Scattered Pearls

by Sohila Zanjani

  It was only 20 days after we moved into the new house that my youngest sister, Frooshad, was born. She was the only one of Shahin’s children to be born in a hospital. I was 12 years old, so of course loved to mother my baby sister. When she was six months old she had an ear infection. I held her close and paced back and forth in our largest room singing Dost Dost Na Raha from the Indian movie Sangam. The movie was a phenomenon in Iran at the time. Eventually Frooshad fell asleep in my arms.

  For the last two years of primary school a number of the girls, including me, transferred to a smaller all-girls school. There I made friends with Elahe, with whom I would remain friends for many years. Elahe was from an educated family who were much more outgoing and social than mine, although her parents had separated. But she was quiet too and we found comfortable companionship in each other. It was because of Elahe that I ended up going to a better quality semi-government secondary school for girls – the school that her parents, both educated professionals, chose for her. This school required an annual fee of 500 toman – five times more than a government school – and so was the reserve of girls from well-off middle class families, but I begged my mother to send me there so that I didn’t lose touch with Elahe. However, my parents could not possibly afford the cost. This was the perfect situation for Shahin to demonstrate her determined side; while my mother was often reserved and always reticent about causing trouble or inconvenience to anyone, when it came to pursuing opportunities for her children to have a better life than her own she became a tigress. She went to work, begging the school’s principal to give me a place and even visiting the ministry for education to argue her case. They told her I should just go to a government school. Although in this mood my mother had a level of persistence that was hard to resist and eventually she secured me a place at the better school for the government-school cost.

  I rewarded both my mother and the school by being a sound student, achieving good marks in most subjects. It was only later that I realised that the education we received lacked any real substance. Everything we learnt was by rote. There was never any open discussion about anything of depth. I learnt nothing of the great literature of our culture. I never had a teacher come to me and say, ‘Why don’t you read this book . . .?’ In this sense school was a microcosm of my nation. In the Shah’s Iran (as today) it was easier for teachers and students alike to keep their heads down and busy themselves with the day-to-day. It was best not to question.

  Socially, Elahe and I were out of place in this environment. The other girls were very different. They were happy-go-lucky. They laughed easily and often. They enjoyed a constant banter with each other and even with their parents. Mostly, Elahe and I would stick to ourselves, walking around the school grounds together during the lunch break. Neither of us was inclined to talk about anything very meaningful; we just spoke about clothes and nail polish and the parties Elahe’s family had attended.

  We did take part in school events though, such as in grade 9 when all the students in my year at school were given the chance to take part in a mass dance in honour of the Shah’s birthday. The performance would take place at what was then Tehran’s largest sporting arena, the Amjadieh Stadium, in front of 30,000 people. Our costume consisted of a loose pink mini skirt, a white blouse and pink vest, a dark blue cap and a matching blue umbrella that was opened and closed at various points during the routine. It was very exciting; we felt as though we were taking part in an Olympics opening ceremony. One part of the outfit that we had to supply ourselves was a pair of white shoes – flat white sports shoes with elasticised sides that would fit well and not fall off during the dance. I told my mum and she said she would go the next day to get them. Here was another opportunity for my mother to demonstrate her resolute side, albeit in a different way.

  To get to the shops Shahin needed to walk back to Takht-e Tavoos, near our old house, where there was a bus station. From there she could catch a bus to the main shopping district. However, before she even caught the bus, my mother found herself lying in a gutter with no idea how she got there. A number of people were gathered around, including a man leaning over her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the man asked. ‘You were knocked by my motorcycle. You’ve been unconscious for two or three minutes.’

  Shahin sat up. She said, ‘I am fine. You go . . . go! It is nothing important. Go before too many people come.’

  ‘But I cannot leave you like this,’ said the man.

