Scattered Pearls

by Sohila Zanjani

  What was beginning was a whole new era of oppression of the Iranian people, particularly against women and minorities, which continues to exist to this day. Khomeini had come to power on a lie: a promise to remove the suppression that had been imposed by the Shah. But he was a wolf dressed as a lamb. Instead of providing freedom he had done the opposite, replacing the Shah’s rule with a much more oppressive and violent regime which continues to rule Iran. It is a sign of the strength of Iranian women that most still refuse to wear the plain black chador and instead wear manteau and scarves.

  ~

  By the time of the staged embassy demonstrations in the second half of 1979, I had lost all interest in politics. I continued to read Shariati, and in fact did so for some years before I lost faith in his ideas. But any notion of free expression had been extinguished on that night in Shoosh Square, when what ensued proved to me that I did not have the bravery to pursue ‘counter-revolutionary type’ aims against a new secret police or army.

  Politics in Iran had (again) become a farce. How much time and energy could be wasted ferrying people to fake demonstrations so they could chant useless slogans over and over? It was all just a distraction from the real injustice that was going on – the murder of thousands of people including army officers, perceived opponents of the new regime and sympathisers of the previous one, including actors, artists and journalists. The sad truth is that Iranians were so used to having few rights, to being led by a dictator, that most of us just reverted to our old ways once the new regime had established itself. Once again we kept our heads down and got on with our lives as best we could. The main difference now was that women’s heads were covered.

  The final voluntary work I got involved in through Enfagh was the sorting and packaging of bandages and medicines. I’m not sure that I ever understood precisely why we were doing what we did, but I spent several weeks of spare time at a Department of Health building close to central Tehran. The main task was to read the labels on packages of imported medicines – there were piles of them, all mixed up – to sort them and separate the out-of-date ones from the good ones. I could do the job quite easily because of my good English. I worked with seven or eight other girls on this task for a number of weeks. We wore headscarves, as was becoming more common, but they weren’t black – rather different neutral colours. Mine was a light beige. As with the girls at work, the chatter here was all about minor domestic issues and boyfriends. I didn’t like these girls much, nor did I join in the conversation. They seemed a bit strange – even rude – in their confidence to say what they were thinking, and to blurt out all the details of their personal lives. In truth, they were just ordinary young women; if anyone was strange it was me.

  During one conversation something came up about the only man who worked with us. He would package up the sorted medicines and send them off to regional areas. When he was out of the room I asked one of the girls whether he was a doctor. She laughed. ‘Why? Have you come here to catch a husband?’

  Embarrassed, I said nothing more.

  But the truth was that by now I had started to think a little about how I might find a husband – though this was not my motivation for sorting medicines! I was approaching my mid-twenties, an age when many women I knew were married, or at least engaged. I had never had any sort of meaningful relationship with a man, let alone a romantic one. Yet marriage was the obvious next step for me. I was not working at Bell in order to build a career. I was working at Bell in order to earn an income and, above all, to help my family live more comfortably. It was not a permanent arrangement. The concept that I might – now that I was qualified in both computer programming and economics – set out on a path in life of my own was foreign to me. Though I was more than capable of running my own life, I walked ‘hunched over’, or dolah-dolah as we say in Persian, under the weight of culture and family. This was not just because of being a woman. I knew women who were independent (whether married or not) and had some control over their lives. My friend Elahe was a perfect example of a woman who had moved away from the constraints of Iranian culture and found her own way. But in my case my family background – in which, as we have seen, women were entirely subordinate – combined with a national culture in which young people were not encouraged to pursue their interests, and even if they wanted to, opportunities were limited. Tehran, in fact, had a good university. The medical school, for instance, was as good as anything in the world at the time. But only a small proportion of those who wanted to gain a university degree were given the opportunity. I was fortunate to have been able to study computer programming and some economics, and although both these courses were of dubious value, at least they broadened my job options beyond the purely administrative. In my mind, that was as much as I should expect.

  One advantage I did have was the experience of travel. My overseas holidays had given me enough exposure to the outside world to know that ‘things were different over there’. I felt that there would be more opportunity for me to live the life of my dreams, with a loving husband and family, if I gave myself a fresh start away from my own family – just as Elahe had done. My ‘escape’ would not be for political reasons, or any other higher cause; the oppression of women was not yet what it would become – it was still early days for the Khomeini regime – and I was far too ignorant of these things to have been able to foresee what was to come. No, I simply wanted to escape my childhood and explore the world. However, the idea of leaving Iran permanently on my own was not something I could consider. On the other hand, if I could find the right husband . . .

  Coincidentally, the building in which we sorted medicines was also, at the time, the home of the Australian embassy. I returned from work one afternoon and told my mother that I wanted to go to Australia. Her first response was, ‘All right . . . you go’. She had no idea of the implications of what she was saying.

