Andre’s father had worked at a furniture factory during the last few years of his life. With the help of the owner of the factory, he and a few other workers had invested in a piece of land to build a small condominium building. When Andre’s father passed away, this project hadn’t started yet, but Andre made more payments toward it. One day, we received a phone call from a lady who worked at the factory, and she informed us that the work on the building had begun. We told her we were planning to leave the country but had run into some financial problems. She offered to buy our share and to pay us 500,000 tomans more than what we had already invested. This was all we needed.
Andre received his passport as soon as our three years in Zahedan ended. I went to Evin, put in the deposit, and obtained mine. We had heard of a Catholic refugee agency in Madrid and decided to go to Spain. We bought our plane tickets, sold everything we had, which wasn’t much, and bought American dollars. There was still no guarantee that we would be able to leave. At the airport, the revolutionary guards prevented many people who had valid passports from exiting the country. We weren’t going to feel free until our plane crossed the Iranian border.
Our flight was early in the morning of Friday, October 26, 1990, and my parents were to drive us to Tehran’s airport at around midnight. Michael, who was twenty-two months old, moaned and squirmed as I tried to put his clothes on him but slept comfortably in my arms as soon as the car began to move. The city was deserted. I watched the familiar streets go by. First, the narrow, residential streets of Davoodieh, where we lived after returning from Zahedan, and then the wide main streets lined with stores. I had memories from almost every street and every corner. My life in Iran had made me who I was. I was leaving behind parts of my heart and parts of my soul. This land was where my loved ones were put to rest—and I had to leave it. Here, there was no future for us, only the past. I wanted my children to see the home where I had once belonged. I wanted to show them the road that took me to school, the park where I played, and the church that gave me the gift of faith and peace. I wanted them to see the blue Caspian Sea, the bridge that connected the two sides of the harbor, and the rice fields that rested on the lap of the tall mountains. I wanted them to know the desert, its wisdom and its solitude. But I knew they probably never would. There was no return for us.
Once we passed Azadi Square with its tall white monument—a landmark of Tehran that had been built during the time of the shah and had become like a gateway to the city—I knew that this was a final good-bye. I took a last glance at the snow-covered peaks of the Alborz Mountains, which were barely visible against the night sky.
At the airport, we parked the car and walked toward the terminal in silence. Knowing that there were long security checks, we were hours early. Revolutionary guards opened every single piece of luggage and searched it thoroughly. It was against the law to take antiques, too many pieces of jewelry, or large sums of money out of the country. Everything went smoothly, and I waved good-bye to my parents. We were all crying.
Our Swissair plane took off in the cold, dark, early morning air. Before long, we crossed the border, and most women took off their hejabs and put on some makeup. Listening to the constant, soothing hum of the engines, I closed my eyes and wondered if heaven had a “lost and found.” I had left many things behind. One of them was a silver jewelry box that my grandma, being the practical woman that she was, used for storing sugar and kept on the kitchen table. It had been a gift from her husband. I couldn’t help but think that every time she sweetened her tea, it reminded her of all they had done together. There was also Arash’s flute, the necklace he never had a chance to give me, and my first wedding ring. Maybe they weren’t lost, and, someday, I would find them all under the moss-covered stones of my Prayer Rock in a strange forest where angels lived.
Epilogue
ON AUGUST 28, 1991, after we had spent eight days in Madrid and then ten months in Budapest waiting for our paperwork, a Swissair plane took us to an airport in Zurich, where we stood in line, waiting to board our flight bound for Toronto. I had taught Michael some English and had told him about a beautiful country named Canada, where it snowed a lot in winter and we could build big snowmen and where summers were warm and green and we could go swimming in blue lakes. He stood close to me, clinging to my hand, his eyes wide with excitement. A few Canadian students stood in the same line in front of us. I envied them and wondered what it felt like to be a Canadian.
“I can’t wait to get to Toronto,” said one of them.
“Me too,” said another. “We had a great time here and everything, but there’s no place like home.”
I knew at that moment, as I watched those teenagers with their bright and carefree smiles, that we would be fine in Canada. It would be our new home where we would be free and feel safe, where we would raise our children and watch them grow, and where we would belong.
