When Zain saw Zahra walk in the room, he jumped up off the couch and ran to her. The little girl he had left had been replaced with a tall, dark-haired, beautiful young woman. He pulled Zahra in his arms, and she held onto her father tight. He squeezed her and, together, they both cried. “Dokhtaram,” he cried out, “My little girl.”
Maman stopped biting her lip as she cried – this time, happy tears.
ANNIVERSARY BIRTHDAY
September 16, 2010
Almost a year had passed since that the therapy session with Hadi and Iman. Since then, I had started to probe my parents for even more information, asking them to describe all the details about our past. I interviewed and transcribed endless hours of their memories in Persian. They not only shared their memories, but also offered the minutest details such as the smells in their kitchen, the lighting in the room, and the expressions on people’s faces. Sometimes we would have to stop, relive the sadness, and revisit it days later. After thirty years, we were finally having a dialogue about our story.
Every year since we started to get together on the anniversary of Abdollah’s passing, a few days from his birthday, it felt like death. For days, I would strategically arrive at my parents’ after prayers to avoid seeing Maman’s overwhelming sorrow. Each of us dreaded the anniversary for three hundred sixty-four days before. It had become unbearable. Every time, it felt like a wake. It was as if it had happened yesterday. But this time, it was different.
The front door slid open and my eyes widened as they landed on the sapphire flowers of the Persian rug. The aroma of sautéed mint and parsley, saffron yogurt, of rice and the crisp bottom – the tahdig – and celery lamb stew contrasted with the scent of the roses and jasmine just outside.
“Khoresht-e karafs, Mamani? I love your celery lamb stew.” I knew Maman would cook Abdollah’s favorite.
“Of course, azizam.” Maman kissed me and welcomed me into the house.
I noticed Hadi stepping up behind me as I kneeled over to take off my heels.
“Hey you, perfect timing.” I stood up, holding the wild flowers in one hand, looking over my shoulder toward my brother.
Hadi took off his shoes as he held out his bouquet of anthuriums, tuberosa, ginger, and birds-of-paradise.
“Wow, the same exact bouquet? What are the odds?” I said.
Maman smiled and reached for them as she guided us inside.
I followed her, both her hands tightly gripping the flowers as Hadi went to the living room to greet Baba. I took the flowers from her and reached for the vase on top of the fridge.
She began to stir the giant pot of stew on the stove. I saw the perspiration on her forehead and the pinkness in her cheeks. She looked content and beautiful doing what I knew she loved – feeding her children. She began to whisper, almost for my benefit.
“Slow simmer. Hot rice. Crisp tahdig.” She knew I wanted to learn how to cook from her, and as of that time, I had only learned the one dish – Abdollah’s favorite.
Maman began to sing, something I hadn’t heard her do in a long time, adding the tomato paste and stirring it into the celery stew. This was beginning to feel like a birthday party.
I washed my hands and began helping her chop the cucumbers and tomatoes for the shirazi salad and the cucumber mint for the mast-o khiar yogurt.
Over the Persian TV station blaring from the living room, Maman yelled, “Baba, go up and cut that facial hair. And wear something nice and light in color. You know how much Rahimeh hates black.” Maman looked at me and winked.
Hadi walked in the kitchen as I heard Baba stumble up the stairs.
“Celery stew, huh?” Hadi smiled and came closer to hug me even though my hands were messy and wet. We held onto each other for a long while. I was proud of him and the changes he was making. He had just sold his Range Rover and his two BMW motorcycles.
I was grateful he was alive, and grateful for the new lightness that had settled in him.
After I wiped my hands on the dishtowel, we held hands and walked into the living room. For the first time, Abdollah’s black-and-white picture was center stage, the picture of Mecca moved to its right. It was the picture I had reproduced and enlarged for Maman in my high school photography class. At the time, his eyes were piercing and his face was sad, but today he seemed lighter and freer, too.
On the coffee table, Maman had another picture, one I hadn’t seen before. It was Maman holding baby Hadi, with Abdollah at seven years old standing next to her, his hand protectively on the baby. The black-and-white photo was curved at the edges, and I could see where Abdollah had been taped back into the picture. Maman had flowers taped to the frame and a green candle lit next to it.
In a split second, as Maman called for Baba again, I loosened my grip on Hadi’s hand. I recalled the day my parents’ hearts were ripped apart – that awful day when Abdollah stood in the dry field, staring down the barrel of the gun. I felt a sharp pain in my chest and head, and immediately I shook it off, struggling for a breath. Hadi squeezed my hand, and in that instant, I committed to letting that image go forever.
Instead, I tried to visualize my eldest brother there in the room with us, smiling.
I handed Hadi a few matches and we went around the house and lit all of the candles, connecting a little more to Abdollah with each dancing flame.
After the rest of the family arrived, Khaleh and her husband and a few cousins, we gathered at the table to enjoy Maman’s feast.
To my surprise, there was no Qur’anic recitation, no sad commentary and no monitoring of each other’s words. Instead, we ate and laughed, and felt the warmth of each other’s company.
