Though my own father and brother were sources of love and security for me, my mother was one of the main reasons why I knew I was never going to grow up weak and timid. My mother belonged to the other type of Iranian woman—the sort that is strong, independent, and courageous. While the weaker women in Iran allow themselves to be dominated by men and religion—much like so many women from the Arab countries to the west of my homeland—my mother saw herself as a Persian woman, the sort who valued education and refused to let a man treat her as property.
Almost a thousand years before my homeland was turned to Islam, Iran was the heart of the Persian Empire. From the snow-capped mountains in the North to the wide sandy plains of the South, ancient rulers like Cyrus and Nebuchadnezzar oversaw a glorious time in our history. Throughout their territories which often stretched as far as Europe and Africa, women were not treated as second-class citizens, nor were they hidden from view. In fact, in ancient Persia women could own property, be economically independent, and travel.
So, like everyone else I knew, my Persian history was far more important to me than stories of Islam. Those tales felt like secondhand memories to me. All I really knew of Mohammed was that he was the reason I kept my eyes down at the ground as I walked through the mosque. All I really knew of God was that he was far, far away.
Sitting beside Khanoum in her courtyard, her hands holding mine tight, the empty glass of black tea in front of me, I was confused. I had always thought of Khanoum as being strong like my mother. The two of them would so often be working side by side, Khanoum barely taller than my mother’s shoulder. Despite her size, everyone in the house would hang on Khanoum’s every word. She could conjure laughter like a master magician and our house was always happiest whenever she was within its walls.
I had grown to see her as the kind of woman who chose never to hide from a battle, never to allow a man to push her too far. She was strong, and she was fearless. To me she was the woman who parted the crowds, the lady who carried life and laughter wherever she went.
She was also a devoted Muslim. She had little time for the pompous mullahs and clerics, but she loved God—who we called Hodda, not Allah. Khanoum prayed five times a day. They were the only times when her smile and laughter would be absent. I had always thought she was just being a good Muslim, but I was wrong. To my grandmother, prayer was not about the outward appearance. It was a desperate attempt to have God protect the people that she loved. She prayed in fear to an angry God, not out of faith that she would be helped.
I was too young at the time to understand it all fully, but that afternoon, hearing Khanoum worry about my future, that was when I first discovered there might be more danger and pain in life than I had encountered thus far through my childhood pranks. Would my life really follow Khanoum’s? Up until that point I would have been happy if it had—happy to end up strong and bright and fearless like her. I had never considered her life to be harsh or her story to be a cautionary tale. But as we sat in silence it was clear that a cloud had descended over her, weighing her down like an immovable chador, robbing her of freedom, joy, and light.
I think that on that day a part of that very same cloud clung to me too.
My mother exhaled a cloud of foul-smelling tobacco smoke as the hookah pipe fired into life. She sat with my father, my uncles, and my two brothers at the side of the room, sharing the pipe as they watched the rest of us get to work. The smell and noise of the hookah so repulsed me that I knew I had the better deal than Ali or Hussein, who were coughing hard, looking nauseated, and giving the adults something to laugh about.
I helped clear away the dishes that covered the sheet spread out across the floor. Thirty of my cousins, aunts, and uncles had visited us that afternoon, and we filled our stomachs on lamb kebab cooked on metal knives as long as my arm, tender rice mixed with saffron, and so much Coca-Cola I thought my insides would burst. As the floor cleared and the cloud of smoke around the men grew thicker, it was time for the most important part of the evening.
Iranians dance better than any other people on earth. At least, that was how it appeared to me as the cassette player clicked on and the whole room took to its feet and started moving as one. It was always infectious to see my family dance like this, their arms held wide and high, their hands tracing circles while their bodies melted from one side to the other in time to the beat. But it is always the eyes that are the things to watch in the best dancers. I loved nothing better than to dance among the crowd myself, seeing up close the laughter, the life, and the love that shone out from each face.
Here there were no mullahs or chadors, no strict religious rules, and no need to stare at the floor in mock humility. The air was full of heat and music, laughter and smoke. And when one of my elder cousins emerged from the bathroom, wearing his mother’s dress and dancing like a bride on her wedding day, the laughter only got louder.
The cassette played song after song, each one driving the dancers to keep on moving, like a heart sending out fresh blood to tiring muscles. And when the fast songs faded and a ballad finally struck up, the room took the cue as one to break for a while and allow a dozen conversations to strike up at once.
But not me.
I was crouched down by the cassette player, my hands moving over the rough brown fabric that covered the speakers. I was transfixed by the sound coming from them. I could not name the instruments then as I could now, nor did I know that the voice that belonged to one of the most famous singers ever to come from Tehran. But I knew precisely what I was listening to; it was the sound of such pain and sorrow that I feared it would steal my breath.
The man was singing about a poppy flower, but I knew it was about so much more. He sang about the way the poppy is always alone, how it cannot be with others. He described the way his heart and eyes were both red like the flower. His life was short, he said, just like the poppy’s. Death would visit them both soon.
