After Tehran

by Marina Nemat

  “We like professors,” the man said. “So good of you to come here to teach our children. Zahedan is a nice place. You’re safe here.”

  We thanked him and walked away. I was beginning to like Zahedan. It seemed that the only places in the city where the Revolutionary Guard had influence were the airport and government buildings.

  Andre loved teaching and was soon working long hours. He was either in class, preparing for it, or correcting papers. I, on the other hand, didn’t have much to do. I spent my days cooking, cleaning, or staring out the window at the pale sky. I didn’t drive. The university was outside the city, twenty minutes by car, so I couldn’t get out much. It was usually extremely hot in Zahedan—between 35 and 45°C—so I couldn’t even go for long walks. Most of the other professors’ wives were a few years older than I was, and most of them had children and were busy with their daily lives. Every weekend, we would get together with a few university families for dinner, but during the week, I was mostly on my own. I was extraordinarily careful not to ever mention that I had been in prison, since that could have cost Andre his job.

  During the height of the Iran–Iraq War, Tehran came under regular Scud-missile attacks, so I appreciated the peace and quiet of Zahedan then more than ever before. Because of the distance between Zahedan and the Iran–Iraq border, the war had not touched the city, and its remoteness gave it a sleepy, easy calm.

  Yet the truth was that even though at the beginning I was glad to be so far away from Tehran and my memories, within a few months I began to feel terribly bored. I didn’t even have any books to read, because after my ordeal I was afraid to buy books considered illegal, which included Western novels. I envied women who worked outside the home, but with my political record, I didn’t have any hope of finding a job: most good positions available to women in Zahedan were government related.

  Every day was the same as the one before it. I was grateful for my safety, but I craved human interaction and some culture. Andre seemed to live in a universe that was busy, fulfilling, and exciting. However, my world had frozen in time. I found it ironic that I had been lonely most of my life: locked out on the balcony during my childhood, put away in solitary confinement during my teenage years, and now safely concealed in Zahedan.

  Andre’s life literally depended on his job, because if the university was not happy with his performance, he could be sent to the front. On top of that, he is a perfectionist, the kind of person who always gives his very best to his job. The silence that surrounded my past lived between us, and we talked only about daily matters. Andre had been raised by his aunt; she’d been a meticulous housekeeper and a fantastic cook, and he expected me to be likewise. He didn’t cook and didn’t like helping in the kitchen. I didn’t mind it—there was nothing else to do. What annoyed me was that he expected me to always do as I was told. I knew that he was better and smarter than I was, but I still wanted him to respect my ways, even if they were imperfect. As a good wife, I believed I had to be supportive and understanding and to remember that life was a give-and-take. I loved Andre and I had chosen to marry him, and I would do all I could to make our marriage work. Even though the shadow of my past hung over my life and small things like a smell or a word sometimes evoked painful memories, I managed to push them back, keep them at bay, and look ahead. But I felt isolated. A distance lay between us that even love could not bridge. I knew this, but I chose to ignore it, hoping that time would fix everything.

  In the spring of 1988, I discovered that I was expecting. My pregnancy brought a new light into my life. Sometime during my eighth month, I went to the local hospital for an ultrasound. Zahedan was a small city and my gynecologist happened to be at the hospital that day. The ultrasound showed that the baby’s head was too big for the baby’s age. The gynecologist believed that the baby was hydrocephalic, a serious condition in which water accumulates in the brain. The radiologist who performed the ultrasound, however, believed that the large size of the head wasn’t enough to assume hydrocephalus, that there should have been other signs, which were absent. I lay on the bed, listening to the two doctors arguing about my baby.

  “We should just drill a hole in its head and pull the baby out with forceps. It’s not worth a Caesarean section,” the gynecologist said.

  Andre and I had had enough. I immediately got on a plane and flew to Tehran. There I saw another doctor, who told me that the baby—whom we later named Michael—was fine; he just had a big head. Five weeks later, Michael was born healthy. The new doctor turned out to be right!

  SOON AFTER MY RELEASE from Evin, I realized that I was now in a larger prison the size of Iran: no one wanted to know what had happened to me, I couldn’t go back to school, and I couldn’t get a job. I was suffocating, and everyone seemed to think everything was well. All this made me yearn to leave the country. Andre and I had talked about immigrating, but we couldn’t until I got a passport and he finished his three years of teaching in Zahedan. After Michael’s birth, our leaving Iran became more urgent. Neither Andre nor I wanted our son to go to school in the Islamic Republic and have to yell “Death to America,” “Death to Israel,” and “Allaho Akbar” before going to class.

  Finally, in October 1990, Andre, Michael, and I left Iran for Madrid, Spain, and a few days later, we went to Budapest, Hungary, where Andre had many relatives. This was only a year after the fall of Communism there.

