When the panic did subside, I would return to the one thing that I could understand in it all: Daniel. I could still give him what he needed. The times when I was feeding or changing him or holding him so close that his warmth and his smell filled my senses, they were the only times that I ever came close to remembering what life was like before all this panic and darkness descended.
I looked at the clock one afternoon. It was nearly two. My mind was filled with memories of the last day I had seen Mohammad. I recalled how Daniel had spent the day crying, and I had spent the day with my eyes constantly returning to the clock, willing the hands to edge around until the time when Mohammad would return. Two o’clock. That was the time he always came home. Always.
I held Daniel tight as I ran out of the house and into the street. I looked for cars, but there were none driving on the road. I searched those that were parked, but they were all empty. I shouted Mohammad’s name, wondering if he had somehow gotten lost and forgotten where to find my parents’ house, but no reply came. Where could he be? Which way would he come from? I looked about me, desperate. The only person I saw was Khanoum. She was at my side. Her arm was across my back. She was crying.
One time I found my mom holding Mohammad’s razor and toothbrush, which he had kept at their house for the times when we stayed over. She said that she was going to give them away to the poor, as was the custom.
“Why would you do that?” I asked. “He will need them again when he comes back.”
I felt her fingers dig into the flesh at the top of my arms. It hurt.
“He’s not coming back!” she said. Her voice was so loud that it hurt too. But I still did not understand fully. I stared back at her. I felt numb.
She started to shake me. “Wake up! Why can’t you see? It’s enough we don’t have Mohammad. We can’t lose you as well.”
In Iran the tradition is for a widow to dress in black for the first four months after her husband’s death. Never once in all that time did I wear any of the clothes my mom laid out for me. How could I? To do so would be to admit that the game was real.
Instead I tried in my own way to change what was going on. I would stand outside the house every day at two o’clock, watching. Sometimes I would be holding a plate of Mohammad’s favorite food. A plate of rice whose wisps of cloud rising above it smelled so sweetly of saffron. A glass of black tea spiced with cardamon and cinnamon. A fresh pomegranate.
They would let me stand there for a while. Eventually, someone would come from inside the house and gently guide me back in. I never knew what became of the food.
The one thing that I knew for sure was that I had to make my life about Daniel. I had to care for him. I had to keep him alive. I knew that staying at my parents’ house was no good, and every day I begged them to let me take my son back to the home Mohammad and I had rented. I told them that the sadness of their own home was not good for either Daniel or me. I pleaded that it was only back in my own home that life could return to normal for me, that I could shake this fog hanging over me.
Eventually, they relented.
Four months had passed since Mohammad’s accident, and I was pleased to see that my mom no longer tried to offer me the black clothes of a grieving widow. We drove along the freeway in silence. Daniel was asleep on my lap.
As soon as my dad opened the door of the house, the air was wrenched from my lungs. I stumbled, almost falling to my knees. But I had to go inside. I was compelled to go in, even though every step filled me with horror.
His shoes by the door. His bag on the floor. His glass of water by his side of the bed.
A bomb exploded within me. There was no way of stopping the tears. Even if I had wanted to, I could not stop. I could not stop. I could only weep and feel my face pressed up against the rug on the floor of our bedroom, inhaling what little air that I could between the sobs and the tears and the agony that had twisted itself into every part of my insides. That was all I could do. That was all there was in the world.
I stopped fighting the truth after that visit back to the house. I woke up from the state that I had been in for four months. But this new world that my eyes were suddenly open to was so much worse. No amount of silence or sobbing or black clothes could ever begin to release the pain I was feeling inside.
Food held no interest for me. I became sick and stopped sleeping. My parents did everything for Daniel, feeding and washing him and taking him to the doctors when he got a fever. I was only aware of one thing—the great weight within my chest that suffocated me from the inside out. Day by day, I could feel myself fall apart.
When I found the cassette with the song about the poppy, I played it over and over. The words spoke right to the deepest part of my sorrow.
I am so very alone.
My life is like you. When you die, I die, so very soon.
Though my grieving was just beginning, other people’s mourning was over. Mohammad’s family wanted to follow tradition and give away their son’s possessions to the poor, and since I could not bear the thought of them throwing away anything that reminded me of Mohammad, I went back to the house to join them as they sorted through his things.
The shock was lesser on this second visit, but the pain was just as fierce. As I walked from room to room I had such vivid memories of time with Mohammad. I remembered the way that Mohammad would pick Daniel up and hold his tiny face next to his own. They looked so alike, and I used to laugh as Mohammad would match his face to Daniel’s, either taking on a tired scowl or a blissful milky sleep. “It’s a copy, but an original too!” he’d say.
Mohammad’s uniform reminded me of the time he told me about being captured in Iraq. He was with a handful or other men, and they were locked in a room. Mohammad guessed that they wouldn’t make it out alive, so he encouraged everyone to write letters to their loved ones. They were freed after a day or two, but I liked the idea of him calming the fears of his men by telling them to face death in such a way. But it was a bitter memory—I never did get to see what he wrote to me.