  My mother insisted that the man leave. As usual, she was far more concerned about other people than herself – even someone who had knocked her down in the street and left her in a lot more pain than she was letting on. A nearby ticket vendor who had seen what happened told the motorcyclist to leave his contact details with Shahin. ‘At least that way they can find you if something happens to this lady,’ he said.

  When I returned home from school that afternoon, I found a beautiful pair of new white sports shoes sitting on the red Persian carpet in our living room. With a big smile I picked up the shoes and said, ‘Merci, Maman.’ (We did not speak French, but the Persian language borrows quite a number of French words.)

  My mother smiled back. She did not say one word about the accident. It was only later that my father discovered she had very bad bruising right up one side of her body. She could hardly walk or lift one arm. The next day the bruising spread around her eyes and the eyes themselves became bloodshot. It became clear that Shahin had been in a lot of pain from the moment of the accident, yet she had still got on a bus, bought my shoes and then travelled all the way home in this condition. She continued to have some bruising and pain for the next three months, but she never complained and never even saw a doctor.

  When the time came for the big performance, each child taking part was given two tickets for family members. But somehow my mother managed to get herself and her four other children in to watch me.

  I reminded my mother of this story many times over the years, right up until she died. An image of those sports shoes appears on her gravestone to represent all the sacrifices she made on behalf of her children.

  ~

  After school each day, Elahe and I would catch the bus together. We would get off at the same stop – sometimes an earlier stop than necessary to give ourselves more time – then walk to Elahe’s house before I continued on to mine, which was not far away. Sometimes I would go into Elahe’s house and we would practise dancing in a synchronised way to James Brown’s ‘Sex Machine’, then eat chicken and kishmish polo (raisin rice) cooked by Elahe’s step-mother, a very kind woman. These occasions were very liberating as I could never have had Elahe or any other friend at my house in the same way, for fear of my father’s swearing in front of them.

  As the years went on we got more daring in what we wore. We started wearing mini skirts and tight black jackets, our hair waving around our shoulders, our flawless skin glowing in the afternoon light. Groups of boys dressed in floral shirts and flared jeans would whistle at us from where they sat on the bonnet of a BMW, or hoot their horn as they cruised slowly by in a red Mini Minor, setting us off into giggles. The movie Grease? We were living it, and it was great fun. But just like Sandy in the movie, we had absolutely no idea what we would do if we actually ended up talking to any of these boys.

  One day a white Ford slowed right down beside us. The boys started making small talk and suggested that we meet them at their car the next day in the alley above the school. The car was there the next day – we scouted the alley from a good distance away. We knew simply talking to these boys was risky but egged each other on to take the chance. Not wanting to appear too keen, we started dawdling towards the car.

  Just as we reached the car and were about to get inside, a voice at our backs turned us to ice.

  ‘Elahe! Come here.’

  We spun around. It was Elahe’s father. With wide eyes, Elahe slunk away from the car and over to where he stood.

  I was left shaking beside the car. The boys’ bravad
o had evaporated and they suddenly looked a lot younger. Not knowing what else to do, I got into the back seat of the car. At least in there I could avoid anyone else who might recognise me. I asked the boys to take me to Takht-e Tavoos. I would walk the rest of the way to our old house where Laya was still living; I sometimes stayed with her for a night or two. No one in the car said another word before the boys let me out where I asked them to and then drove away.

  Laya smiled when she saw me. ‘Come. We will break the fast together,’ she said. It was Ramazan which, at the time, I was following, which meant that I hadn’t eaten all day. But I felt as though I’d eaten seven cows and told Laya I was not hungry. ‘Well, I must eat,’ she said.

  A short time later there was a knock at the front door. Laya asked me to answer it, so I went along the hallway and opened the door. I was greeted by a slap in the face, then another.

  ‘Dad, don’t hit me,’ I cried. ‘Don’t hit me. I made a mistake. I will never do it again.’

  As I backed away my father continued after me. My mother was behind him.

  ‘Now you go with boys?’ he shouted. ‘Getting into their car?’