Baba passed the plates, insisting he go last and directed people around the serving table. He joked and gestured for Shanna to go ahead of him to the table. Shanna looked behind her and met Baba’s smile as she took the plate he held out. She leaned into Baba and whispered in his ear, “Baba. Do you remember the night you called me? It was before Zahra was born. You lied to me and said Zain wanted me to come over. When I got here, Zain wasn’t here, but you and Maman were.” He pulled back and looked into her eyes, giving her a fork and spoon. Shanna leaned in again to finish her thought. “You gave me a new family then, Baba Jaan. You became my father that night.” She kissed Baba’s cheek. Wrapping his right arm around her shoulder, he pulled her toward him and kissed her forehead as he said with his thick Persian accent. “You are my daughter. For all time, my daughter, okay dokhtaram?”
“I love you, Baba.” Shanna pulled Baba toward her and embraced him.
At the table, Hadi, Iman and I looked at each other as Baba repeated the same joke about the bride and groom that we had heard a million times since we were children. At Baba’s insistence, we dutifully took turns translating in English to assure that Shanna understood.
Maman leaned over the table and poured some celery stew on Baba’s rice, catching his gaze this time. “May his soul be restful,” she said.
Baba grabbed the serving bowl in Maman’s hand and passed it to Khaleh and her husband. The exchange of food and laughter continued until we stuffed ourselves and finally adjourned to the living room. A few stars had already come out, and the air was crisp.
Baba pulled the lever of the recliner and put his feet up, resting his swollen left leg up on a pillow. Before Maman brought out a pot of tea, she put a large bowl of deep red pomegranate kernels on his lap. Baba had spent five hours separating the kernels and now he placed a spoonful of pomegranate seeds into smaller bowls.
Hadi was fussing with the video camera. Like me, he wanted to document this occasion.
Zahra passed out the bowls of kernels and I passed the salt. Maman finally stopped serving and sat down near Baba.
“I want to thank you all again for gathering together today.” Baba leaned to put the bowl down on the ground as he began speaking. “Let’s all send our beloved ones a prayer or two as we think of them, especially our elders.”
After the recitation of a prayer
, he raised his hand, waving it to get our attention.
“Zain is not here and he is missed.” Zain had gone back to Tajikistan to reunite with his new family, with the plan to return to serve his house arrest. “As you know, we have others who also are not here tonight, at least in body.” Baba looked over at Maman who was rubbing her hands together, her eyes glued to the sugar cubes on the coffee table.
I looked at Hadi as Baba’s tone shifted and deepened.
“As you all know, I was in the hospital over eleven times this year. It is a fact that we don’t know when our time will come. I may or may not be here with you all next year.” Hadi looked over at me.
“And as I age now, I have a desire to talk about my life, to make my wishes known, and connect with you.”
We all stopped eating and gave our full attention. Khaleh was wringing her hands and biting her lips in a kind of nervous response. Silence enveloped.
“I’ve attempted to live a life of service.” Baba said, looking up without focusing anywhere in particular.
“All of my efforts have been based on my belief that these life choices and good deeds might fill my suitcase when I travel to the other side.”
Maman looked up at Baba, a worried look on her face, her eyebrows knitted together.
Baba looked over at her and gave a half-smile, “You all know I’m married to an angel. I owe her my life for the wealth of experiences we’ve had together.”
Maman put her head down and looked up at Baba with a shy smile – the same one I imagine she gave him when they first met.
“And you all also know, we lost our son thirty years ago.” The air went cold. No one had ever spoken so directly.
Baba didn’t pause. “Of course, he is in a better place, away from worldly needs. He was unjustly taken from us, too suddenly and too early.” Baba stared into his memory for a second. Then he continued, “I made a fatal mistake all those years back when he was here, and I’ve made many more since. I’m old now, and I don’t have anything to give, except my love and prayers, and to do good on your behalf so that you might travel well when you go to the afterlife.” He paused for a breath.
Maman was silent with her hands neatly in her lap. She smiled and softly spoke the Arabic prayer for Abdollah as Baba recited it loudly.
Finally, everyone joined in. Hadi and I smiled and reached for each other and then moved toward Iman.
Maman got up and poured fresh tea in the small glasses that had traveled with us from Iran three decades ago. Zahra brought out the roulette cake and put it on the table. She walked over to Baba and stood behind him with her hand on his shoulder, winking at me. Baba reached up and pulled her hand toward him, gently planting a kiss on her forehead.
I looked up at the mantle at Abdollah’s picture, and smiled.
Hadi pointed his camcorder at the photo of our sweet Abdollah, zooming in on his soft brown eyes. He then pointed the camera to me as I locked eyes with him, and winked.
ABDOLLAH
August 24, 2011
Dear Zain,
Salaam,
The birth of your son is the most single most significant life-changing event in my life. The realization came to me once I had a chance to visit you in Thailand. I’m glad you moved there with your wife. It’s so beautiful and I can see you are at peace there. I know that Maman and Baba will feel the same renewal and energy when they visit you. I trust it will help them move forward, and for that, I’m grateful. You have made a huge contribution to the family, and I hope this new challenging adventure fulfills you forever.
Thank you for naming your son ‘Abdollah’!