It was as if someone had taken me by the hand and walked me to the mouth of a cave filled with the darkest sorrow of all the world. I was amazed that anyone could feel so strongly and still be alive. The song and the emotions it contained fascinated me. It was like staring into a flame or looking up at the sky as a storm came in over the mountains to the west. It left me transfixed. At times, it held me captive.
For several months I listened to that song over and over. Even when I was not crouched by the speakers, trying to hold my breath against the smell that came from my dad’s hookah, I could summon it in my head.
The song would often play loudest in my head when I visited Khanoum. Most days after school I would pick my way through the alleys and turn onto Farshadi Street, my mind on the notes of the poppy song. I rarely felt miserable or thought specifically about dying poppies as I walked, but there was something about the deep pain and sorrow, the feeling of being trapped by inevitable fate, that both spoke to me and frightened me. I always looked forward to the moment when I could close Khanoum’s door behind me and rip off the chador from my head, breathing deeply with a rush of freedom. My mother had only recently made me start wearing one, but even though I loved her deeply, there was no way that I was going to follow Khanoum’s example and wear the sort that fitted tight around my face. And there was no way that it would be black either. Instead I chose one that was full of bright colors, and I wore it far back on my head. Even so, I hated it. I couldn’t walk more than ten paces without it getting caught in my bag.
Sitting by the pool, watching the fish as they jumped for whatever scraps of food I passed them, Khanoum and I would talk. I would tell her about my day, about my friends or my studies, and Khanoum would fuss over me. “You need to eat,” she would say, encouraging me to return to the plates of bread, cheese, and fruit and glasses of black tea rich with cardamom, cinnamon, and sugar. “You need to get strong, you need to be healthy.” She rarely said more than that, but it was enough to remind me of her warning about the troubles she feared I might face in my life and the God who might or might
not intervene. By the time I put my chador back on and said good-bye to Khanoum, I’d be humming the doleful melody as I walked back home.
My mother was a practical woman, and she told me repeatedly that every woman in Iran needs to know how to make money. And so, when I was thirteen, and the hot winds of summer covered Isfahan with desert dust, I spent three months learning how to sew at a summer school a short walk from my home. I quickly picked up the basic skills and was soon able to make simple outfits. I got a thrill from seeing the clothes take shape, and applied myself diligently to every task that was set.
Perhaps, I thought, that was why, in the final week of the course, one of my teachers asked whether I would want to marry her son. I was shy and my words stuck firmly in my throat, so the conversation died then and there. By the time summer school ended, I had nearly forgotten all about it.
The teacher, however, had not. I returned to the summer school the following year, and this time she did not wait until the final days to bring the subject up again.
“Annahita,” she said one afternoon as I added some final stitches to a dress while the classroom cleared around me. “I think you are a good girl. My neighbor’s son is studying but wants to be married. Would you like to be married?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
Some days later, a friend I was studying with told me that she had heard about the teacher’s suggestion. “I know this man, Mohammad,” she said. “He is my husband’s brother and a good man. Would you like to see him?”
I didn’t not want to see him, so I shrugged and squirmed a little and agreed to go to her home the following day. There was no chance of Mohammad and me actually speaking when he visited my friend’s house, and there seemed little harm in taking a look.
Iranian culture and custom had set in place some clear rules for how members of the opposite sex should interact. There was no dating, and the concept of boyfriend and girlfriend was unheard of. I knew that I would marry young, but I also knew that whatever choice I eventually made would be a choice for life. Divorce would not be an option.
So I proceeded with caution. When Mohammad sent word through my friend that he would like to marry me, I simply said, “I don’t think so” and left it for another year.
When my third summer at the school came around and the teacher once more approached me to ask whether I had given any more thought to her neighbor’s son, I knew that my mind had changed.
“Yes,” I said, looking up from my work. “I think your son needs to come visit me at my home in Isfahan.”
The summer had long gone and the air was getting cold by the time Mohammad’s father, mother, brother, and sister-in-law followed my own parents, uncles, aunts, sisters, brothers, and Khanoum out of the room and closed the door behind them. The two of us were left alone, Mohammad looking smart in his beige suit, me feeling so nervous I thought I would never stop shivering.
I had never been in a situation like it. Hussein and Ali were the only boys I had ever been alone in a room with before. I was struggling with the chador I was wearing, trying to keep it in place without making too much fuss. I had picked out a special chador for the meeting, one that was covered with bright flowers, and I wore it far back on my head, the way that made the teachers cross at school. I suppose I didn’t want to look like the kind of girl who would be weak and timid.
“Those chadors are bad, aren’t they?” he said with a smile. “I don’t really like them that much.”
I returned his smile and gave up trying to fix the mess of hair and fabric on my head. “No,” I said. “I don’t either.”
We talked a lot after that. Mohammad made me laugh with funny comments that reminded me of the kind of thing that Hussein would say. I found that my nerves were soon a distant memory, and they only returned a little when he told me that he was in the army, currently studying to become a helicopter pilot. “The army does not let soldiers marry until they have served five years,” he said. “I have one year left to wait.”