  The slapping continued. My father’s hands were heavy, working hands and he was hitting hard. My eyes went black and I started seeing stars. I felt that I was going blind. Finally I turned and ran, my arms arched over my head; I ran down the stairs to the basement, along the hall and out into the back yard. As my parents reached the yard, Laya came out from her room.

  ‘God forgive!’ she said. ‘What happened? What happened?’

  ‘You be quiet! You have no brain,’ shouted my father.

  Shahin was crying and said nothing.

  ‘Damn you, damn you,’ said my father. ‘If I don’t stop you now, what’s going to happen tomorrow? Your friend’s father told me you got into the car of some boys. I’m going to kill that girl.’

  Eventually it was Laya who got between her son and me. ‘Come, my dear, come,’ she said. ‘Your father won’t hit you any more, I promise.’

  Finally everyone calmed down.

  My mother, still crying, said quietly to me, ‘Haven’t I said not to do anything that you will be regretting? See what has happened? Now your father is opening his hand towards you.’

  It was true. As girls, we were always told that it was very easy to gain a reputation for being ‘loose’. While it took a lot for a Tehran boy to lose his reputation, a girl could lose hers for the most mundane reasons.

  A strange thing happened the next day. My father drove me and my mother into central Tehran and bought me a pair of shiny red leather flat shoes, similar to what Elahe and other girls were wearing at the time. He didn’t say so at the time, but much later in his life he told me that he regretted his reaction that night. ‘I made a mistake, I didn’t understand,’ he said. Nevertheless, I learnt my lesson. From that point on I stayed well clear of boys. To my future detriment, the self-imposed distance I put between myself and the opposite sex meant that I learnt nothing about relating to men or assessing one over another or identifying good or bad behaviours.

  Back at school I discovered that Elahe had escaped with nothing more than a stern talking to. In hindsight, I reasoned that at the time her father had no idea of the consequences for me when he decided to tell my father about what he had seen.

  ~

  ‘Will you come to my house for my birthday?’

  It was Shahnaz, another friend. Shahnaz was a year or two older than me.

  ‘Will you sleep at my house too? I want someone to help me open my presents.’

  ‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Of course I will.’

  That night I ran up to my mother and shared my news.

  ‘Oh, Sohila. You have done the wrong thing to make this arrangement. Don’t you know your father will be angry? Do you really think he will give permission? Don’t you know him?’

  ‘Please, Mum . . . I have promised Shahnaz. I really want to go. I won’t do it again, I promise. Please will you speak to him, just this time?’

  But I felt the blood drain from my face as I realised the stupidity of what I had done. Now I was horrified. My father would swear at Shahnaz’s father. Or maybe he would hit me, or my mother. The more I thought about it, the deeper the fear grew within me. Tears flowed down my face.

  My mother stood up straight and was suddenly firm. ‘Don’t cry. I will ask him. Even if he doesn’t give his permission, the sky won’t fall. I will buy a present for Shahnaz anyway and you can give it to her at school.’

  Shahin left me in the kitchen to go and see my father. The room was almost dark now. I sat down at the table and put my head in my hands. I was hungry, but could not eat; I could do nothing but wait, watching and listening to the large grandfather clock, its hands lazy and slow.

  Sounds of shouting came from down the hall.

  ‘You made a mistake, bitch. Why would I allow my daughter to visit another man’s house? Who is this schmuck anyway? I don’t know him. You don’t know him. The cunt. I won’t give permission for the girl to visit the prick’s house, let alone stay over. You can go to hell, and so can this friend and her parents.’

  I could hear a tremble in my mother’s voice, but there was a calmness to it at the same time. ‘Why are you shouting like this? All right, so Sohila didn’t think.’

  ‘What do you mean she didn’t think? What about you, you fucking bitch? Why would you think to even ask me about this? I’m going to teach you a lesson you will never forget.’

