard now, eat only halal meat, pray all the damn time, and forbid us to listen to music, doesn’t mean I have to do the same. In fact, I want to be nothing like you!” Zain shouted.
Shanna squeezed her eyes shut when she heard the slap that landed on Zain’s face. When she opened them, she saw Hadi’s back as he walked away from the car.
After that day, the only time we saw Zain was when he was out cold on the couch during the daylight hours, sleeping off the previous night’s action. Baba left threatening messages on Shanna’s answering machine, frightening her more than her own abusive father. Zain disappeared to live a life we knew nothing about, leaving Maman praying, and fighting off more frightening episodes of emotional turmoil.
This left me, as I approached fifteen, to be the next child who would need protection and insulation from these two fathers who carried the burden of Abdollah’s death.
THE TWO IRAN-IRAQ WARS
There were two Persian Gulf Wars for me: the public war, which transpired after Iraq invaded Iran, and the private war, in which I felt personally under attack in high school.
One day in the thick heat of summer, as I walked around with my scarf and oversized clothes, feeling awkward with my big Persian nose and braces, but totally determined to be who I was without apology, I was approached by a man in his late twenties with a microphone and a recorder. He was a journalist for the newspaper and he was interviewing high schoolers about their views on the Persian Gulf War. I told him I was from Iran, but he kept referring to me as Iraqi. Fifteen minutes later, I finally asked him, “Do you know Iran and Iraq are two very different countries?” and his jaw dropped. He had no idea. And he was a journalist. He had not even heard of the Iran-Iraq war. This was a common experience. Always having to educate folks about the “other” part of the world: that Iran is a different country than Iraq, and that the Iranian language is Persian – or Farsi– not Arabic.
It wasn’t until 9/11, and the war that followed, that maps appeared on CNN and most news stations, and the masses became more familiar with the other enormous part of the world that existed.
Post-9/11 brought many things to the community. Personal matters of prejudice around my parents’ home improved, and their neighbors even sent them flowers.
But that was later, in 2001. During the early 1990’s when I was still in high school, I constantly worried about the next water balloon, or the next insult to be hurled.
One landmark day, after secretly spending weeks worrying that no one would hire the girl with a “towel” wrapped around her head, I had found a job, and to my surprise, pretty easily. The telemarketing company had said yes – after all, no customers saw me – they only heard my voice on the phone. The company would hire me for three days a week, after school and on weekends. Although I wasn’t sure what timeshares were, I was certain I could sell them. There was only one hitch: I needed a ride. Since Maman didn’t drive, that meant crossing a huge barrier. I had to ask Baba.
“Timeshare?” Baba hadn’t heard the word before either. “It’s not going to happen. I’m not taking you. My daughter is not going to work. If you need money, I’ll give you money.” Baba started to walk away from me toward the kitchen.
I took a breath. “Baba, it’s not for the money at all.” I lied. Baba had been struggling since the Gulf War hurt his carpet business, and I hadn’t asked him for lunch money for over six weeks. I didn’t want to embarrass him. So I exaggerated the truth. “I need to learn how to work, Baba. I need the work credits to graduate from high school early.”
“Dokhtaram,” he said with his eyes softening. I knew when he called me “my daughter,” he was going to gently say no. “I’m your provider. It’s my job to take care of you. You understand? It’s my job to make sure you have enough money, and food, and that you are safe. It’s my job to protect you.”
“But, Baba I need the credits. They say it’s a good preparation for college, too.”
Baba put his hands on the counter. “You will not be going to work for God-knows-who in God-knows-where for God-knows-why.” Baba hadn’t heard a word I had said. “You understand?” Baba’s voice was burning my ears and threatening my eardrums.
My mind began to spin. I had to figure out how to win over Baba and God.
“Anything can happen to you. Someone can pick you up and kidnap you. This is America. Do you know how many children go missing here? It’s unsafe. And I won’t have it.” Baba was calm. He expected no argument from his only daughter.
But this time when Baba said no to me, I said no back at him. Hadi and Zain had cars and came and went as they wanted. I loosened my scarf, which suddenly felt tight around my throat.
“It’s not fair, Baba. Hadi and Zain work! I want to work, too. I’m the one in school, getting good grades and helping the family with religious ceremonies, wearing a hejab, praying three times a day. I do everything you ask of me.” My voice began to crack. “I hate high school, Baba, I really hate it. I can’t stand to be there another day. I need to work.”
Baba set the cup he had been holding in the sink and turned his back to me.
“I just want this one thing. I want to work, Baba, please.” I was beginning to feel my throat close up as I tried to swallow my tears. “I can’t stay home forever, Baba. It’s not like Iran here. I want to be somebody. Maybe one day I can even help you with your work.” I wasn’t sure what I was saying anymore. I had lost control when I had loosened my scarf. I wasn’t sure what Baba was hearing, but I was steadfast. I knew I never wanted to ask Baba or anybody for money again. Ever.
When Baba didn’t respond, I fled upstairs to the room I had been sharing with Hadi. Typically, the eldest, Hadi, would always have his own room as would the only girl, me. But for the past few months, I had stayed with Hadi, so Iman and Zain coul
d have a chance to have their own rooms.
As I heard Hadi coming up the stairs, I was relieved. He knew how trustworthy I was. He had help me convince Baba. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been paying attention. Hadi didn’t think of himself as a brother anymore.
Not looking at me, Hadi walked into the room. “I overheard. So you want to work?” He crossed his arms. “Well, forget it. You’re fifteen. Let me be sure you understand. You’re not going to work, okay? We’ll take care of you. You’ll have everything you need.” And with that, he walked out.
I chewed on my lower lip and turned toward the wall. I had cousins in Iran who had been married at fifteen. I pictured the sadness in Abdollah’s eyes on the day of his wedding. Right there, I made up my mind. I wouldn’t stay here forever, a child in my parents’ home. I would go to college. I would travel to all the places Abdollah never got to go. No one was going to stop me. Not two fathers, not the way people looked at my scarf, not even my loyalty to my family’s values. I would make my own way. And that meant a job, even if it meant lying to Baba.
Because Baba didn’t really know anything about school requirements, the next day I told him I needed to have work credits or I couldn’t graduate from high school. Maman, who wanted a life of financial independence for her only daughter, now had enough ammunition to soften up Baba.
When Baba asked me, “Where is this job of yours located anyway?” I said a special thanks to God and to Maman. Every afternoon for four months, on the hour drive back and forth to my first job, Baba needed to know who my supervisor was, how much they would pay me, where I would sit, what color the walls were, did they have wastebaskets near my desk so I wouldn’t be inconvenienced or ogled at as I crossed the room of mostly men, and how the other women dressed who worked there. Although he had endless questions, every day he took me to the job.
The Rose Hotel Page 16