Postscript
ZAHRA KAZEMI DIED in Evin on July 11, 2003.
On June 23, 2003, the Canadian-Iranian photojournalist had been taking photographs outside Evin during student-led protests when she was arrested. She was soon reported to be in a coma.
During the few days following her death, the Iranian President, Mohammad-eh Khatami, called for an internal investigation. Kazemi’s son and Canadian foreign affairs officials demanded the return of her body to Canada. Iran admitted she had been beaten to death but, ignoring international pressure, buried her in Iran. No independent physicians were allowed to examine her body. Iranian authorities arrested a few security agents whom they said might have been responsible for Zahra’s death, but they were all soon released.
At the end, an Iranian intelligence ministry interrogator named Mohammad Reza Aghdam Ahmadi was charged in her death and was put on trial but was acquitted. Kazemi’s family’s lawyers, including the Nobel Peace Prize winner Shirin Ebadi, believed that Aghdam Ahmadi had been a scapegoat.
On March 31, 2005, Dr. Shahram Azam, an emergency room doctor at Tehran’s Baghiattulah Hospital, made public the horrific details he had told a Canadian foreign affairs official in Sweden a year earlier: Zahra had been brutally raped, scratched and bruised, had two broken fingers, a broken nose, three broken and missing fingernails, a skull fracture, a crushed left toe, and her feet had been flogged.
I didn’t know Zahra Kazemi. In mid-July 2003, at around eight o’clock in the morning, I opened my front door to get my paper, which was lying on the porch. It was a beautiful day: the sun was shining and my roses and clematis were in full bloom, so I decided to read the paper outside. I took it out of its blue plastic bag and unrolled it to find the photo of a handsome woman with a big smile and lively eyes. I wondered who she was, and I read the article immediately. Each word felt like a rope tightening around my throat.
I had begun the work on my memoir in January 2002, and I had just written my third draft, so my memories of Evin felt quite fresh. I knew that what I had gone through in Evin was still happening behind its walls, but seeing Zahra’s picture and her beautiful smile gave this knowledge a painful and shocking power that cut through me. She had died like Mina. But Mina’s photo had never appeared on the front page of any newspapers. The world had now taken notice because Zahra was a Canadian. If the world had paid attention earlier, if the world had cared, Zahra would not have died; many innocent lives would have been saved. But the world had remained silent, partly because witnesses like me had been afraid to speak up. But enough was enough. I was not going to let fear hold me captive any longer.
On March 31, 2005, Michelle Shephard, a dear friend of mine who is a Toronto Star reporter and writes about Middle Eastern, terrorism, and security issues, called me in the morning. I was very glad to hear her voice, but she said she had bad news.
“You might want to sit down for this,” she said.
I did. And she told me about Dr. Shahram Azam’s report on Zahra’s injuries. I wished I could have saved Zahra. I wished I had died with her. But my death wouldn’t have helped anyone.
I had a story to tell. Zahra had given Iran’s political prisoners a name and a face; now it was my turn to give them words.
Acknowledgments
Frankly, I don’t know where or how to begin; maybe I should invent new words, because “Thank you” and “I’m grateful” sound too ordinary and inadequate and make me feel like I’m committing an act of treachery.
Andre, the love of my life: I strongly believe that you are the most honest and faithful individual God has ever created. Your goodness defies laws of nature. You stayed by my side and gave me hope and strength to survive. I know how difficult it was for you to accept that I had to follow my heart and write this book; however, you always supported me. Thank you for your unbending love, trust, and forgiveness.
Michael and Thomas: thank you for being there, for giving me the gift of motherhood and love. Through you, I became whole. Thank you for sharing your energy and wonder with me and for your patience during the long hours I spend writing.
Beverley Slopen, my amazing agent and miracle worker: you came to my rescue, made this book a reality, and opened the world to it. Your sound advice guided me through difficult times. I will never be able to express the depth of my gratitude to you.
My wonderful editors and publishers: Diane Turbide and David Davidar (Penguin Canada), Eleanor Birne and Roland Philipps (John Murray Publishers/U.K.), and Liz Stein and Martha Levin (Free Press/U.S.). Thank you for your tremendous support, thoughtful comments, and brilliant questions. You believed that I had to tell my story and guided me with your wisdom.