Love you always,
Your brother,
Hadi –formerly known as Todd. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve reclaimed myself, and my name.
Some months later, in Thailand, Maman and Baba were unable to command the two-year-old Abdollah to do anything they wanted.
“Stay still for one second, azizam,” Baba begged as he tried to take the little shirt off. “Aab-bazi – bath time is coming,” he tried to bribe his grandson with Abdollah’s favorite activity.
Maman held on tight to the iPhone as she repeatedly hit the icon for the Skype camera. “You guys can hear me? I can’t see you yet,” Maman yelled.
“Just hit the button, Maman, and give it a second. There’s a delay,” Hadi repeated, and with that, her smile erupted as Iman, Hadi and I popped up on her side of the world.
Zahra sat on the couch, not moving toward us, still ambivalent about meeting her half-brother and recently born half-sister, Zohre.
“It’s taken us an hour to get him ready for the shower. He runs everywhere and opens every drawer. He finds the stepstool and climbs to get to the freezer for ice; he loves to chew ice.” Maman was talking so fast, the connection kept cutting her off, but her smile was constant. “Zohre, she’s a little angel, so quiet, so sweet. Just like Zahra when she was a baby.” Maman’s smile widened, as did Zahra’s.
The bright blue waters of Phuket behind her began to fade as she walked across rooms and opened a door. “Look at this now,” she laughed as her eyes blossomed.
She moved the camera toward the shower, pointing it at the tub where Baba was sitting on the ledge in his boxers, leaning in. Abdollah looked over at the camera and reached for it.
“No, azizam, your hands are wet. After you’re done with your bath, okay?” She said to little Abdollah.
I could read the curiosity on Zahra’s face as she peeked at the Skype screen. She wasn’t ready to talk to her half-siblings yet, but she was interested.
Zain had stumbled and fallen often in life, but he had made a remarkable contribution that none of the rest of us had, giving my parents grandchildren.
Baba had not noticed the camera, having long since gotten used to Maman documenting each moment of their visit. He was singing a familiar song to Abdollah as he lowered the pull-down showerhead, pouring water on his baby grandson’s head.
Maman looked at the three of us on her phone. Her happiness fed ours. Every time Abdollah appeared on the screen, Hadi and Iman smiled bigger and Zahra’s interest grew.
Little Abdollah grabbed Baba’s left index finger as he stood, letting Baba wash him. Zain’s laughter rang out in the background.
Baba’s eyes didn’t leave Abdollah’s. The familiarity of the song Baba sang sent us back to our own tender childhood. Baba poured water over Abdollah’s head, washing the shampoo away. Abdollah squinted before opening them again, and smiled. Baba went on singing, and then Zain appeared on the screen, standing next to the tub, singing along with Baba and Maman.
“Baroon barooneh – it’s raining, it’s raining and the ground is getting wet. Don’t worry my flower, everything will be set. We’ll survive this storm, we’ll survive this pain...”
Zahra moved closer to me, now openly looking at the screen, at her half-brother and sister. Hadi, Iman, and I stared at the Skype screen, our shoulders squeezing together. We joined in and hummed to the song being sung across the ocean.
EPILOGUE: TO MY READERS
Although therapy played a large role in my healing and ability to help others, many of my family members took another path in their journeys toward wholeness. They found their healing through religion, travel, meditation, meaningful relationships, and ultimately, through the power of discovering and traveling their own pathways. Life, itself, was their biggest teacher. And ultimately, we all found our own unique way to “tell our story.”
When I embarked on the journey of writing this book, I began to notice something miraculous. Through researching events, conducting numerous interviews, reconstructing the past, and documenting multiple points of view, I became more curious and gained an even deeper understanding of our lives, our pasts, and the impact of trauma. The project gave me a new vehicle with which to communicate with my family about our past, unresolved grief, current family dynamics, and future. My family’s engagement in this journey offered them a rare opportunity to aid our collective healing and
to contribute to a larger good.
We understand our lives in the stories we tell each other and ourselves. Storytelling has been essential to human existence and is the building block for human societies. I believe that if we construct or reconstruct a deeply personal narrative, we may find ourselves simultaneously developing great compassion and empathy for others. And yet, telling our own story, getting curious about others, and engaging in meaningful dialogue are some of the most challenging parts of living a conscious life. Because we are products of families, cultures, opinions, ideologies, misinformation, and popular opinion, we often navigate our world without the curiosity to inquire; we make assumptions, and we limit our own internal dialogue and limit our openness, often suspending our willingness to be part of a larger conversation.
Families are societal laboratories in which everything gets tested – love, loyalty, compassion, hate, pain, loss, and much more. The fundamental function of the family is, or should be, to love and protect its members despite internal and external challenges. Our story was shrouded in secrecy, and complicated by a lack of communication, resistance to outside help, and a lack of resources. By documenting my family’s suffering, resilience, and ultimate redemption, I have seen and experienced firsthand the magic of creativity and its therapeutic impact in renewing us and helping us to thrive.
I trust that the process of engaging in various creative outlets will invite the space that will enable others to engage interpersonally – with each other, in diverse communities and host cultures, and in our world.
The Rose Hotel Page 28