My Name Is Mahtob: The Story That Began the Global Phenomenon Not Without My Daughter Continues

by Mahtob Mahmoody

  When I came home that day, I intentionally made a lot of noise slamming the car door, stomping on the steps and knocking before I walked in. “Hello, I’m home,” I shouted, peeking around the corner into the hallway, making sure Mom knew I was there. Her startle response had long been stuck in overdrive, and her hearing wasn’t what it once was. Often she would look up to find someone standing in the room and jump, her hand grasping for her heart and her lungs gasping for air.

  As predicted, she was standing at the stove. Stirring a big stockpot of khoresh bademjan, a mouthwatering stew of eggplant and braised beef, she shook her head and uttered her usual refrain: “I don’t know how I ended up with so much. I was trying to make a small batch.” It was what she always said when she stirred a pot of khoresh. I had never known her to actually succeed at making a small batch. If she did, what would she leave behind for me to eat when she went home?

  Mom has never understood the idea of family members sharing a house, but not their meals—each person eating on his or her own timetable, parked separately in front of the TV or at the computer. In our home mealtime was family time. Even when I was a kid and it was just the two of us, proper etiquette was the order of the day. Food went in serving dishes studded with serving spoons. The place settings always included at least one knife, fork, and spoon, each neatly placed in its proper spot. And the napkin, whether paper or linen, always went on the lap. During meals the phone went unheeded and the television was turned off. The dinner table was where we spent quality time talking with each other, and conversation was more palatable when paired with Mom’s cooking.

  As we passed dishes back and forth, I asked about her drive. She asked about my day at the office. Pleasantries out of the way, she got to what was really on her mind.

  “Has anything suspicious happened lately?” Translation: Is your dad causing problems again?

  “No, everything’s been quiet.” Translation: Argh, not again! What’s he up to now? Why won’t he just leave us alone?

  “Has your dad tried to contact you?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I stopped checking my MSU e-mail account a couple of years ago. I think he gave up on sending me e-mails for every Hallmark holiday once the account filled up with junk mail. “What’s going on? Has something happened?”

  “Mahtob, you know if you ever want to have contact with your dad, you can. It’s always been your choice to make.”

  “I know. If I wanted to communicate with him I would have—with or without your permission. But I’ve never wanted to. I have no interest in hearing his lies. Where’s all this coming from?”

  “I got a package from Kombiz. He’s been talking with your dad. Kombiz thinks it would be good for you to reconnect with him.”

  I was stunned. “Amoo Kombiz said that? I don’t believe it. How could he? He can think whatever he wants. I am not opening the door of communication with my dad—end of story.”

  “Kombiz says your dad is sick and he may not be alive much longer. Maybe you should consider contacting him, if for no other reason than for his medical history. You don’t know what kind of health challenges you’ll face in the future. Maybe it would be good for you to know more about the medical history on his side of the family. Both of his parents died young. Ameh Bozorg had some health problems too. I don’t know if she’s still living. Kombiz says your dad has had kidney transplants. You know when your lupus first flared, it affected your kidneys.”

  I took a bite of Persian salad, not believing what I was hearing. First Amoo Kombiz was pushing me to communicate with my dad, and now Mom was pushing the idea. What is happening here?

  “Mahtob, you should think about this. Don’t just say no without really making sure that’s what you want. Whatever you decide, I’ll support your decision. Your dad and Kombiz have been talking on the phone and e-mailing. Kombiz sent me a letter asking me to give you their correspondence. He also wrote you a letter.”

  “This is just another of my dad’s ploys. When one approach doesn’t work, he changes his tactics. He is only interested in controlling me and perpetuating his lies. There’s nothing he has to say that I need to hear.” I paused. “And I can’t believe Amoo Kombiz would fall for this. He of all people should be able to see through my dad and his manipulative schemes.”

  “Maybe you should talk with Kombiz then. Maybe he can find out more about your dad’s health issues for you. Just read the packet and think about it before you make up your mind.”

