My Name Is Mahtob

by Mahtob Mahmoody

  In spite of all of these facts and figures, you made a colossal error in judgment. You took an American spouse to Iran with full knowledge that you would want to raise your daughter in Iran in spite of the fact that you knew full well her Mom would do everything possible not to allow that to happen. Mahtob had to go through a trauma of escaping from Tehran under extremely risky and poor conditions. Then you caused her to grow up without the presence, the guidance and the love of a loving father.

  In spite of everything that her mom did for her, there was always the element of risk of being abducted. This being a tug of war by default and the nature of the beast. Putting alarm in the house, in the car, being constantly cognizant of the environment provided a very precarious situation. In spite of all of that, she grew up to be a very healthy woman without anger or damning the male species. I fundamentally believe that if she does not wish to have a relationship with you, it is 100% her decision. . . .

  Never did I hear Betty say anything unkind about you, at least in my presence. It must be totally clear that if she had fabricated a story in the book, Mahtob is sufficiently strong that she would have challenged that. Mahtob is anything but a patsy. She holds her ground and fights for her beliefs. Such persons do not become valedictorian. Anytime I saw her, I thought of you and how sorry I was for you to miss her growing up.

  2) There is zero doubt in my mind that she adores her mom and she should. She has been her total support and her closest friend in all of these years. You may create a documentary to challenge Betty’s book, film or her claims. These will undoubtedly drive a bigger wedge between you and Mahtob. Any defense on your part will be construed as an offense toward Mahtob. You win support by other people and may gain sympathy from others. However, tell me frankly, what would that do to Mahtob? Would Mahtob think better of you if you challenge her Mom? Her mom has been in Mahtob’s eyes and mind, her salvation. Then comes her father and after all these years, creates a book, creates a documentary, and challenges her mother. Unless Mahtob has totally forgotten what she went through, then there may be a chance. If what Betty wrote in the book is 80% true, you have zero chance in heck to get Mahtob’s love.

  3) The only possible avenue . . . with Mahtob (forget about everyone else in the world) ought to be in my humble opinion that you were wrong and you made a colossal mistake.

  It is perfectly plausible for you to defend yourself in the eyes and the minds of the people of the world. However, with Mahtob, she was there. She remembers if she was taken away from her mother. She remembers if you slapped her mom. She remembers if you imprisoned her mom. If these were not true, she would have hated her mom for such fabrication and she would have jumped on the plane to come to Iran the minute she turned 18.

  There are certain things that Betty could not have lied or exaggerated. If you don’t agree with me, do talk to a child psychologist in Iran. Be absolutely honest and frank with him. That will be in a closed door room between you and a psychologist. Tell him that these things and events occurred in front of Mahtob. She witnessed these events. She is now a grown woman. Ask him how could you establish a relationship? Let a psychologist tell you what your approach ought to be. Ask if your documentary will help or hurt your relationship with Mahtob. . . .

  4) Moody Jon, let me be very frank with you. It is absolutely OK with me for you to defend yourself and try to justify what you did. This you could do with all the people in the world except me. I was there, witnessed it and know everything about this case. Here is my recollection and why I am not buying your story.

  a. . . . Once the revolution took place, you changed overnight. You argued strongly in favor of Khomeini and the fact that Iran must follow Islamic doctrine. Do you remember the long telephone conversations we had? . . . You can try to convince others that you wanted to go to Iran for humanitarian reasons. But please don’t try it with me. Do you know why? This would tell me you are telling me that “you are so stupid that I can pull this one over your eyes.”

  b. In my last trip to Michigan, I visited you and Betty. She was hiding your passport with full fear of you taking Mahtob out of the country. I did tell her that under no conditions she should go to Iran. I never understood why she did. When we had dinner in a restaurant, I asked you if you were contemplating to go to Iran to practice. Do you remember your answer? Please let me refresh your memory. I knew you were not telling me the truth. You said “how could I as I don’t know the medical terms and the procedures in Iran.”

