Undoubtedly, Kathryn’s practical farm upbringing helped her during her hostage ordeal. She told me that her father used to say, “Yes, life is unfair. What are you going to do about it?” But it was Kathryn’s Lutheran faith that allowed her to walk away from the hostage experience without hatred or resentment. She told me that when the Bible says, “Love your enemies,” she takes that seriously. Rather than drown in hatred, she tried to see the humanity in her captors. This was not easy. She read the Bible and contemplated its words. “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you” (Luke 6:27–28). She realized that in order to find peace, she would have to sacrifice something. After more contemplation, she realized that she would have to sacrifice the anger and resentment.
Not surprisingly—or perhaps surprisingly for some—Kathryn is a firm believer in reconciliation. Having lived in Iran among Iranians, she knows that what she sees on television does not represent the vast majority of Iranians. She knows the real Iran. Almost everyone who advocates war with Iran has never been there. I assume the number one rule in war is “Don’t get to know the enemy.” Glimpses of shared humanity make it so hard to kill others.
We stopped for sandwiches in a nearby restaurant, splitting a piece of rhubarb crumble pie for dessert. We talked about how rhubarb is used in a stew in Iran. Kathryn told me about all the delicious meals she ate in Iran during the three and a half months she was there before being taken hostage. She told me about receiving a large bouquet of flowers on her birthday from her Iranian colleagues. “You know how lovely those bouquets are in Iran?” she asked me. I was surprised at how well she remembered small details and how much fondness she still carried for the Iran she experienced before her ordeal. She certainly walked the talk. There was not a trace of resentment in her.
After lunch, Kathryn and I drove around. There is a stereotype of Iowa being flat and full of cornfields. That’s because Iowa is flat and full of cornfields. Coming from dense California, I found that the open space made me think I was in a different country entirely. Where I live, I’m used to hearing my neighbor’s conversations with the gardener, the beeping of the automatic car locks, or basically every word uttered in the summer when the windows are open. Now I know where to go never to hear my neighbors again.
Kathryn decided that I must see the Amish communities in Hazleton and Fairbank. We drove what looked like the same serene roads we had been driving earlier. In fact, every road in Iowa looked like every other road to me—cornfields on one side, a few contented cows on the other, white farmhouses with red barns, and the ubiquitous green John Deere tractor. I’m not good at remembering freeway numbers and always rely on visual memory to find my way. This would not work for me in Iowa.
Seeing the Amish communities was like going back in time—horses and buggies, homes without electricity, and the same, simple clothes worn by everyone. We went into a couple of stores where I bought black walnuts; Kathryn bought a jar of canned beef. I couldn’t help but notice that the Amish women have the most beautiful skin. The simplicity and peacefulness of their existence struck me. Their family-centered lives are rich in ways that ours are poor. They have never heard of Lindsay Lohan. They are blessed.
The Amish store sold an array of goods—recipe books, jars of honey and jam, handmade bonnets in all sizes, and galoshes for the men. Horses were tied outside the store, next to our Buick.
On our way to our next destination, driving along a singlelane county road, we saw a group of Amish children returning from school, two by two. The younger kids were skipping and laughing, the older ones, walking and talking; all were swinging their lunch baskets. The girls wore bonnets and modest long-sleeved, ankle-length dresses. The boys wore dark pants and broad-brimmed hats. Against the backdrop of the open fields, this was of one of the most beautiful scenes I had ever seen, anywhere.
The Amish do not like to be photographed, so I simply tried to freeze that moment in my mind. I think I will always remember it.
We soon crossed the Wapsipinicon River to Jesup, where Kathryn had grown up. We continued talking, as we had since the moment we first met. On that long stretch of straight road, we suddenly heard a siren. Our adventure would not be complete without a speeding ticket. Kathryn pulled over. As the young officer politely explained that she had exceeded the speed limit, I interrupted. “She was a hostage for four hundred and forty-four days in Iran, and she’s showing me around. I’m from Iran.” I’m sure that was the first time the officer had heard that excuse, but I suspect he already knew Kathryn. He let us go after Kathryn promised to use cruise control.
We soon reached the town of Waterloo. Forget Napoleon. Forget Abba. Waterloo is John Deere country, where those yellow and green tractors are manufactured. Thanks to my drive through rural Iowa, I now know about tractors, combine harvesters, balers, planters, and seeders. I never thought I would feel grateful for farming equipment, but having seen the size of those farms in Iowa, I wouldn’t want to be plowing those fields by hand.
After showing me the University of Northern Iowa, in Cedar Falls, Kathryn drove us to her home, a charming, well-maintained two-story building with a cross on the front door. Inside, the house was full of books and artifacts from Kathryn’s travels to Africa, Europe, and Iran. I particularly admired her figurines and handmade jewelry from Africa, including a lovely bracelet from Zambia. There were many framed pictures of her family and the two sisters from Nepal whom Kathryn had previously hosted and subsequently befriended for years. There were framed embroideries with quotes from the Bible. Kathryn’s house was evidence of someone who believes in the Bible but also leaves room for other cultures to believe differently.