Jim Gifford: you miraculously appeared in my life, encouraged me, and became my teacher and friend. Because of you, my manuscript came a long way to become a book. I am forever in your debt.
Michelle Shephard: you made it possible for me to take a step back and look at my story through your words. You made me dig deeper into my memories and remember the details I believed were impossible to remember, helping me face what I had subconsciously tried to avoid. You have a special place in my heart.
Rachel Manley: it doesn’t matter how hard I try to explain what you mean to me, I will fail. Yes, you are my mentor, but you are also a great deal more. You have been like a good mother, a best friend, and a favorite sister. I will always look up to you. Thank you for your support and for the most beautiful and amazing review I have ever received about this book. You are a great writer, poet, and teacher, and a truly free spirit.
Scott Simmie: we both know a great deal about loss, struggle, and grief, and we have both found freedom, happiness, and comfort in the written word and in the unexpected fragrance of roses and daffodils, fragrances that give life and warmth to the vast loneliness death leaves behind.
Joan Clark: you have to be an angel, because I cannot explain your kindness in any other way. Your attention to detail is phenomenal. You helped me organize my fragmented memories, making it possible for me to bring my manuscript a big step forward. Your friendship is a precious blessing.
Steven Beattie: when my hopes crumbled, you emerged from the ruins and gave me new hope. Thank you for believing in this work and my ability to get it done. Thanks for all your corrections, invaluable advice, and support.
Olive Koyama: thank you for asking me the right questions and for offering your encouragements.
Dear Father Nicola, Father Antoniazzi, and Father F.: knowing you is a gift. Thanks for remembering, for sharing what you remember, and for inspiring me with your words. And with special thanks to Father Nicola for inviting us to visit him in Bethlehem, which has become a highlight of my life, and for translating into Italian the article Michelle Shephard wrote about my story for the Toronto Star.
Lee Gowan: you taught me most of what I know about writing. I dream of being able to write like you. You lifted me when I was losing hope of ever getting this done. You opened the doors that led me here. Thank you for your never-ending kindness and generous friendship.
Gillian Bartlett: you helped me write with confidence. I have never known anyone as kind, energetic, generous, and wise as you. Your love of life touches everyone around you and makes the world a better, happier place.
Karina Dahlin, Kim Echlin, Kent Nussey, and all my friends and instructors at the School of Continuing Studies at the University of Toronto: without your help and support, this book would never have been possible. You are all as passionate as I am about the power of literature. You share my belief that speaking out is a step toward healing our violence-inflicted world.
Martha Batiz Zuk and Sonia Worotynec: thank you for your gift of friendship, for your confidence in my work, for all your valuable feedbacks that cleared my vision when I didn’t know which way to go. And thank you for all your emails that kept me connected to the world as I worked on my manuscript. You are my saviors. Martha, you always lift me when I’m down. If I could ever choose a sister, you would be on top of my list.
The ladies of the book club: Romana Dolcetti, Karen Eckert, Neva Lorenzon, Flavia Silano, Joanne Thomson, and Dorothy Whelan. We have been reading together for fourteen years, and what a journey it has been! You welcomed me in your circle when I was lonely and a stranger; you treated me like your own, like I was your long-lost cousin; you shared your hearts, child-care tips, and best recipes with me. You read the very first draft of my manuscript, which was raw and distorted, and bestowed me with your kind, supportive words of encouragement.
Mary Lynn Vanderwielen: thank you for making me feel like I belonged and for your meticulous editing of my first draft.
Lynn Tobin: thank you so much for being like a sister to me. I cherish our friendship.
Also, many special thanks to my boss, coworkers, and regular customers at Swiss Chalet for their support, kindness, and understanding.
And Zahra Kazemi. Your brutal death confirmed the fact that the story of political prisoners in Iran has to be told; you gave us a name and a face, and because of you, now, the world knows about the horrors of Evin. May you rest in peace.
This book is for all my hambands.
I remember you all. I miss you all. I love you all.
Please forgive me for my long silence and many other faults.
About the Author
Marina Nemat grew up in Tehran, Iran. In 1991, she emigrated to Toronto, Ontario, where she now lives with her husband, Andre, and their two sons.
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