by Sara Jafari
Neda noticed the nail of her daughter’s forefinger digging into her thumb, and the raw pink skin there. She almost grabbed Soraya’s hand, wanting to force her to stop, but that kind of parenting hadn’t helped her children in the past.
She made herself lean back in her chair.
“I’ve been going to counseling,” Neda said. “And I’ve held on to a lot. I’ve always thought it’s better to keep things in, but secrets are no good. They just wear you down. And when I spoke about you…about how much you dislike your dad, how anxious you are, how you think no one notices when you pull at the skin around your nails…well, I realized I needed to say to you, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand.” Soraya put her hands between her legs and squeezed them together.
“I’ve always come to you children to complain about your father. Amir and Parvin always ignore me. But you’re my little girl. You’re the only one who listens to me.” Her face softened. “I didn’t think what that would do to you.”
She noticed Soraya becoming tearful then, avoiding eye contact.
“Your dad loves you. I know you don’t believe it, but he does. He does bad things, but he…he doesn’t even recognize what he’s doing. The day after he hit us those months ago, I heard him crying in the living room. He thought no one could hear.”
“But he still hit us! He’s not—”
“He’s not perfect, and I don’t like him. But it’s not that simple. He’s depressed, he always has been. I just ignored it.”
“Everyone always forgets things, always pretends bad behavior is OK if it’s in the past. But it’s not. It’s not.” Soraya wiped her tears away quickly. The elderly white people around them probably considered them highly dysfunctional, Neda thought, crying in the M&S café in the middle of the afternoon. Maybe they were.
“In Islam we’re taught to forgive. That’s something I struggle with, but I’m working on it.”
“What about Laleh?”
“We have to make things right, not focus on the past. I feel sick when I think of all the lost time, how much she must have needed us…” Neda took a deep breath. “Laleh has agreed to visit us, whilst your dad’s away, with her boyfriend and Zara.” Neda tried to keep her face neutral when she said the last word, but her nose wrinkled almost reflexively.
“You’re OK with meeting her boyfriend?”
“What can I do? I’ve tried but you children do whatever you want.” She shrugged. “Maybe they’ll get married. They have been together fifteen years, it’s about time.”
“Maybe,” Soraya said quietly.
“I wish you and Parvin would make up.”
“We’ve not fallen out.”
“She’s always had it hard with your dad too.”
“Why does he like her more then?”
“To be honest, she sucks up to him, and he likes that. You and Laleh never did, you both pointed out his faults, which he hates. He’s a stubborn man, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”
“But I don’t get why she sucks up to him,” Soraya persisted.
“It’s her way of coping, Soraya dear. Don’t be so hard on her.” There was a short silence. “What’s going on with this boy then?”
Soraya picked up her hot chocolate; she took a sip. Neda watched, a small smile on her face.
“What boy?” Soraya asked.
“The one who took the picture of you.”
“You told me not to see him anymore, so I don’t.”
Neda’s smile didn’t falter, if anything it widened.
“I know you, azizam, you didn’t stop seeing him.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him in months so…”
“What happened?”
Soraya pursed her lips, no doubt wondering if this was a trap. And perhaps years ago it might have been. It wasn’t that Neda wanted her daughters to talk to boys, but she knew she needed to accept it as inevitable. She had brought them up in England, they were adults, and she had to respect their decisions.
“Why are you asking these questions?”
“You’re grown up now. I’m trying not to make the same mistakes. I don’t want secrets between us. I want you to trust me.”
“We aren’t talking anymore.”
Neda nodded slowly.
“And you’re sad about that?”
“I guess.”
“He’s not worth it. No man is.” At this, Soraya rolled her eyes. Her mother continued, “Ey, I mean it. Look what happened to me, look what happened to Laleh. The reason I’ve been so strict with you isn’t just because of Islam, it’s also because I’ve seen what picking the wrong man can do. Men can ruin your life, and I don’t want that for you. I want you to have the best of everything.
“So, focus on yourself first. Get a job you enjoy, create a life for yourself, and then you can think about boys.”
“I can think about boys? Since when?”
Neda laughed. “You think I think you listen to me? I know what young people get up to. I was young once. But you’re a good Muslim inside, you’re a good person, and that’s all that matters.”
“But I don’t practice it at all…I’m bad.”
“Oh, azizam, you’re a good girl. The most moral in the family. That’s all Islam is really—being a good, caring person. You’re finding yourself. Just make sure you’ve found yourself before you get involved with men. And find a good husband.”
Neda couldn’t help but add the last part, she was human after all.
“Tell me about him.”
“Who?”
“The boy. I’m curious.”
“But it’s over…”
She saw the tears well in Soraya’s eyes, and her heart broke for her. She had so much pent up inside. This time it was Neda’s turn to listen to her daughter, and she would make sure she was a good listener, as Soraya had been for her.
“Tell me.”
And so, Soraya told her about Magnus. About the confidence he gave her, how he sympathized about Hossein because he was in a similar situation with his dad, his writing, his positivity.