  c. As I said before to you on the telephone. I was in Athens being a tourist. I noticed that my passport had expired. I went to the US Embassy and while I was waiting, I heard an American woman talking with the staff requesting them to take her American Passport to the Swiss Embassy and send it to the Swiss Embassy in Iran where she would go and get her passport. She had done it in Tehran and when she arrived in Athens she got her US passport. We got to talk while we were waiting and then she shared how life was so tough on American women married to Iranian men. She then said there was this American lady in Tehran pleading with the Swiss Embassy to let her escape with her daughter out of Iran. Her husband was American educated doctor. In the USA, I had tried to contact you and had called you several times. I got a response that your telephone number in Alpena was cut off and there was no number. I became convinced that you all had left for Iran. When this woman who was also married to an Iranian man in Tehran, in Athens told me about an American woman in Tehran being captive, I made the connection. I asked the woman the name of the woman. She was not sure but said something that sounded like Mohammady. I said was it Mahmoody, she said, oh yes, that is what it was. . . . Thus, when I read in her book about going to the Swiss Embassy, I knew that was 100% true.

  d. The next news I heard was from a Persian man. An Iranian guy who had left Iran and was amongst the circle of your friends, called me in California and said I have a message for you from Betty Mahmoody. She is in Iran and has been kept in captivity and she is extremely unhappy. He said she just wants you to know but has asked me for you not to get in touch with Moody. He would beat her up and make life miserable for her. . . . First, I did not know where you were and secondly, I could not do anything as that would have put Betty’s life more in danger. I was very saddened and disappointed. . . .

  e. When Betty was finally out of Iran and back in Michigan, she contacted me. . . . My first question to her was that why you went to Iran when I told you not to. She had remembered my caution. However, she told me that she was afraid that if you take Mahtob to Iran alone, she would never be able to see her daughter. Can I share with you something? I would put that probability at 95%. In other words, if you had taken Mahtob to Iran, you would have raised her as an Islamic daughter and to hell with the mother. Do you know how many Middle Eastern men have done this? I therefore, do not blame Betty a bit for going to Iran with you. . . . She did tell me that you would have returned to USA after some times. However, you knew that if you returned with her to the USA, she would surely divorce you, and she said she would have. For this reason, you had no intention of returning to the USA or allowing Mahtob to come to USA. Betty could have but without Mahtob. In fact the reason you wanted Betty to come to USA was to liquidate your assets in Michigan. It was for this reason that even when you realized that you had no permit to work as a doctor, you did not want to come to USA. You left your properties and belongings in the USA to convince her that your trip to Iran was a short term. What also convinced her that there might be a chance for you all to return was that you swore on the Koran to return.

  When you said that you became a victim of politics between Iran and USA, I totally disagree. You became a victim of your own prejudice and fanaticism. You put your own political ideology above the welfare of your family. I never forget the cusses you used to make against the News media when we were watching TV in your Alpena House. You cussed at America. I told myself “how . . . he does this when his wife is American?” I asked myself what your reaction would have been if she had sa
id “God Damn Iran?” You said as clear as I remember “God Damn America” . . .

  You can’t mix religion with politics and most certainly cannot mix religion with the principle of maintaining a family. Your first and foremost responsibility was to your precious daughter and her mother.

  What you did became the greatest disaster for the image of Iranian Man and an Islamic Man in the minds of the people of the world. . . . I once participated in a huge Iranian Conference in Berkeley, California. The attendees consisted of so many Iranian PhDs from USA and abroad. . . . One afternoon, the agenda was on the subject of Not Without My Daughter . . . Even those who disliked Betty’s book had no sympathy for your actions . . .

  I don’t think there were any winners in this entire scenario. Betty was not at all a winner. She has had a miserable life. A life always under the threat of losing her child is no life. Mahtob for sure did not win, and you were the biggest loser. . . .