  She handed me the envelope, and I tossed it aside. I burned with anger at the thought of my Amoo Kombiz, my cherished adopted uncle, betraying me by conspiring with my father.

  Amoo Kombiz and my dad were close friends for much of their lives, but their friendship ended over my dad’s treatment of Mom and me in Iran. Through the years, Kombiz had stepped in to support Mom’s efforts to raise me to respect and appreciate my Persian roots. When I was younger, pomegranates, or anar as I knew them, were not readily available in Michigan. Kombiz lived in California, where they were plentiful, and once a year would send me an entire case to enjoy in celebration of No-ruz.

  Eating pomegranates was one of my happiest memories of our time in Iran. There’s an art to eating anar. You start by rolling the beautiful red Christmas-bulb-shaped fruit on the counter. The key is to press firmly enough to break the seeds on the inside, coaxing them to release their juice, but not to press so hard as to crack the pomegranate’s leathery skin. This is a time-consuming process that calls for great patience. I remember watching with anticipation as my dad rolled a pomegranate for me, the sound of the seeds bursting within their protective membrane, the science of deducing at precisely what moment the pomegranate had been rolled as much as it could possibly endure without rupturing the skin, the delight of being handed the perfectly prepared anar, turning it over in my hands to find just the right spot to bite into, then bringing it to my lips and sinking my two front teeth into the peel to release a geyser of luscious crimson juice.

  The pomegranate would deflate as I imbibed the bright, crisp juice, allowing me to squash some of the innermost seeds that couldn’t be reached before. When I’d sucked the last drop of liquid from the anar, I would gleefully relinquish it to my dad. With his strong hands he would rip the casing asunder, revealing the treasure trove of seeds hiding in the inner sanctum of the fruit—the seeds no amount of rolling or squeezing could reach. These he would deftly scrape out with his thumbs into a bowl for me to eat like other American children would eat jellybeans or gumdrops.

  Mom did her best to carry on the tradition, but having not grown up with pomegranates to roll, her mastery of the art fell short. At times, in her haste, she would press too firmly from the start and the skin would crack. Other times, unable to read the pomegranate’s cues, she would juice it beyond its limit and the pomegranate would burst, emptying its precious juice into a pool on the counter. Then overcompensating, she would stop rolling too soon, before maximizing the available juice, and the pomegranate would be left with partially juiced seeds that weren’t good to eat. More often than not, however, the stars would align and, beaming with joy, Mom would hand over the quintessential pomegranate. I don’t know which of us appreciated those moments more: her for being able to give me such a cherished gift or me for receiving it.

  Handing down this tradition and others was a great source of delight for my Amoo Kombiz too. Sometimes he scheduled his visits during No-ruz in an effort to fill the void my dad had left behind. He loved to tell me the time-honored stories of the Persian New Year. My favorite was the tale of the ram.

  “Mahtob Jon,” he would start, “you see, we live in a vast universe on a planet held in place by a giant ram. All year long that ram balances the earth on one horn. As you would imagine, it is no easy task. The planet is quite heavy, and the ram’s neck gets tired from carrying the weight of the world. Once a year, at the precise moment of the vernal equinox, the ram turns his head, shifting the earth from one horn to the other. This is the moment t
he No-ruz celebration begins. If you’re still and watch very closely,” he would add with a smile, “You’ll see the eggs on the haft sin jiggle.”

  This wasn’t news to me. I had seen it for myself. When we were in Iran, we had been bombed by Iraq at the very moment the ram shifted horns. The eggs had done more than jiggle that year.

  I look now at my haft sin, and a sense of gratitude washes over me. I am so thankful that I no longer have to worry about the eggs jiggling for any reason other than the annual turning of the mythical ram’s head. I shift my attention once more to the small envelope in my hands. The postage is fitting for the No-ruz season—three 41-cent stamps, each depicting a single flower: a red spiky flower, a yellow tulip with veins of red on each petal, and an iris. How like my adopted uncle to see to details like that.