  We were greatly on edge in Madrid, with no idea what would happen to us. We had little money and we didn’t speak Spanish. Andre and I ate only one meal a day to reduce our expenses, but we made sure that Michael was happy and comfortable. Even though the unfamiliar surroundings intimidated us, the beauty of the city, with its wide streets, magnificent fountains, glorious historical buildings, beautiful parks, and splendid shops, captivated us. Madrid was full of colour and energy. When we arrived at the airport in Budapest, though, we were surprised to find it even gloomier than the airport in Tehran. We were overjoyed at reuniting with Andre’s sister, aunts, uncles, and cousins, but we both immediately noticed that the city was predominantly grey and that a sadness hung over it. Most passersby trudged along, clad in drab clothes. Most buildings were in poor repair and had not been painted in a long time. The stultifying effects of Communism were still evident. That it was November and the sun rarely shone didn’t help. After only a week in Budapest, I began feeling depressed.

  For our first few days, we stayed with Andre’s sister. She was single and lived in a small fourth-floor apartment. The Communists had divided large houses into tiny apartments, and even though Andre’s sister had a good job, her home consisted of one average-size room, with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom. Andre, Michael, and I eventually moved to another apartment across the city. It was older but a little bigger. Andre, who spoke Hungarian, found a job as an engineer in a large Hungarian company, but his salary was not even enough to cover our rent. After the fall of Communism, prices had soared. During the Communist regime the government had allowed people to live in state-owned apartments for a low rent. Once the political system changed, the new government announced that the ownership of properties the previous regime had rented out would be transferred to the tenants. So Andre’s sister now owned her apartment, but because we were new in the country, we had to pay rent.

  My sister-in-law and all Andre’s relatives were extremely kind and generous to us. They invited us to their homes for traditional Hungarian meals and assisted us in any way they could. His sister even helped us with our expenses. I spent my days cooking and cleaning and doing things with Michael. I took him to the park every day and I read to him from English books. I was shocked that sometimes on the street, the tram, the subway, or at the park, people swore at me, calling me a Gypsy. They had probably never seen an Iranian, and because I had long dark hair and large dark eyes, they assumed I was Roma. This made me feel very sympathetic toward that minority.

  At the beginning of our stay in Budapest, I tried to communicate with people at the grocery store
and other public places in English or Russian, but I soon learned that almost no one spoke English and everyone pretended not to understand Russian. Russian had been taught in schools under Communism, but because Hungarians hated the Soviets, they hated their language, as well. I felt completely isolated in Hungary, but we had applied to go to Canada as independent immigrants, and I had faith that Canada would accept us.

  One late-spring day I noticed a Roma woman at a street corner in Budapest. She was sitting behind a dirty cardboard box with something written on it in Hungarian. She had large dark eyes like mine, and her curly dark-brown hair reached her waist; her clothes were worn. I had been hunting for an address and, unable to find it, I needed to ask someone for directions. But I was wary of approaching passersby: I didn’t want them to think that I was begging—I had no desire to be sworn at. The woman looked like a nice person, so I went up to her and, in broken Hungarian, tried to ask her which way to go. I had put some effort into learning Hungarian, but my progress had been painfully slow. The woman eyed me with an amused expression and shrugged. I repeated what I had said but in Russian this time, and she laughed.

  “Where are you from?” she asked in Russian. “You have a strange accent.”

  “Iran,” I said.

  She was shocked. “What are you doing here? Begging?”

  “No. It’s a long story. I need to find an address.”

  “I’ll help you if you tell me what you’re doing here.”

  It sounded fair.

  “I’ve escaped Iran. My husband’s parents were Hungarian, so we’re staying with his relatives here. We want to go to Canada, where I have a brother. I was a political prisoner in Iran.”

  “Political prisoner? That’s not good! And I thought I had bad fortune … They hurt you?”

  I nodded. That a complete stranger, a woman some people considered a second-class citizen, had asked me a question that my family never had astounded me. But then I realized that because we did not know each other, she had allowed herself to be curious, not worrying about hurting my feelings or getting hurt herself. She wanted to know if I had been tortured, and I told her a little about Evin.

  “Do people speak Russian in Iran?” she asked.

  “No. Both my grandmothers were Russian. They escaped to Iran after the 1917 revolution.”

  “You look like us and you don’t have a real home, so you’re a Gypsy,” she announced.

  “I guess I am.”

  “The address you want is not far. Go straight and take the third right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you like me to read your palm?”

  “I don’t have much money.”

  “For you, my strange, tortured sister, I’ll do it free.”

  I extended my hand; she took it and studied my palm for a minute.

  “You’ll make it to Canada … Aha! I see your time in prison right here in your lifeline. As if your life ended and then started again.”

  “It was exactly like that.”

  “Your son is ill.” She looked at Michael. My child had been very ill, but he didn’t show it.

  “He is. He has a serious illness,” I said.

  “Yes, but he will live and become a strong man.”

  I wanted to believe her.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you. It’s written. And you will do important things and travel to many countries.”

  “Just Canada will do.”

  “You’ll get there.”

  I tried to give her some money, but she wouldn’t accept any. I thanked her again and walked away. How on earth had she known about Michael’s illness? I glanced back. She waved at me. I felt much better than I had in a long, long time. Maybe this was God’s way of telling me that things would turn out all right.