We had not even been married for a year when Mohammad died, and packing up our home was over so quickly. I stood outside and looked at the cars with their doors open and a few scattered boxes and bags littering their back seats. It was too little to show for a loss so great.
In the four months since Mohammad died, the world around me had changed beyond recognition. In May I was a wife with a newborn baby and thoughts about our first wedding anniversary looming, but in November I emerged without a husband into a world where fourteen-year-old boys patrolled the streets with AK-47s.
Though Khomeini had taken power at the start of the year, it was only as winter settled over the country that the real changes became clear. The shock of those changes was the only thing powerful enough to cut through my grieving.
I was so deeply troubled by the sights that greeted me as I accompanied my sister or mom when they walked to the market. The mosque near my parents’ house became a military base, and from behind its walls everyone could hear the sound of teenage boys being trained to use rifles. In front of its gates the boys would gather, their weapons too big for the smaller ones among them and hung low about their waists. It only seemed to make them more determined to prove their power, and it was these young boys who were the worst. They would step into the path of women as they walked and point at their chadors with their rifles, chastising them for showing too much flesh or some other crime. Soon these gangs of armed boys would appear at our doors, too, reminding all residents of their duty as good Muslims to attend the mosque daily.
Mohammad had hated what the revolution stood for. When Khomeini first came to power he imposed a curfew from 9 p.m. to 6 a.m., with roadblocks in place to catch offenders. Mohammad had been late coming back from his military base one night and was turned back by some men guarding one of the roads near our part of the city. He had tried to persuade them to let him pass, telling them that he had been fighting their war in Iraq and just wanted to get home t
o his pregnant wife, but they had refused. Eventually, he found a different way back, parking the car down a side street and jumping over walls to get back to us. By the time he eased open the door it was almost midnight. I lay in bed and listened as he ranted and raged at the way the country was changing. I stared in shock as he opened the window, filled his lungs with air and shouted into the darkness, “I hope Khomeini gets hanged!”
By the time November came around, nobody would ever dream of doing such a foolish thing. In addition to recruiting teenage boys, the regime had established a new military force designed to protect the Islamic ideals of the country. They were known as the Sepah, and they struck terror into people’s hearts.
I first saw them one morning as I was walking with my mom. I heard the sound of an engine running hard and braking suddenly. I looked up to see a patrol car cutting the road off and two women and two men descending upon a woman. She was screaming out for help, but nobody moved. Everyone, myself included, just watched as the four guards pulled her to the ground and then dragged her into the back of the vehicle. As soon as the doors closed her screams were silenced.
“Don’t stare!” hissed my mom as the guards drove back down the road in our direction. I did not lift my eyes from the ground until we got home.
“They’ve filled the regime with the unemployed and the homeless!” shouted my dad when we got home and told him about what we had seen. “They’re no good for this country. These fanatics will ruin us all. Did you hear about what they did to cousin Hamid? They caught him putting up posters in the street and threw him in jail. Nobody’s seen him for a week, and whenever his brother asks about him he’s just told that Hamid is a Communist and has some questions to answer. Nobody will tell them where he is or what he is being charged with.”
And so my life divided neatly in two. One part of my life was dominated by grief for Mohammad, the other by fear of what was happening in Iran. Sometimes things swapped over, and I grieved the darkness that had fallen on my homeland and feared the prospect of life without my son’s father. Whichever way around these feelings were, the outcome was always the same, and I felt weaker with every passing month.
I had walked to the market alone one day when I first saw the crane. I had been quietly filling my basket with vegetables and fruit when I noticed that everyone else in the market was standing still. I followed their gazes and looked up and saw it: a crane parked in the middle of the street. From it there hung a man’s body. His neck was held by a noose. His arms had been tied behind his back, his eyes covered with a blindfold.
I started shaking as soon as I saw the body. When I finally was able to look away, I saw that others were shaking too. As I turned and left I saw one of the teenage boys with a rifle. “This man sold drugs. Today we have brought justice. Allahu Akbar!” I kept my eyes low and hurried home.
I stood in the court and tried to make my voice sound strong. “I am seventeen years and eight months,” I said.
The oldest of the three mullahs looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and consulted with the other two. “Then you are too young to file a report,” he said, finally. “Your father-in-law must file it instead of you.”
I sat down again. I tried not to look over at the man who sat slumped at the side of the room. He was the one who had driven his car into Mohammad’s, but I had not come to the court for revenge. I had come because Mohammad’s brother and sister told me that I had to.
In the months after Mohammad’s death I had done more and more things that his brother and sister had told me to. I had started to dress Daniel the way they liked and to take him to the doctor they knew on their side of the city, rather than the clinic my family used. Every week, two or three times, I served tea and food to them when they visited my parents’ house.