  Over the years, Amoo Kombiz was a steady influence in my life, a link to what was good about my Persian heritage and a buffer from its dangers. It was my Amoo Kombiz who sat me down to flip though the yellowed pages of his photo albums to show me pictures of the gregarious young man who would become my father. It was my Amoo Kombiz, the nuclear physicist, who gave me ideas for my elementary school science projects. It was the same Amoo Kombiz who videotaped my high school graduation and taught me how to connect the wires of the video recorder to the TV so we could watch our home movies.

  By opening the door of communication with my dad, however, Amoo Kombiz crossed the line from trusted family member to double-crossing conspirator. I felt especially threatened because Kombiz knew so much about my life. I had gone to great lengths to prevent my dad from finding me. I didn’t want to have to walk away from my life again.

  Feeling betrayed and disappointed, I did not read the packet from Amoo Kombiz the night Mom gave it to me. The following morning, I grabbed the envelope and hastily threw it into my computer bag. Slowing just long enough to give Mom a kiss on the cheek, I shouted, “Have a good day,” and headed to the office.

  Work proved to be a good distraction, and before I knew it, I looked out my office window and saw that mine was the sole vehicle in the parking lot. Shutting down my laptop, I reached for my computer bag—and spotted the envelope again. No matter how preoccupied I kept myself, I had learned that no amount of busyness was sufficient to free me from dealing with my ever-resurfacing past.

  With a heavy sigh, I turned the envelope over in my hands, admiring the cheerful blooms on the postage stamps. It’s just information, I reminded myself just as I had been doing since my dad first resurfaced in my life.

  It’s a good thing he’s changed his approach, I told myself. It means he’s realized how ineffective his previous methods were. He’s now one attempt closer to giving up and leaving me alone.

  This is just information, I repeated to myself, leaning back in my office chair and retrieving a thick stack of typed pages from the envelope.

  The first letter was from Amoo Kombiz and bore the date June 22, 2008. It’s just information, I reminded myself yet again with a breath. Below the date was the greeting line. “Dear Betty Jon,” the word Jon indicating a close affection. How could he stab us in the back and still have the nerve to call her Betty Jon? Who does he think he is?

  It’s just information, I repeated, knowing my blood pressure was on the rise and my neck had already turned red and blotchy, a telltale sign that I was upset. It’s just information.

  Dear Betty Jon Greetings:

  How are you and how is life treating you? I have not heard from you for such a long time. I hope all is well with you and Mahtob . . .

  Surprise surprise, guess whom I talked [to] recently? That is the subject of this letter.

  Here is the background. My cousin sent me the address of a site for Javad Maroofi. He is the foremost well-known pianist in Iran. He died several years ago. I was looking at his site and came across another Persian composer who lives in Vienna. His name is Sassan Mohebbi. He reminded me of Shardad Rohani, another well-known Persian musical conductor and soloist. Number of years ago. . . . I looked into his site, and he had a bunch of pictures. At the bottom of his pictures, there was a picture of Moody with him and Sassan’s wife. At first I thought it was Moody’s wife. Anyhow, I sent a response to Sassan that Moody was a friend of mine and if you get this message, please respond to me. He took my message to himself and forwarded it to Moody in Iran. A day later I got a call from Moody and we talked at length before our telephone call got cut off. He however, gave me his email address. I sent him my email address and the next day he called back. Then I called him and we talked at length. We have had several emails. I am enclosing our exchanges. . . . I would like to discuss this with you.

  Please hear me out. I am still 100% on your side and you can trust me 100%. I know what he did was inexcusable. I also think that he dearly loves Mahtob and wants to establish relationship with her. I also believe that Mahtob is ultimately responsible if she wants to have anything to do with her father. I think for Mahtob’s sake, not so much for Moody’s sake, if Mahtob talks with her father, it will be good for her. Moody told me that he has lost both of his kidneys and bought a spare kidney and that one also has failed. He goes every two weeks and gets his blood filtered, the dialysis machine. How I found out was to ask him about the bandage on his arm in that picture. That is what he told me.

