We spent our honeymoon in the city of Shiraz, where we ambled among the gardens and laughed quietly whenever we saw the mullahs walking around as if they were on parade. We joined all the other newlyweds having their photographs taken, only, when it came time for me to stand in front of a particular fountain, Mohammad suggested I take my chador off. The freedom and the risk made me feel even more alive.
Life was good with Mohammad. We had just enough money to rent a house together, and I soon fell pregnant. Even though the revolution was gathering pace and threatening to sweep Khomeini into power, I felt as though we were insulated from the rest of the world. Like the baby growing safe within me, we were separate from what was going on outside our home. Or, we were until the revolution finally delivered Iran into the hands of the Islamic leaders.
Overnight Mohammad’s job as a helicopter pilot changed. He was now answerable to a mullah, rather than a superior officer, and there were rumors of a possible war with our neighbor Iraq. Like all the soldiers, Mohammad was not happy about any of these changes, but he knew he was powerless to change any of it.
I was not surprised when he came home one afternoon and told me he was being sent to the western border in preparation for war. “I can’t leave you alone,” he said. “Perhaps Khanoum should come and stay with you.”
I told him that my pregnancy was barely showing and that I could manage fine on my own, but, if it made him feel better, I was happy for Khanoum to come. Secretly, I was relieved at the thought of not being alone. If Khanoum was with me, surely everything would be just fine.
Later that night, neither of us could sleep. There were the usual shouts of “Allahu Akbar” from the street outside, but both of us had long since gotten used to those.
“It would be better if we had a boy than a girl,” he said, stroking my belly.
I withdrew a little. “What? You prefer boys to girls?”
“No,” he said softly. “But when my mom died all the problems that my sisters faced were so much worse than the ones I had to deal with. They could not leave the house. They could not escape and join the army. They became like prisoners.”
He paused. “Annahita,” he said. “One day I’ll die.” I wanted to protest and tell him that he was foolish to talk like that, but no words came to my mouth. All I could do was listen as he carried on. “Growing up without a mom is hard. If we were in danger and I had to choose between your life and mine, I would rather it happen to me so that you can care for the child.”
The silence between us became heavier with every breath.
The next day Khanoum arrived and Mohammad left. Two weeks later he was back, and a new pattern of our life together was set. He would be at home for a week, maybe two or three, and then suddenly one day he would deliver the news I hated the most, telling me that the next morning he would be gone again.
The times when he was away became like bitter medicine to me. Every day that passed brought the familiar ache of missing him, as well as the familiar fears about what might have happened to him. But they also brought his return another day closer. All I had to do was last them out, and eventually we were always reunited.
After a handful of these trips, my mind was overtaken with other thoughts. My belly was big and my baby was ready to come out. And when my boy, Daniel, finally arrived in the world and Mohammad drove the three of us home from hospital, I thought my life was just about as perfect as it could ever possibly get.
And for ten days, that’s exactly what it was. Perfect.
I woke up to hear Mohammad breathing heavily beside me. Daniel was sound asleep between us, but Mohammad was sitting up in bed, his eyes fixed and wide. He was shaking, like he was cold, but his body was covered in sweat.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
I could tell that my words were taking time to sink in. Gradually he turned to me. “It’s nothing,” he said. “My dreams.” I lost him again for a moment, and the shivering returned.
“I dreamt that I died,” he said, looking at me with eyes heavy and red with tears.
We both cried for a long time. I had never seen him like this, and I had never known him to have a bad dream. Even though I knew that his time on the border was often terrifying, it never seemed to affect him when he was at home. I had no idea whatever could have caused this nightmare, and I did not know how to bring him the peace he needed.
We dozed a little after that, cradling our sleeping son between us as the daylight leaked into the room. At some point I heard Mohammad stir, get dressed, and return to the bed to kiss us both good-bye. After eleven months of marriage the smell of his cologne had become familiar enough to make me smile deep down inside. I glimpsed him through blurry eyes and drifted off back to sleep.
It was the last time I ever saw him in our home.
As soon as I heard the door open, I exhaled in relief. Daniel had been crying almost from the moment that Mohammad had left early that same morning. I had tried everything to calm him, but nothing had worked. For most of the first ten days of his life Daniel had slept and fed, but something had changed in him and I couldn’t wait for Mohammad to come back and drive us over to my parents’ house on the other side of the city.
It wasn’t just Daniel’s cries that had been bothering me. Mohammad was supposed to be home at 2 p.m., just like always. But 2 p.m. had come and gone, and there was still no sign of him. With no phone and no car for me to drive, all I could do was wait and bounce Daniel up and down as I walked around the house.
I was changing Daniel in the bathroom when I heard the front door open and close. I called out to Mohammad, but the voice that replied was not his.
“Annahita?” said my father. “Where are you?”
I walked out to see him, standing by the door, looking tired.
“I thought you were Mohammad.”