  It was not your job to stop the war or help the patients. You helped the patients here and they are also God’s creatures. What difference does it make where a person is born and what they kind of religious ideologies does he have. At the end of the day, he/she is a creature of God. You made a choice to live in this country. Your license to practice medicine did not state that you only save Persian patients. . . . With that much money you had, you could have sponsored several kids in Iran or Tibet for that matter.

  Don’t think back for I should have, would have, could have. That is gone and over with. Playing the blaming game is never fruitful. It is a waste of time. You must have one notable goal. And that is to establish relationship with your daughter.

  You can’t do that by attacking her mother. By challenging her mother, you will have zero, no more than zero, chance of establishing relationship with Mahtob. Is there any other way? Would you be my friend if I chastise your mom? Why should Mahtob be any different?

  What you did for Betty and Mahtob, you get no brownie point from me. . . .

  I hope you did not get upset with me as I shared with you what was in my heart,

  Ghorbanat, Kombiz

  I drop the letters in my lap and lean back in my chair. Every inch of my body aches with tension. Reading my dad’s words, I still hear the familiar snarl of the fox who hunted me as a child. How I detested his rants. With seemingly no provocation, he would launch into tirades—lengthy diatribes filled with lies and exaggerations, grandiose denunciations that often made little or no sense and had no grounding in reality. The more he shouted, the more worked up he became, and before long things were sure to erupt into physical violence. I can see his voice on the page, each bolded word a fist flying through the air.

  I shake with fury. I want to scream at him and tell him he forgot that we didn’t just have one pool; we had two pools. Baba Haji and Ameh Bozorg’s pool had a shallow layer of stagnant green water in it the entire time I was there, and the pool in the courtyard of our last apartment was an empty cement hole in the ground. Even if it hadn’t been, the feral Persian cats would have rendered it useless.

  So much of what he claimed, virtually every aspect of what he claimed, is blatant deceit. If he were going to lie, he should at least have made his lies plausible. But even if what he said had been true, would that justify his brutality? So he bought his wife a diamond watch. Does that afford him the right to hold her hostage or to beat her or to threaten to kill her? So we had a pool. Does that make it okay for him to beat my mom in front of me or to tell me I’ll never see her again?

  I pick up the pages and angrily flip through them once more. The word valedictorian jumps out at me. Had my dad really asked Kombiz if I had been the valedictorian? If so, perhaps it had been in one of their phone conversations. Whatever the case, Kombiz was telling him what a miracle it was that in spite of everything he put us through, I grew into a well-adjusted adult, and my dad’s concern seems to be whether or not I was the top of my class. That’s just like him—obsessed with status, prestige and perfection.

  Was that the root of the debilitating self-consciousness I battled for so long? I never would have lived up to his expectations. If I had grown up with him playing an active role in my life, I always would have felt like my best, if it wasn’t better than everyone else’s best, wasn’t good enough. His concern wasn’t for me. His concern was for how I impacted his status. He wanted to be able to brag that he was the father of the valedictorian. I remember that air of self-importance well. I always wanted to believe my dad loved me, but now I wonder if he knew what love was. Was he even capable of love? His love for me existed in relation to himself. He didn’t love me for who I was—for my personality, my character, my convictions, not even for my accomplishments. He loved me because I was his.

  In my dad’s eyes, none of this was about me. He was using me as a pawn in his attempt to save face and to attack Mom for what he saw as a personal slight. If he truly believed the story he was portraying to the rest of the world, and if his concern were truly for me, he would have been petitioning courts within days, if not hours, of my supposed kidnapping. He would have worked tirelessly and utilized any means necessary to recover me, just as Mom had worked tirelessly to protect me from him.

  And Kombiz got it! He understood that I remembered for myself what had happened. He understood that I wouldn’t let myself be manipulated by my dad’s fabrications. After all those years, my dad remained arrogant enough to think he could lie to me and I would accept his word as truth, completely disregarding my own memories and Mom’s memories and even the documentation of the government agencies in Iran, Turkey, Switzerland, and the United States—as if his saying it made it so.