  I know he has created a documentary called “Without My Daughter.” He has dropped the “Not.” He told me he is going to send it to me. I have not seen it. However, I have my own opinion about it. I think that is more propaganda than a documentary. I told him that this would create a more wedge between himself and Mahtob. Any defense on his part will become an offense on you and this is not something that Mahtob would appreciate. Putting all that aside, again, I am only thinking of Mahtob. Deep down I think there is a pleasure in forgiving that there is not in vengeance. Regardless of everything else, he deeply loves your daughter and is very proud of her. I know there is logistical problem and may offer a challenge in the public view and mind.

  I would be more than happy to play the middleman. I can have a conference call connecting you/Mahtob and him. This way, Mahtob can talk with her father without any publicity or knowledge of anyone else. I don’t think Moody would commercialize this.

  I will leave it to your judgment and Mahtob. In no way do I wish to tell you or Mahtob what to do. It is her call.

  Do read my exchanges with Moody. It is very interesting to hear him say yes he knows he made a mistake.

  Anyway. I give you all the information and read them and please let me know.

  Do take care.

  Love, Kombiz

  By this time it was dark outside, and I was irate. Hands trembling, I reached above my desk and closed the blinds. The hope that Mom had misjudged the intentions of the letter had vanished. Kombiz really was trying to facilitate a reunion, knowing full well what my dad had done to us in Iran and that Mom and I lived every day of our lives in fear of being found by him. And then he had the nerve to talk to me about forgiveness. Give me a break! He knew I had forgiven my father. Did he think forgiving him meant I had to take more of his abuse?

  I turned the page to find a letter addressed to me, “Dearest Mahtob Jon.” Again with the term of endearment. What a traitor.

  Dearest Mahtob Jon:

  Hope all is well with you and you have a great life. I am certain that you do. I just communicated with your mom and asked her to consider allowing you to establish communicating with your father.

  Since when does she have to give me permission to communicate with my dad? It had always been my decision. What was it with people thinking she calls the shots where my dad was concerned? Even the night we left our house in Iran, it was my decision to keep going. I didn’t want to go back to him when I was six, and I certainly don’t want to at twenty-eight.

  I have talked with him two times and we have exchanged emails. I have enclosed our exchanges for your use. He wants to establish communication with you. It is your decision and your call. I only co
nsider what is best for you and how you would look at it 20–30 years from now.

  Well, considering that my stance hasn’t changed in the first twenty-two years since our escape, I seriously doubt it will change in the next.

  I know he truly loves you and he regrets for what happened to you.

  Really? He regrets what happened to me? What happened to me was his doing. Does that mean he regrets what he did to me? Does he take responsibility for his actions? Because all the information I have tells me he only regrets that he was outsmarted. He regrets that things didn’t go his way. He regrets being exposed as a controlling and abusive fiend. Does he really regret the choices he made that destroyed our family? I seriously doubt it.

  I also know that there was an attempt by a European news media to arrange a meeting between you and him several years ago and you turned it down.

  Exactly! I want to be left alone. I want him to stop harassing me.

  I am willing to play go between [for] you and your father and allow the two of you to talk on the phone. I will place a conference call between you and him. No one else other than your mom needs to know. If you decide you want to continue, that again is your call and your decision. If you don’t want my meddling, I am sending you his contact number. And you can do it on your own.

  I had broken my relationship with my sibling for several years over the issue of politics. We finally made up and there is a great feeling of establishing relationship rather than a broken relationship.

  Again, this is my suggestion and you make the decision. Whatever you decide, I will support you.

  Love, Uncle Kombiz

  Sitting alone in my office, the hum of the overhead light competing with the throbbing of my heart in my ears, I turned the page and immediately lost myself in their e-mail exchanges. When I finished reading, the words of the two men echoed in my head. I was awash in a churning sea of competing emotions.