“No, he had to go to the border unexpectedly,” he said. “So he telephoned and asked me to come and take you to our house.”
It didn’t make sense, but the thought of going back to my mother and having her help with Daniel banished any questions from my mind.
My dad picked a long route back home. Instead of taking the freeway he cut down side streets and back alleys. “Why are we going this way?” I asked, too tired to try and hide the frustration in my voice. “The other way is much quicker.”
All he said was that the freeway was closed. For the rest of the journey my dad drove in silence while I held Daniel tight on my lap and realized how angry I was at Mohammad for leaving to fight without even coming home to say good-bye.
As soon as we arrived home, my dad disappeared, taking Hussein and Ali with him. That made me angry too. I had been looking forward to sitting with them all at home, playing music and laughing just like we used to. Instead, the house felt like a museum, with my mother and sisters almost totally silent, acting as if they were scared of disturbing Daniel.
I didn’t like the way so much had changed in so short a space of time, but I was more bothered by the fact that that Mohammad still didn’t call that evening.
The next day was the same. My dad and brothers were nowhere to be seen while my mother and sister Mariam tread around the house like mice. Even Khanoum was missing, and as the hours inched by, I became increasingly angry with Mohammad for leaving me in the middle of such a mess.
Things were the same the next day.
And the next.
It was only on the fifth day that something changed. My uncle walked into the house and sat down next to me. He fussed over Daniel for a while before he spoke.
“Do you know where your husband is?”
I felt so very young, as if a teacher at school was asking me a question that he didn’t expect me to answer. I swallowed and tried to force the words out with confidence, but my voice sounded weak and unsure. “He is fighting.”
“Do you want to speak to him?”
“Yes,” I said, my anger instantly melting at the thought of talking to Mohammad. “But how can I? He’s a
t the border fighting the Iraqis.”
“I can help you, but you must be strong.”
“Why? What happened?” I tried to imagine what was wrong. Images of Mohammad’s helicopter crashing down in Iraqi territory filled my mind. I saw Mohammad captured, beaten, imprisoned. I saw him dying in a hospital bed, surrounded by soldiers. But how could I talk to him? It didn’t make sense.
“There was a problem with his car.” As soon as my uncle started speaking, my mother was by my side. I felt her take Daniel from me. “You must be strong, Annahita. What I am about to tell you will not be easy for you to hear.” My uncle motioned for me to sit down, but I waved him away. My legs had stopped working anyway—I could feel no part of my body, just a giant, choking mass in my chest and throat. My uncle swallowed and carried on. “The morning he left you he was driving on the freeway when a car merged and hit him. Mohammad was trapped in the wreckage, and it took hours to cut him free. They took him to hospital, and he called for Hussein and his own brother. He said that the doctors were telling him he just needed a little blood, but he knew he was in a bad way. He asked them to take care of you both. Later that night he fell into a coma, and he’s been like that ever since. I can take you to see him in the hospital now.”
When the news hit me, it was as if all the fear and all the sorrow and all the pain of the world had been woven together just for me. The choking feeling grew stronger, and I feared I would not be able to breathe.
Anger mixed with fear. My family had tried to protect me, assuming that Mohammad would soon pull through just as the doctors said he would. But the time for pretending was over. Hope was running out.
I felt hands on my arms and shoulders gently steer me out toward the car. The city was quiet as we drove across it. I stared out at the streets I had known all my life, but they looked like strangers to me. Then there was a hospital garden, lined with low trees and a wide pool. And then I was in the foyer of the hospital. The place was full of faces I knew, and in that moment I could not understand why so many people from my family would be there at the same time.
Two guards stood at the entrance to a ward farther in the hospital. I don’t remember anything that was said to them, but as soon as they stepped aside my uncle placed his arm around my shoulder and spoke in soft, low tones. “When they found him the steering wheel had driven into his abdomen. His legs were broken, and his face was badly cut by the windshield. He does not look like you remember him.”
The ward was big, with white metal beds lining the walls on either side beneath tall windows. I thought we had entered the ward by mistake at first, for I could not recognize any of the men in the beds as Mohammad. But my uncle’s hands steered me over to the far corner, where two doctors were standing beside a man whose face was covered with blood and bandages.
What I could see of Mohammad’s body was enough to terrify me. There was barely a single patch of his skin that was not cut or bruised, and his hand lay broken and bandaged at the side. Drips and machines stood all around, and in his mouth I could see that his tongue was cut and badly swollen. But it was his eyes that were the worse. Though they bore no sign of injury, they were open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
I had never seen anyone in a coma before, and I tried to gently rouse him by placing my hand on his shoulder and telling him that it was time to wake up. He didn’t move. He just stared up, right through me, his chest barely rising which each tiny breath that he took.
Immediately I felt the need to pray. I cried out, calling on God, every imam, and anyone else I could think of to make Mohammad better. If anyone could help, I would devote myself to their service for the rest of my life.