I didn’t mind the mullah’s directive to return to court accompanied by my father-in-law. Mohammad’s father was a kind man. I liked to sit and watch him hold Daniel. Knowing that he was around brought a degree of security and protection. Dressing Daniel in clothes I didn’t like or traveling across the city to visit a doctor was a small price to pay for something as valuable as that.
As we left the court, Mohammad’s sister leaned toward me. “We will be back here soon for another matter,” she said, quietly.
“Why?” I asked.
“My family should be looking after Daniel, not you. Don’t you think a mullah would agree that a grandfather’s rights are more important than those of a teenage girl?”
I knew she was right, and the thought horrified me.
A month later we stood in the same court, and this time I was unable to keep control of my voice. I wept as the mullah told me that I was still too young to speak for myself and that Daniel’s grandfather was to be consulted on every matter relating to his care. But, for now, he said that I could keep Daniel.
Even though Mohammad’s father assured me that he was happy with the arrangement, his son and daughter were not. They refused to accept the mullah’s ruling and vowed to return to court again. Had it not been for the fact that Mohammad’s father died of a heart attack six months later, they might have gotten their way.
Instead, I was left with the knowledge that nobody could take Daniel away from me any longer, as well as the grief of losing the last person on earth who knew and loved Mohammad like I did.
My whole world had become about taking care of Daniel, and I was grateful for the fact that my fear of losing him had slowly drawn me out of my grief and sharpened my senses. The longer the regime was in power, the more I became aware of the fact that there was danger all around, not just from Mohammad’s family.
Life had not been easy for women since the revolution. Anyone found outside without a black chador pulled tight and far down over her head would be inviting harassment from any mullah, official, or devoted follower of Islam who wanted to demonstrate their religious purity to anyone watching. If we tried to go outside without a husband, father, or brother by our side we could face all manner of questions.
I became a prisoner in my parents’ home. If Hussein or my father couldn’t accompany me when I wanted to go out, I was stuck. When I complained to my father, his only solution was for me to stay at home.
Things got worse soon after I turned eighteen. Khomeini ruled that every widow could marry a second time without bringing shame on the man. He also declared that each man could marry up to four women.
Almost overnight my prison was breached. The husband of one of my cousins visited me and asked if I wanted to marry him. I was so angry that he would suggest such a thing. I told him that I loved my cousin and would never treat her that way. He simply shrugged and left the house, as if the whole conversation had been nothing more than a failed transaction for a car or a piece of furniture.
Despite my anger I kept the conversation from my parents. I knew that I was a burden on them and that, like almost every man in Iran, my father was struggling to know how to protect his family from the new regime.
I chose to keep the second proposal of marriage a secret too. This time it was from my neighbor. He walked into our courtyard one day when I sat alone watching Daniel gather stones from the flower bed and pile them up at my feet.
The neighbor was older than my own father and had a belly that was as fat as mine had been when I was pregnant. He cleared his throat and told me that he would be willing to marry me. “I will restore your honor,” he said. I looked back at him and felt the bile rise within me.
“The only thing I am willing to do with you is chop off your head.” The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. His eyes bulged, and his face twisted. Within seconds he was gone. It took hours for me to calm down.
My problem was not just my own concern. Whenever my uncle visited, he and my father would argue about “what to do with Annahita.” It did not matter whether I was in the same room as them or not; they still carried on as if I was deaf and mute. My uncle would say that there were people talking about me, saying that I was bringing sham
e on the family by remaining unmarried. My father would counter that I was happy at home and that there was no need to change anything. My uncle would urge my father to see sense and find me a husband as soon as he could. Soon they would both be shouting.
All I wanted was to be safe. It was clear to me that my father could not be expected to provide that for both Daniel and me. So I made up my mind. If I could find the right man, I would marry again. Not for love and not to try and erase the memory of Mohammad. I would marry for safety, nothing else.
When I first heard about him, Asghar sounded like the perfect fit. A friend of Mohammad’s visited and told me about him. He said that he was a soldier, just like Mohammad, and he even knew my husband a little when they served together. Asghar had been married before, and like me he had a child from that marriage. His wife had even died in a car crash. It had been four months since he had lost her and, with his daughter still in the hospital with her injuries, he needed help.
I was nineteen and a half years old and had just celebrated Daniel’s second birthday. In the two years that had passed a lot had changed for me, but I could so easily remember the agony of grief in those first few months. Even before I met Asghar, I felt compassion for him.
I talked with my parents, and they agreed that he should come to visit our house and allow us all to meet him.
He was older than Mohammad, and at least ten years older than me. He was tall and thin as a post, but his eyes were what interested me. I thought that I saw in them a little of the same pain that I had lived with for so long.
“Would you want to marry me?” he asked as soon as we were left alone. It was impossible for me not to remember how different this same conversation had been with Mohammad. He had made me laugh and told me enough about himself for me to trust him entirely. Asghar was the opposite. To my mind he was weighted down by grief. Laughter and vulnerability were just not possible at a time like that.
Stranger No More Page 4