  In January 1991, two months after our arrival in Budapest, we had noticed that something was wrong with Michael. He was as happy and energetic as ever, but his eyes were swollen every morning when he awoke. I guessed that this was the result of an allergy of some sort and didn’t worry, but I asked Andre’s sister to get us a doctor’s appointment. At the time, Hungarian doctors made house calls, and a young doctor came to our house. Like me, he believed that Michael was suffering from allergies, and he asked me to watch Michael to see if the swelling got worse after he ate certain things. I monitored Michael. No matter what he ate or did, his eyes were swollen every morning. Finally, the doctor sent us to the children’s hospital to have a urine test done. Because Andre was extremely busy at work, his sister accompanied us. At the hospital, the doctor told us that Michael had a high level of protein in his urine.

  He had to be admitted.

  I was shocked. I had thought they would give us a few pills and send us home, but the doctor said Michael’s condition was serious. I agreed to let Michael stay in the hospital, but then I was told I could not stay with him and could see him only a couple of hours every day at visiting time. My sister-in-law was translating for me, and I asked her to say that this was unacceptable. I understood that hospital rules didn’t allow parents to remain with their young children, but our case was not ordinary. Michael did not speak Hungarian and couldn’t communicate with the hospital staff. He would be terrified. Not that I spoke much Hungarian, but I was an adult and could somehow manage the situation, even if I had to use sign language. The doctor in charge said, “No,” and I became angry. I was tired of not being understood.

  “Why don’t you people speak English or Russian?” I snapped in broken Russian, switching to English when I couldn’t find the words quickly enough. “You’re doctors, for heaven’s sake! You’re educated people! Only Hungarian? This is ridiculous! I come from Iran and I have just a high-school diploma, but I speak four languages—Persian, Russian, English, and Italian. What’s wrong with you? Communism is over! The walls have collapsed! Get out of your shells! It’s cruel not to let a parent stay with a small child! It’s medieval! It’s Communist!”

  I was crying.

  Andre’s sister tried to calm me. At this point, the doctor and the head nurse were crying, too, but I wasn’t done with them. One of the nurses called Andre, and he came. Finally, they agreed to let me stay with Michael during the day, but I had to go home at night. It was better than nothing.

  Michael’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. His whole body had become extremely swollen. A biopsy of his kidneys showed that something was wrong, but the doctors couldn’t pinpoint the cause. All they knew was that he had a form of nephrosis. They speculated that because we had emigrated from the Middle East, his condition stemmed from a viral or bacterial infection they were not familiar with. And because they didn’t know the exact cause, they decided not to put Michael on steroids, the only medication that usually helps the condition.

  Michael was very brave. He never complained and remained cheerful. I played with him all day, held him, and read to him. At night, Andre or I helped him brush his teeth and read him a bedtime story. Then we both kissed him good night, and I told him that I’d be right back first thing in the morning and Andre would come immediately after work. Michael never cried when we left but waved and blew us kisses, but we wept as we went down the stairs. Michael was in a room with a few other children, and his window faced the hospital yard. Andre and I always paused in the yard before we left, looked up at his window, and prayed, wondering if he would be alive the next day.

  Since the moment Michael was born, I had protected him. I fully understood that this world was a difficult place, but I had vowed to do everything in my power to make sure he was safe and had a good life. Now, on our way to a better life, an illness was taking him from us. We knew we would fight his illness to the last ounce of our strength, but as I prayed, I was well aware that I was not in control. For reasons I could not understand, God had decided that Michael should fall ill. As every cell of my body screamed with the agony of a mother terrified of losing her child, I realized that I had learned a painful but valuable lesson: I could not keep the people I loved in this worl
d if God decided to take them. I cried and I felt devastated, but in the end, I bowed to God. Michael was His child before he was mine, and if He decided to take him back, I had to trust that He would take good care of him.

  Michael fought not only that terrible disease but also the awful infections that plagued him in the hospital. The blood-pressure medication that was prescribed lessened his symptoms, reducing the amount of protein that his kidneys filtered out. His condition stabilized, and at least he didn’t get worse. In time, the doctors let us take him home, but we knew that if something else wasn’t done, his kidneys would fail. It was now even more important for us to get to Canada. We hoped that Canadian doctors would be better than Hungarian ones.

  Shortly after our arrival in Toronto we opened the phone book and found a children’s clinic in Richmond Hill. The pediatrician there sent us to the Hospital for Sick Children. Compared with the children’s hospital in Budapest, Sick Kids was heaven. The doctors spoke English, and they patiently listened to us. The hospital was bright and modern and had a cheerful staff. In Hungary, every time lab technicians needed to test Michael’s blood they took vial after vial of blood. The process went on forever and was painful. Michael suffered, and we suffered with him. In Canada, they extracted only a tiny amount of blood each time, in only a few seconds.

  At Sick Kids, Michael’s doctor put him on steroids. She was not sure if the medication would work, but nothing else could be done. Michael didn’t need to be admitted, but we had to keep a close eye on him. Steroids cause a great number of side effects, and the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. After starting the medication, Michael threw up for days. Then he became tired and irritable. We had been told that steroids would cause behavioural problems that would go away as soon as he stopped taking the drug.

  Michael was on steroids for three years, and his illness gradually disappeared. He had regular checkups at Sick Kids until he turned eighteen. He has never had a relapse.