  7

  Chance meeting

  In mid-1980 I went to the Australian embassy in Tehran to apply for a residency visa. Already in my passport were stamps from all those other countries I had visited; I had never been rejected entry to any country before, so assumed this application would be a formality. It was a surprise, then, when my application to migrate to Australia was declined for no clear reason. Perhaps the Australian government was wary of Iranians ‘defecting’ as a result of Khomeini’s rise. I knew that emigration to Australia had not been a problem in the past: neighbours of ours had emigrated to Australia in 1965 and, in fact, had encouraged my father to follow them. Anyway, I was told that I would need to wait 12 months before applying again.

  I got into the elevator to leave, joining a group of men – one young man, probably about my age, and a number of older men. They were all discussing emigration as we descended. I turned to the younger man and asked him if he had been applying to go to Australia.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘One of my family members has just come back from Australia – he has a visa. If, God willing, I pass my studies I would like to go too. What about you?’

  I told him that I had been declined. ‘It seems they don’t give visas easily.’

  As we left the elevator the man thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘I might be able to help you. I can give you the phone number of my brother – the one who just returned from Australia. Perhaps you can talk to him about what it is like over there. Perhaps he will have some ideas about how you can get there.’

  I took the number and thanked him. I knew nothing of this man, nor of this brother, but there was something in this offer that triggered a dream in me. Or perhaps it was a determination. The more I thought about it, the clearer I was that Australia was where I wanted to go. Where I would go.

  The next day I called this stranger.

  ‘My name is Sohila,’ I started, ‘and your brother suggested that I call you. I want to go to Australia and he said you might be able to help me or give me some guidance. I would be very thankful if you can help.’

  He told me his name was Reza an
d said that he was willing to help me.

  ‘How many years have you been living in Australia?’ I asked.

  ‘Ten years, in Melbourne.’

  ‘What did you do there?’

  ‘I was studying chemistry and am now doing a PhD in the subject. Have you studied?’

  ‘I have a degree in economics and good English because we studied in English,’ I said, with some pride.

  ‘Wow! So you speak English?’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said.

  I asked if he would come to our house to meet me and we arranged a time for a few days later. He would come for lunch. Reza did not know my area, so we agreed to meet at the end of Kaj Avenue, a main road that finished near the reservoir. He told me he would be carrying a bag and I told him I would be wearing pants.

  This call was enough for my dream to take on a life of its own. This man would help me get to Australia and start the new life I had imagined. Maybe . . . maybe I would even marry this man and he would take me there. He had a good education, and I could study some more and get my own PhD; we could create a good situation together. We will together carry the weight of life, I thought. We will be two bodies with one soul.

  ~

  By now I was living in an apartment in the building next door to my parents’ house – the one they had bought as an investment some time before. I used the upper storey of the two-level building. While it had a kitchen, I never used this: my mother did all the cooking and I either ate with my mother and siblings or, if I had a guest or wanted to eat alone, I took prepared food back to my apartment.

  I rarely saw my father these days. He still had his temper and would raise his voice and swear if he disagreed with something or was otherwise annoyed, and if someone was around to listen. To deal with this, the rest of the family and I had developed a strategy based on keeping to ourselves. When Asghar was at home, we dispersed to our own spaces. We would gather together when he was out. We still avoided setting him off whenever possible because his temper was still unpleasant, but the reality was that as we had all grown up and gained our independence, his influence on the family, including my mother, had diminished. When it came to my bringing a male friend home, therefore, there was only one person’s view that mattered to me: my mother’s.

  From the moment I saw Reza I knew that he would be my husband and that I would go to Australia with him.

  As I walked towards Kaj Avenue as agreed, I first saw him turn a corner about 50 metres away. I knew it was him. He was about average in height but had broad shoulders and looked strong, a bit sporty. He was not, as I had feared, a ‘small man’. I have never been attracted to short men. I guessed he was about ten years older than me, in his mid-thirties. Wearing a close-fitting collarless shirt, beige with horizontal chocolate brown stripes, Reza walked towards me in an unhurried, relaxed style with a smile that seemed to widen his mouth. I would have preferred that he wore a suit, that he had dressed up a little more, but he was tidy enough. One thing that I found a little strange was that he carried a leather tote bag over his shoulder. I remember a fleeting thought that he could have been going to the public baths.

  We shook hands, said hello to each other and walked the five minutes back to my house. I don’t remember a lot of what we talked about. Mostly I did the talking, and whatever he said I didn’t really hear – my mind was racing as I worried about whether I would be good enough to impress this man. He was, unlike me, quite reserved, though he was also quite jovial. And he was very polite. It was not uncommon for an Iranian man to compliment a woman on her appearance at a first meeting, yet Reza resisted doing this. I knew I was looking good – I was confident about my appearance and knew how to make myself look attractive; I had chosen light-grey pants and a white long-sleeved georgette blouse that subtly showed off my slender shape. But it was clear that this man did not want to appear to be taking any advantage of this situation.