“Poor boy,” Neda said about his dad.
“I mean yes, but he’s still a bastard,” Soraya said with a small smile on her face.
Neda laughed.
“I’ve taught you well, darling. Shall we go to Waterstones after this? My treat.”
Soraya knocked on Parvin’s door. Her mum’s words were fresh in her mind.
“Come in,” she called.
Soraya opened the door tentatively. When Parvin saw who it was, her face hardened and her lip jutted out. She was sitting on the floor painting her toenails.
“Hi,” Soraya said.
Parvin continued painting her nails.
“Can we not fight anymore?” Soraya said quietly.
“I never wanted to. You’re the one with the attitude.”
Parvin saw Soraya’s facial expression, pained, drawn from lack of sleep, angular from lack of appetite. “Oh, God, who even cares? Let’s just forget about it,” she said, patting the floor next to her. Soraya sat cross-legged while her sister took hold of her hand and began buffing her nonexistent nails.
“What’s happened?”
Soraya poured her heart out for the second time that day. It was freeing, letting it all out.
“He’ll come back,” Parvin said confidently.
“Did you just hear what I said? Our relationship was all fake, and now he lives in Paris and has a new girlfriend.”
“You broke up because you never speak about your feelings and he’s rebounding. Trust me.”
Soraya rolled her eyes. “It’s not that simple.”
“If it will be it’ll be. Put your faith in higher beings and let it go.”
Soraya nodded slowly, considering her sister’
s words.
“I’m sorry I was a bit of a bitch before,” Parvin said.
Soraya had never heard her sister apologize to her.
“When I found out about Laleh, I freaked out a bit. I’m meant to be your big sister and I’d always told you to go after boys, but then to find out that she’d gotten herself pregnant, and Dad’s reaction to it…My mind was a bit messed up after that.”
Soraya had been so absorbed in her own problems she hadn’t considered how the weight of holding Laleh’s secret would have affected Parvin. They all had different ways of coping.
“It’s OK. God, I can’t believe they actually disowned her.”
“I know. When we joked that we’d be disowned if we did something wrong, I don’t think I ever truly believed it. Yes, they would shout and scream, but how could they abandon her when she was pregnant? It’s mad.”
A silence fell between them.
“I think, though, they’ve changed since then,” Parvin said thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?”
“Our parents. Laleh was their firstborn. They were superstrict and overprotective with her—even more so than with us. Mum and Dad were arguing more than ever back then. I think if the same thing happened now they’d react differently.”
“I bloody hope so.”
“I guess we all make mistakes, some bigger than others.”
Soraya sighed. She partly agreed, but their parents had had so many years to rectify their mistake, and they hadn’t. Were they too ashamed, embarrassed? Of themselves, or of Laleh? Perhaps both.
“Laleh is thinking of coming to see us all in a few months, you know,” Parvin said.
“I heard. I really hope she does.”
Parvin continued to fix Soraya’s nails in contented silence. For the first time in a long time Soraya’s life felt like it was on its way to being whole again.
It was true what her mum said. Soraya needed to find herself, before she found anyone else.
Weeks ticked by, and became months, until it was almost spring. Soraya had been offered a marketing and design internship, three days a week, at a large theater company. She did this as well as working at the clothes shop part-time. When she rose to go to work it was no longer dark. It was these things that gave her hope. Not that she was short on that. Hope was the reason so many of her expectations had been systematically dashed.
One by one.
But she was trying to change her outlook.
She used her love of searching the Internet to work on her excessive nail-biting. She downloaded a mindfulness app and practiced it every morning for ten minutes. She also began going to a nail salon in an attempt to prevent her from shredding the skin around her nails. Paying twenty-five pounds every three weeks for gel nails became a good reason not to ruin her fingers.
She adopted a new approach, borrowed from Oliver, in her attempts to get over Magnus: pretend he was dead. And no, she wasn’t joking. She allowed herself to cherish their memories, but because he was dead there was no hope that they could ever be together. Nothing particularly heinous had happened, but it finally made sense to block him on all social media.
She was at her job in the shop, standing by the till, watching the world go by. The store was empty. She was alone with her thoughts and the store playlist that repeated the same ten songs all day long. So in her cruel solitary confinement, also known as working in retail, she thought about how Magnus had so quickly forgotten about their messed-up relationship, and how she couldn’t. She decided to change her own narrative.
The launch day for their journal, Millennials—a semi-ironic title—was steadily approaching. As well as working her two jobs, Soraya busied herself with designing the cover and layout. She took her laptop everywhere and in the hours between her two jobs she would find a Pret, order a filter coffee, and design. It was cathartic, and held her together. It made her recognize what she was passionate about, after having spent so long worrying that she wasn’t passionate about anything. She also learnt that it was pointless to compare herself to everyone else. Once they left university everyone’s journey was completely different. Focusing on those around her made no sense anymore. She needed to focus on what made her happy, and she finally found those things in the little acts that brought her joy in the day, like buying herself a nice coffee every so often, or reading in the nearby park on her lunch break on sunnier days.