  By now I was rigid with fear. Was he going to hit my mother? He had never done it before – as far as I knew – but this anger was at a new level. Glued to my seat, I felt damp between my legs and realised I had wet myself.

  ‘What were these fucking people thinking?’ said my father. ‘Am I dead that every fucker thinks that they can have my daughter to stay at his house to sleep?’

  My mother’s voice was now so quiet that I could hardly hear it. Perhaps she was crying. ‘Okay, so you don’t give your permission. It doesn’t matter. It was my fault. Sohila has no fault here.’

  ‘Yes, it was your fault. Go to hell.’

  When the shouting finally stopped, I crept to my room. It was a plain space except for a dark brown timber komod, or dresser, that stood in one corner. But it was my space and it did have a large iron-framed floor-to-ceiling window. I changed out of my wet pants and lay on the bed. Outside the sky was clear and full of stars. A shooting star drew a line across the dark then disappeared – a sign that someone, somewhere, had died. Oh how I wished that was me. I wished I was never born. I wished I was dead like my baby brothers and sisters who didn’t make it.

  My mother came into my room and sat on the bed. She stroked my head.

  ‘Let him say what he wants. Is this the first time you have heard him like this? Of course not. It is his habit. His mouth is loose – he is used to dealing with people like himself. It is his work. He drives a taxi from morning to night and swearing is all around him. We must put up with it. It is our fortune, the destiny of women. If we fight back, we become smaller, inferior. If we fight back, we are beaten, because from then on every moment will be a confrontation.’

  I noticed tears in my mother’s eyes and realised for the first time that she was suffering too. I had not heard her speak like this before about my father’s swearing. It hadn’t occurred to me that my mother might find it as hard to deal with as I did. She had never mentioned it, and I had never brought it up. Now, a heavy sorrow sat on my heart, and I saw that it sat on my mother’s heart too. Oh how I wanted to release my mother from this. I put my arms around her neck and held her.

  My mother wiped the tears from my eyes. ‘I want you to be happy,’ she said.

  ‘If you don’t cry I will be happy.’

  This was the first time that my mother had spoken to me like this – straight, as an adult. I understood for the first time the hardship that she bore every day. Shahin was like a grain of wheat between the grindstones.

  Taking m
y mother’s hand and kissing it, I felt myself standing straighter now, as I had noticed her do in the kitchen earlier. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I am used to Father’s language. I know there is no other way than to get used to it. But oh how I fear that he will swear in front of my friends. Have you noticed that I never invite anyone to come here to visit? That is why.’

  The two of us held each other silently. Such a weight had been lifted: I now had a confidant – and so did my mother.

  The door to my room opened and my father appeared. ‘Come, Shahin,’ he said, ‘I want to sleep. Instead of thinking about me, you are here sitting with this girl.’

  He glared at me. ‘Open your ears. Listen to what I am saying. I will let you go to this scumbag’s house. But remember, this is the first and last time. You will not eat this type of shit again.’

  He left and, without saying a word, my mother followed. After a few minutes, I heard my father’s voice. It was quiet now, but distinct. ‘Open your legs. Why are you suddenly so sad, so closed?’

  ‘Ssh,’ Shahin protested. ‘The children will wake.’

  ‘To hell with the children. What is this? You did it last night.’

  ‘I did what I did. As I do every night.’

  Once again I put a pillow over my head to block out the sound of my father’s grunts.

  ~

  When the day of the party arrived, I dared not show my excitement, particularly around my father. I felt like any show of anticipation would be like taking a pin to a balloon, and this rarest of opportunities would disappear in an instant.

  I was to go to the party early to help Shahnaz get ready. I dressed in my one and only beautiful dress and even added the smallest amount of some makeup Melahat had given me. My mother had bought a present for Shahnaz as she had promised – I had no idea how she found the money to do this – and I walked to my friend’s house about half an hour away. It was winter, which meant the streets of Tehran were slushy; by the time I reached Shahnaz’s home my shoes were covered in mud.