  For Reza’s visit my mother had cooked a traditional Persian casserole of lamb and eggplant with rice and salad. She laid the meal out on a tray for me to carry up to my own dining room. As Reza and I ate, we talked a little about Australia – again I don’t remember exactly what we spoke about. As soon as we got upstairs he asked for ja namaz, a prayer mat, knelt on the floor and prayed to God. Although every Iranian home would have ja namaz even if, as in our case, it is not used, Reza’s action was a little surprising – it is rare for Iranians to pray when visiting. But it impressed me, not so much that he was a Muslim as that he had some beliefs. He was clearly such an honourable man, a man of pure values who was even willing to risk potential embarrassment in order to perform namaz (which involves praying five times a day in the Arabic way). In my mind, this only strengthened his potential as a husband.

  After some more talk, with me telling him as much as I could about myself and my family, Reza asked if he could excuse himself. He needed to travel to Karaj, a satellite city of Tehran, to visit his sister. Once again I was impressed – he was clearly a family man.

  The first thing I did after he left was run next door to see my family and ask them what they thought of what they had seen of him through the window. Shahin said that he was ‘not bad’ and that he seemed okay in his character. My father was not so positive.

  ‘What does he do?’ he asked.

  I explained that he was a chemist, a scientist.

  ‘Well, I don’t like his face, or the way he walks,’ said Asghar. ‘He is nothing.’

  But of course I was hardly going to take my father’s advice on matters of relationships, was I?

  ~

  After that first meeting, Reza and I spoke on the phone a few times. Sometimes I asked about life in Australia and what he planned to do. Reza told me that he still had 18 months of study to complete at Latrobe University before he would gain his PhD. The university sounded very exotic to me.

  I was a little nervous during all these calls. I didn’t want to appear stupid or do anything that might make Reza not like me or think me unsuitable. I was constantly questioning myself: how was I looking, from his point of view? I didn’t press him for much detail about Australia as I was quite relaxed about the idea of going there, I guess because of the amount of travel I had already done.

  Over the coming weeks, Reza came to visit more often and we kept talking on the phone. Slowly we fell into a relationship.

  Once, we went out to lunch at a restaurant close to my house. The restaurant was large but empty, apart from us, but the two waiters talked at the counter some distance away and ignored us after we were seated. After trying to attract their attention with a silent wave, eventually I called out: could they please bring us menus. Reza glared at me. ‘Why do you need to shout?’ he asked.

  I was shocked. Had I offended him? Had I revealed an unattractive side of myself? I hadn’t raised my voice with any anger or frustration; I had just intended to prompt some action in a way quite normal in our culture. I shrank into my seat. We finished our lunch in silence and walked back to my apartment the same way. I was terrified that Reza would no longer want me; over and over in my mind I blamed myself for being so stupid and loud.

  But Reza did not leave me. He kept coming over and, as he did not have a car, he sometimes even stayed for the night. While sex before marriage would have been frowned upon in my culture, it was not unusual for a man to sleep at his fiancée’s house. By now, though not formally engaged, there was an unspoken understanding between us, and our families, that we would be married, though when he did stay over, he slept in my bedroom while I slept in my parents’ house. Reza was not a man of romance, and while I would have enjoyed a little more romantic attention I understood his clear desire to remain ‘pure’ and avoid any form of temptation. I had never witnessed any romance in my parents’ marriage and did not see romance as a necessary ingredient in a relationship. In any case, I had no idea what ‘love’ was supposed to look or feel like. How was I supposed to? No one does until it happens. So I
simply took Reza’s actions (or lack of) at face value. The fact that we would marry was the important thing – after that we would behave like a husband and wife. For now, I was 25 years old and time was running out. And I wanted to leave Iran. Marrying Reza would provide remedies for both of these so I harboured no doubt or concern about whether or not it was the right thing to do.

  ~

  Reza came from a large family. He was the eldest of nine, with three brothers and five sisters. When it became known that Reza was finally in a relationship, there were many requests for us to visit.

  My first ‘parade’ in front of the family (other than the brother in the elevator) was arranged with his sister in Karaj, Uliyeh. Reza would come in a car with his brother-in-law Mahmood to pick me up at noon, and we would drive the half an hour or so to Karaj. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I looked forward to showing myself off. I dressed carefully, wearing the same outfit I had worn at our first meeting; I was determined that everyone would congratulate the eldest son for choosing me. When they arrived a young boy, the brother- in-law’s son, was also with them. He sat in the front while Reza and I took the back seat.

  About halfway into the trip, I noticed a large florist shop up ahead. I immediately asked the brother-in-law to pull over. I went inside and chose the largest arrangement of flowers that I could. The men didn’t say anything when I came back, though I did notice them exchange a glance at one point. It was only then it occurred to me that they might think it strange for a woman to be buying flowers for another woman, let alone for a bride-to-be to be buying flowers for her groom’s family. Normally in a case like this, Reza would bring the flowers as he was the male guest. I assumed he had not thought about this as it was ‘only’ his sister we were going to visit, though he had never brought flowers to me either.