It was May, and the sun was already warm in the early mornings. I sat in the garden the next day, waiting for visiting time to begin. When the guards finally let me pass, I was the first into the ward, Hussein following quickly behind me.
Mohammad looked no different on that second day. I sat in silence beside him for what felt like hours. Eventually I was aware there were doctors standing around him, talking to Hussein.
“He needs medicine that we don’t have,” they said. “There is a risk that he will develop a blood clot in the lung, and we need to thin his blood urgently.”
“Why don’t you find it?” said Hussein.
“The war. All of our supplies are low, and many have run out.”
I let the conversation carry on without me. I was staring at Mohammad, looking at his eyes again and holding his hand. “Come back, please,” I whispered. “Come back and see your child. Come back to both of us.”
It was the smallest twitch at first, so small that I thought I had imagined it. But it happened again as I stared; one of his fingers pressed itself into my hand. “Mohammad?” He twitched again, and I knew he could hear me. “Would you like to see your son? Shall I bring Daniel here?” Again the twitch. I looked back at his face and saw a tear well up in his eye.
I made Hussein drive as fast as he could back home. My mom looked shocked when I told her that Mohammad was waking up, but there was no time to stop and answer her questions. I ran back to the car with Daniel in my arms, desperate to get back to Mohammad.
We were back at the hospital less than an hour after we left, but the guards would not let us in. “It is no longer visiting time,” they said. “You cannot go in.”
I tried all I could, but it was no use.
We sat in the garden for a while, until Hussein suggested that he drive Daniel and me back to our home to get some of Mohammad’s things. Reluctantly, I agreed.
As we pulled onto the street outside our home, I saw military vehicles parked nearby, and I began to worry. I walked up toward the door, but in front of it were a handful of Mohammad’s friends that I recognized. They were all in uniform. Some of them were crying. What did they know that I didn’t know? Hadn’t I just come from the hospital?
“I’m sorry,” one of them said. “He’s dead.”
When someone dies in Iran, things happen quickly. People are notified straight away. They gather that day, and the body is normally buried by sunset. Perhaps the crowds and the speed with which things happen are a comfort to some people. To me, they only added to the pain.
I cried all the way from our house back to Mohammad’s parents’ house. Deep sobs and wordless cries came from my mouth, and I held Daniel closer than I had ever held him. But as soon as I walked into the home where I had been married just one year earlier, something changed.
It was evening, and the house was full of people. There was nowhere to sit down, no place to get away from the crowds. Everywhere I looked people were sobbing, and every pair of eyes stared back at me, probing me, expecting me to share my own tears with them. All I could taste was acid in my mouth. All I could hear was the noise of people’s grief.
My tears dried up that night.
There were none in my eyes when I woke the following day either.
“We have to go to the grave,” my mom said quietly as she entered my bedroom. “You need to wear these.”
I looked blankly at the black clothes she was holding. They made no sense to me. My mind felt muddled. Why would I wear them? And why would I go to a grave? With our first-year wedding anniversary coming up Mohammad and I were planning a party. It was going to be such a good party, with a house full of guests and dancing that would go on all night. He had ordered some new clothes, and they were waiting to be collected from the boutique. “I can’t go to a grave,” I said. “I have to pick up Mohammad’s new suit.”
When I came out of the room I remembered what it had felt like the night before. People were sobbing everywhere I looked. I stared back at them. It was confusing to me. Why would so many people be acting this way?
I drifted through the drive to the grave as though I were heading somewhere else entirely. As we stood there, surrounded by concrete and flags and photographs of people I had never seen before, my only thought was how strange it all was to be standing there like that.
&nb
sp; It got stranger when we drove back to Mohammad’s parents’ home. There was a photograph of Mohammad outside the house, and the sight of it shocked me. Suddenly the sound of weeping was the only sound I could hear. Strangers reached out to grab and hug me. My head felt heavy, and my eyes struggled to hold on to any one thing.
“Why is his wife not crying?” I heard someone say. “Is she not sorry? Did she not love him? Is she happy that he’s gone?”
The sound of people’s crying was bad, but the silence that snaked through my parents’ house was worse. People stepped carefully as they moved from room to room, their eyes cast down. They covered their bodies in black clothes. There was no music. There were no sounds of laughter, no heat rising as a room full of people danced and danced until the laughter overcame them. Instead, there was nothing. And into that void my confusion grew, and my thoughts grew louder and louder.
Why were people behaving this way?
Was it some cruel game they were playing?
Why did they all want me to cry and weep and wail when all I wanted to do was scream at them to stop?
And where was Mohammad?
I was like a child staring into a room through misty glass. I knew that something was happening around me, but I could not fully comprehend it. All it took in those early days was one concerned look or a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I would spend hours bound by panic. My thoughts became like the winds before a thunderstorm. They hurled themselves around within me. They stung like a swarm of angry wasps. Sometimes I feared the raging would never stop.
Stranger No More Page 3