  That was the ultimate in grandiosity—textbook magical thinking. He exhibited no regard for reality. My dad created his own reality, and in his eyes anyone who said otherwise was simply wrong.

  My eyes continue to dart about the pages. “Humaniterian recognition award”? Once again, he was the victim. The world had done him wrong. It was all about him.

  The saddest part of reading this now is having to acknowledge that my dad really had no empathy for me. I can understand his not having empathy for Mom. It’s reasonable—well, as reasonable as any of this is—that she would be the target of his contempt. But no empathy for me? He knew the truth. He knew what he did to us. How could he not feel empathy for me, his daughter—the one he claimed to be so heartbroken over losing?

  Was he that callous, or was he simply delusional? Did he know he was lying, or had he told the lies so many times that they had actually become real to him? I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

  The emotional strain of confronting my past has drained me, and I am overcome with exhaustion, but I make a purposeful effort to shift my focus to the positive. The good in my life far outweighs the bad or the difficult. Yet the dangers from my past, real or perceived, keep resurfacing. Each time they do, I find myself stuck in this same dance. I feel threatened, which leads to feeling angry. Then I have to work through the whole cycle of coming to terms with it all over again.

  Feeling older than my years, I lumber to the kitchen for a midnight snack. I visited Annie and Vergine last week, and they sent me home with stuffed grape leaves and hummus. I’ve rationed the treats diligently, not wanting them to run out. I pull them from the fridge and put the kettle on to make a cup of tea. Leaning against the counter, I eat the last few bites of dolmeh and hummus, savoring the blend of olive oil and spices.

  While I wait for the water to boil, I head back to the letters. Most confusing to me is how it could be that Kombiz was the one to propose the idea of a reunion. I think back to when I first read these words sitting in my office. I felt so betrayed that my beloved Amoo Kombiz would suggest to my father that he should “establish a relationship” with me. A familiar wave of sadness washes over me. How could he do that to me? Reminding myself once more that this is “only information,” I revisit Kombiz’s words, genuinely hoping for an answer.

  On the subject of your relationship with
Mahtob. I hope and pray to God that you establish a relationship, if for nothing else, for her sake.

  “For her sake.” There it is. I didn’t hear those words before. In my rage, I stopped listening after “I hope and pray to God that you establish a relationship.” I resolve to give Kombiz the benefit of the doubt and choose to cast his motives in the best possible light. He was proposing a reunion for my sake. I don’t have to agree with him in order to entertain his perspective.

  Outside the moon is shining bright in the clear night sky. The wheatgrass on my haft sin has really taken off. It is nearly time to throw it away. Looking at it, I wonder if Amoo Kombiz also planted wheat grass this year. I had considered contacting him after I learned of my dad’s death, but I hadn’t.

  I glance down once more at his words. “For her sake.” Was he calling my dad out for my sake? Was he trying to get my dad to take responsibility for his actions, to acknowledge that he had been the cause of the trauma in my life? Was Amoo Kombiz really attempting to elicit an apology from my dad? Was that it? Did he think an apology would in some way benefit me?

  The kettle whistles and I head back to the kitchen to fix my tea. I lean over the mug and let the steam warm my face. Closing my eyes, I inhale slowly and deeply. Then I exhale, willing the tension to drain from my body.

  “For her sake.” The words echo through my mind. What else did I miss?

  Determined to read the pages once more strictly for informational purposes, setting aside all emotion, I curl up in my chair and start from the beginning. Forcing myself to see with new eyes, I find myself once more engrossed in their conversation.

  Moody Jon, let me be very frank with you. It is absolutely OK with me for you to defend yourself and try to justify what you did. This you could do with all the people in the world except me. I was there, witnessed it and know everything about this case. . . .