The next day, we walked a few blocks to the college where Kathryn teaches. The temperature was in the fifties, or as we say in California, freezing. The students all looked like they were dressed for a spring day. I was the only person bundled in a winter coat, gloves, and a woolen scarf. Perhaps it was obvious where I came from.
Kathryn introduced me to many of her colleagues. She is clearly beloved. Everyone wanted to know if she was available for events, lectures, and courses. It seemed as if everyone needed her for something. I noticed Kathryn rarely said no.
Then it was time to go to the Rotary Club for lunch. My father had been a member of the Rotary Club in Abadan for many years in the 1960s. I have spoken at many Rotary Club meetings so I had an idea of what to expect, but that day, I was taken by surprise. The speaker was a white man from South Africa who had lived in Iowa as an exchange student twenty years earlier. He talked about accepting his responsibility as a white man living and profiting under apartheid. He talked about reconciliation. He talked about his responsibility now as a successful businessman and his goal of improving the lives of his four hundred employees.
The next day, Kathryn took me to the farm south of Jesup, in a community called Jubilee, where she had grown up. Until the end of World War II, Jubilee had a grocery store, a creamery, a blacksmith’s, a butcher shop, a post office, and, of course, a church. Today, the only things left of Jubilee are the name, the church, the cemetery, and the memories.
On our way to the airport, I noticed that Kathryn was holding something. She held out her hand. She was holding the bracelet from Zambia that I had admired earlier. “I want you to have this,” she said.
For Kathryn, it was the words in the Bible that had helped her endure 444 days of captivity and let go of her justifiable anger. The Bible is foreign to me, but its concepts are not. My father always said that hatred is a waste and never an option. He learned this growing up in Ahwaz, Iran, in a Muslim household. I have tried my best to pass the same message to my children, born and raised in the United States.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter where we learn that lesson. It’s just important that we do.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my first agent, Bonnie Nadell, for wanting to work with me when no one else did. Thank you to
Mel Berger, Lauren Whitney, and everyone at William Morris for helping me branch out into new areas. It has been my good fortune twice to work with an editor whom I completely trust. Thank you, Bruce Tracy, and everyone at Villard. I hope we have many more projects ahead of us.
A big thank you to Steven Barclay and Sarah Bixler, whose talents and competence are both rare and refreshing.
Farshid Jazayeri, Dr. Mahmood Jazayeri, Mehdi Jazayeri, Ahmad Kiarostami, Professor Abbas Milani, Eli Alfi, and Susanne Pari helped me check my facts about Iran. I thank them for answering all my detailed questions even though they all have other things to do.
I would not have written this book had it not been for the entirely word-of-mouth success of Funny in Farsi. If you were one of those mouths, I thank you. To all the teachers and librarians who still believe in the power of books, God bless you! May the idea of shared humanity spread.
Teckie Shackelford, Elizabeth Stahr, Mary Barton, Susan Redfield, Linda Clinard, Carol Jago, Sara Armstrong, Debbie Bloomingdale, Holly Kernan, Sandip Roy, Paymaneh Maghsoudi, Reva Tooley, Helen Bing, KK, LP, and CK have all supported me from the beginning. I thank you.
I could never have reached my speaking engagements had it not been for Kiyomi Masatani and Gary Yamahara, who always accompanied me due to my total lack of sense of direction. They have heard me speak more times than is healthy, and I apologize for any long-term effects they may experience. I am very lucky to have such fine people in my life.
Thank you to Kathryn Koob for her midwestern hospitality.
Were it not for Roberta Immordino taking my baby on three-hour walks, this book would have never been finished. Iolanda Steele packed my belongings and helped me move when my landlady wanted us out the same week I gave birth. Iolanda, you saved my sanity.
And last but not least, to my husband and kids, who make me feel loved all the time, and who are a constant reminder of what is most important in this busy world—I love you. To my extended family, I would not trade you for any other family, not even a Swedish one.
And finally, to you the reader, who still loves a good story, I thank you. If you bought this book at an independent bookstore, I thank you twice.
About the Author
Originally from Iran, FIROOZEH DUMAS moved with her family to Southern California when she was seven years old. She graduated from the University of California at Berkeley. She lives with her husband and children in Northern California.
Also by Firoozeh Dumas
Funny in Farsi
Copyright © 2008 by Firoozeh Dumas
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Villard Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
VILLARD and “V” CIRCLED Design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Dumas, Firoozeh.
Laughing without an accent : adventures of an Iranian American, at home and abroad / Firoozeh Dumas.
p. cm.
1. Dumas, Firoozeh—Anecdotes. 2. Iranian Americans—Biography—Anecdotes.3. Dumas, Firoozeh—Travel—Anecdotes. 4. Dumas, Firoozeh—Family—Anecdotes.5. Voyages and travels—Anecdotes. I. Title.
E184.I5D864 2008
910.4—dc22 2008001272
www.villard.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-50717-4
v3.0
Laughing Without an Accent Page 19