They found an independent venue, which acted as a café by day and bar by night, to host the journal’s launch party for free. The party was the highlight of Soraya’s year. All other events before were pre–launch party, and anything after was post–launch party. Whereas, up until recently, life had been pre-Magnus and post-Magnus.
Collectively they decided on which pieces would be included in the journal, and she provided illustrations for each of them. The whole experience cemented what she already knew: she wanted to work in design. And with her internship it seemed Soraya was finally moving in the right direction.
She had also written a piece featured in Millennials, but that was something she was desperately trying to forget about.
“You need to—you have so much baggage that should be let out,” Oliver had said to her in the kitchen one day.
“Are you sure we just haven’t had that many good submissions?”
He pursed his lips, let out a breath. “Well, there’s that too, but that’s not why I’m saying this.”
“It feels very personal…”
There was an awkward silence. “You’re right, I shouldn’t push you. It’s just…never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He busied himself with picking up the plate in front of him and walking over to the sink to clean it.
“Come on! What is it? What were you going to say?” She could barely hear herself over the sound of hot water and the clatter of plates in their very full sink.
He turned the water off and looked at her.
“I was just going to say, a couple of months ago you were talking about your dad. Now it seems you’ve closed up again.”
“I’ll think about it,” she muttered.
Soraya found that it was surprisingly easy to write; it came almost too naturally. But when she read the first draft, before agreeing to do it officially, she realized how superficially she was writing about her experience. It was as though she was an onlooker in her own life. So when she brought the lens closer, and talked about how these things affected her mentally and physically, it triggered waves of vulnerability. Just having the words written down stripped her bare. And that was before anyone had even looked at it. Her face was tearstained, her whole body tense from writing up her experience.
It was in that moment she knew she needed to tell her story. Even if just one person read it and could relate, that would be enough. It felt selfish of her not at least to try to make one person feel less alone.
* * *
—
The day of the launch arrived. The venue was in Deptford; the café-bar was on the ground floor and the basement was a larger room with plain white walls. The copies were laid out on a table at the back of the basement, and every time she looked at them Soraya felt a rush of pride. She finally had something tangible that she could produce to show she had achieved something, that she was good at something other than selling overpriced dresses to stuck-up customers.
The cover was simple; she had played with typography and contrasting colors to make it stand out. She’d also drawn some illustrations of small birds, which were printed in foil; they shimmered in the light.
A couple of hours in and the bar was busy, faces Soraya recognized merging with others she didn’t know.
When it was time for the readings, the basement fell quiet. Soraya’s palms were clammy, and she would have preferred less engagement from the audience.
All eyes were o
n Priya, Oliver, and Soraya as they stood at the front of the room.
“Thank you all so much for coming to the Millennials launch party!” Oliver said, breaking into a grin. She had never seen him so happy. There were claps and cheers from the audience. Oliver’s new boyfriend, Kiran, wolf-whistled from the back row. Soraya had met him a few times and finally felt that Oliver had met someone worthy of him. “Millennials is a journal celebrating stories from people whose voices aren’t ordinarily heard. We’re so excited to show you something we’ve been working really hard on. We’re going to start off with some of the contributors reading excerpts from their pieces, and then you can buy a copy, have a drink, mingle…”
“And get smashed,” Priya added, sticking her tongue out. Soraya cringed, but the crowd seemed to enjoy it.
Soraya had rehearsed what she would say, but with all eyes, those of both strangers and friends, on her, she clammed up. She looked to Oliver, and he gave her the slightest nod. Fuck it, she thought.
“And the theme for this issue is breaking free. It’s a theme so many of us can relate to. Whether you’re breaking free from toxic relationships—involving others or yourself. Graduating from university and finding yourself. Breaking free from societal expectations, from supposed norms. The list goes on. And Issue One is just a snapshot of us breaking free. I hope you all enjoy it.”
Priya jumped on the spot. “And leading with that…the beautiful Soraya Nazari will begin with her piece, ‘A Prison of Silence.’ ”
Oliver and Priya sat down. The piece of paper shook in Soraya’s hands.
She had practiced this over and over. She had it memorized; the printed copy was just insurance. Earlier in the day when they had run through it together, she’d been told she needed to speak louder and slower. At the time she was aware she was speaking too quickly, but fear of being truly heard held her back. Again, Fuck it rang loud and clear in her head. Once it was over, she could hide away and be embarrassed.
“Hi, I’m Soraya,” she said, and then cleared her throat. “Obviously,” she added. Oliver gave her a supportive smile. She focused on him. Settled on him, and only him. “ ‘The first time I told someone my dad is a drug addict, I burst into tears. The first time I told someone, my best friend, my dad is a drug addict, I was twenty years old. All my life until then I stayed silent, as though I had done something wrong, as though I were to blame. It took meeting my best friend, my confidant, to change that.