I don’t think either of us knew what to say after that. We both knew what his visit meant.
Eventually, it was Mohammad who broke the silence. “My mom died when I was ten, my dad married another woman, and I don’t have anything that could help our future. I don’t have any money, but I know that I will do everything for you.” I knew then that he loved me. I was fifteen, but I knew that his love was real and that his respect for me was true.
As was the custom, I was given time to think about Mohammad’s proposal. There was no need for pressure and no need to rush. For a month I did not talk about any of it with anyone else. I did not need to, for I had already made up my mind. And when my uncle approached me a month after Mohammad’s visit to ask for my answer, I was ready to say yes.
Mohammad’s family had already visited our friends and neighbors to ask about our family. Once I had spoken with my uncle, my parents had also traveled to visit their neighbors to find out all they could and confirm their hopes that the rest of Mohammad’s family was as honest and upright as I was convinced he was.
Everything was carried out exactly as it was supposed to. My parents agreed the dowry that Mohammad’s family would pay in the unlikely event that we divorced or Mohammad died. It was a formality, but Iranians have a high view of marriage, and the formalities mattered. Before the winter came, we were engaged.
I could not sleep. Outside in the street the men had started shouting “Allahu Akbar” again. They had been shouting for a whole week, standing on rooftops and filling the night with their cries about the greatness of God. I wished for the hundredth time that they’d be quiet and let the rest of the city sleep.
Something was different this night. The air smelled strange.
I left my room in search of my parents and found my father standing outside in our courtyard, staring up at the sky.
My father had always been kind and gentle, his smile forming easily on his lips and his laugh falling readily from his lungs. But there had also been times when his laughter and smiles were strangers to him. That night, as I stood beside him and tried to see what he was looking out at, I could feel the change within him.
“What’s that smell?” I asked as the foul smell returned stronger than ever.
“The mullahs have gotten people angry,” he said. “So the young men are burning cars.”
It took a long time for him to speak again, but when he did his voice—though it was barely above a whisper—was full of sorrow.
“These people are no good for our country. They talk about the Shah being corrupt, but they’re fools if they think this man Khomeini will be better. Iran cannot be run from a mosque.”
I had seen television reports about Khomeini and knew enough already to understand. It was 1979 and, after two generations of the Shah family ruling Iran, things were changing. Both the Shah and his father had turned our country’s eyes toward the West, encouraging education and trade with other countries. Religion had been kept far away from politics, but things were changing. Khomeini was a cleric who had recently returned from exile and had been stirring up dissent among those who were angry at the Shah’s wealth and their own poverty.
As a sixteen-year-old counting down the months until she got married, I had no great love for religion or politics. For me, the main problem with Khomeini was the impact his followers had on my sleep, plus the fact that in recent months I had been told by too many of my teachers to exchange my bright chadors for black and wear them so far forward that they covered my hair completely.
Most of the time I did what I was told, until it came time to choose my wedding dress. I was in no mind to compromise. My mother insisted that I wear a traditional white wedding dress, the sort that was pure white and that covered everything but my neck and face. I refused. I had found a white dress that stopped a little short of my ankles with a pattern of red flowers on it. The flowers reminded me of the poppy from the song that I had listened to so much before I met Mohammad. Even though the ballad’s aching s
adness felt a lifetime away, I still felt inexplicably drawn to the red flowers, as if they and I somehow belonged together.
My wedding day finally arrived, and I stood outside my home with my father. When he saw my dress, he just smiled—the same smile he had given me when Hussein and I had returned home with a damaged car and guilty faces.
We were waiting for Mohammad’s parents to arrive and ask for permission to take me back to their home. It was an act that would mark the end of my father being responsible for me and the beginning of my life with my new family. We stood in silence for the longest time before my father spoke.
“You are leaving in a white dress,” he said. “You must come back in a white dress.”
He did not have to say anything more. My choice to marry Mohammad was not one that I could go back on. I was leaving as a bride and would not be accepted back should the marriage end in divorce. I was leaving home for good, and we both knew that the only way I could return would be in a white shroud at my funeral.
My father’s words did not leave me troubled or angry. I agreed with him fully. What I was about to undertake was a solemn and special thing. I was not acting on a whim, nor was I planning on giving up when marriage became difficult. I was marrying Mohammad and was prepared to devote the rest of my life to him.
The rest of that day and the one that followed it remain bright in my mind to this day. I remember the warmth of Mohammad’s smile when he first saw me and the joy of the dancing that lasted until the sky was alive with stars. There was a second party that started early in the morning, when so many guests arrived to bring us gifts that they piled high on the tables in the courtyard. And I remember the image of the two of us staring back as we read the Qur’an to each other in front of a mirror. “You are looking at the future,” said the mullah as we paused and stared. It was a sight that sent warmth through every cell of my body.
Stranger No More Page 2
