After Tehran

by Marina Nemat

  Despite all this, Andre stood by me. We did sometimes argue and disagree. He listened to my interviews and criticized me for being too direct and politically incorrect. He warned me not to use the word Islamist. I disagreed. I have nothing against Islam—many of my friends are Muslim. I have great respect for every religion. To me, Islamism is an ideology that has used Islam and twisted it into a dangerous, bloodthirsty, and rigid way of thought that has no respect for life. Today’s Islamists are like the Christians of the Middle Ages who branded those who were different as “witches” and burned them. The Inquisition had nothing to do with Christ, and it caused great damage to Christianity.

  Shortly after the spring 2009 unrest in Iran, the School of Continuing Studies at the University of Toronto invited me to present a creative-writing award. Andre accompanied me to the ceremony. I gave a little talk, and at the end, I asked for a moment of silence for all the innocents killed in Iran during the previous weeks. Following the event, as we were walking to the car, Andre told me that I had been wrong to ask for the moment of silence, because the gathering was a non-political event and not everyone in the audience might have agreed with me.

  “You must be kidding!” I exploded. “Innocent people have died. This is a fact, okay? I can do nothing about that except ask for one moment—one measly moment—to remember the dead! It’s about human rights … right and wrong! We can’t just shut up!”

  Andre didn’t respond. He knew I would never take a step back on such issues. He was probably asking himself who this woman walking next to him was. The Marina he had married twenty-four years earlier would never have reacted this way and would have apologized for stepping out of line.

  I RECEIVED the Human Dignity Prize in Milan at Palazzo delle Stelline, which was built in the sixteenth century and had been an orphanage for many years. In the late 1980s, it was beautifully renovated, restored, and transformed into a centre for conferences and meetings. Activity buzzed around me as I waited in a room for the event to begin. Reporters came and went. The assistants of one of the vice-presidents of the European parliament, Mr. Mario Mauro, who had nominated me for the award, rushed in and out to make sure everything was in place. I sat at a window and filled my eyes with the surreal view it offered: a cloudless deep-blue sky resting above the terracotta roof and the orange-yellow walls of the Palazzo, which surrounded a courtyard carpeted with a green lawn.

  Why did I feel so calm? Why was I so poised? Where was my excitement? I was about to receive the first Human Dignity Prize. Many people had told me that they could only guess how excited I was. Well, I was mildly excited, but I didn’t tell them that. I didn’t want anyone to think I was ungrateful. Actually, I was very grateful. But this gratitude translated into a calm sense of awe, which in turn caused me to feel guilty for not being excited enough. The problem was that I somehow still expected myself to be normal. Yet it was as if I had been in a huge explosion and my body was full of hundreds of pieces of shrapnel. With my own fingers, I had pulled out a few large pieces from my flesh, but many pieces remained. I was still avoiding both sadness and happiness. I couldn’t help it. Numbness protected me. It had become a custom-made organ in my body, a special kidney that filtered feelings and didn’t allow in too much pain if things went wrong. I didn’t trust the world and knew full well that even the happiest moment could disappear in just a blink.

  Over the red roof of the Palazzo, the Milanese-style dome of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie was directly in my view. Saint Mary of the Graces. I am sure she didn’t quite feel “full of grace” when her son was crucified like a common thief. She must have been devastated. I am a mother; I know. She would have willingly volunteered to be crucified instead of Jesus. But He had to suffer. He had to die a horrible death. And she had to watch it unfold. Full of grace. How did she deal with the pain? Did she ever succumb to numbness to survive? I wish I could ask her what grace consists of. Is it solely a divine gift, or does it have to be earned, or is it both? I assume it’s both. A gift from God that needs to mature through hardship. Its worst enemies are anger, fear, and hatred; its best friends are love and forgiveness.

  “Dear Mary, please ask God to forgive me for everything,” I whispered. The guilt I felt was as heavy as ever. But could she hear me? Would she hear me? And if she did, was I even worth her time?

  At the award ceremony, I told an audience of about two hundred and fifty my story. I had not written a speech. I never do. I just told them what had happened and all I had witnessed, and my young translator, Giovanna, translated my words for the crowd. Then Mr. Mauro gave me a silver plaque in a navy velvet box.

  After I received the prize, a long line of people appeared in front of me, wanting me to sign their books. I signed one after another until a young man in his late twenties stood before me and smiled. I waited for a book, but none was forthcoming.

  “I have something for you,” he said. I extended my hand and held it under his closed fist, and he dropped a blue-beaded rosary into my palm. I gasped. It looked almost identical to the rosary I took with me to Evin, the one I left at Ali’s grave.

  “From Medjugorje,”* he said.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled as he disappeared into the crowd.

  Was this an answer to my prayers? Did this mean that the Virgin was watching over me?

  In the afternoon, Mr. Mauro took me to the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie to see Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Mr. Mauro’s wife, daughter, and assistants accompanied us. I had read online that one could spend only fifteen minutes in the room with the painting. Security was tight, and the guides and church workers were serious about the rules. Only twenty-five people were allowed in the room at a time; at the end of fifteen minutes, visitors were ushered out and a new group would enter.

  In order to reach The Last Supper, we had to pass through several sealed chambers. The English-speaking guide with us explained that they provided climate control. Da Vinci had used a new, experimental technique to draw The Last Supper on the wall of the monastery dining hall, and this new technique had caused the painting to deteriorate significantly since its completion in the late fifteenth century. Measures such as the sealed chambers were put in place to slow the deterioration.

  When I saw The Last Supper, I gasped. It was huge! Even though I knew it was a fresco, I had somehow expected it to be much smaller. Yet there in front of me were the life-size images of Jesus and his disciples breaking bread and chatting. The colours of the clothing had obviously faded with time, but the blues, reds, yellows, greens, and browns were still breathtaking in the light that poured onto the wall from left and right, while the room itself remained immersed in darkness. Like a small child given the most incredible gift in the world, I marvelled at the sight before me. My heart beat faster and faster. I felt that if I called out Jesus’ name at that moment, He would look straight at me, and even though I wanted this to happen more than anything, I knew I wasn’t ready for it. What would I tell Him I had done with the time given to me? I had to work even harder to set things right, and once I was satisfied with the results, I would return here and speak His name. But would I ever be ready? Would I ever dare assume I was ready?

  I noticed that my group had moved away from me. They were gazing at photos placed around the room that told the history of the church and the fresco. But the photos didn’t interest me. I just wanted to stand in silence and stare at the disciples long enough to understand their hopes and dreams. There was Saint Peter, unaware that he would betray Jesus. He actually believed that he would gladly give his life for his Master. Except, things didn’t work out that way. His love for this world and what it had to offer was greater than his love for Jesus.

  Betrayal of the one you love—I had been there. When Ali told me I had to convert to Islam, I didn’t put up a fight. But I had another trial ahead of me. I believed that God expected me to forgive and love Ali. Love thy enemy. Once I opened my heart to Ali and tried to understand him, my resentment of him began to fa
de. Maybe if he had lived, I would even have come to love him. Maybe. However, I believe that my ultimate betrayal had nothing to do with my conversion or with Ali. It was my betrayal of my friends when I walked away from Evin, knowing that they had to stay and suffer, maybe even face death. How could I have left them behind? I was a young woman who had wanted to go home. Yet at what price? Back then, I didn’t understand that the price I had to pay was far too high. Tears flowed down my face.

  After our fifteen minutes expired, to my surprise our group was allowed to stay; Mr. Mauro must have made special arrangements. I stood in a corner and continued to stare at the image of Jesus.

  The way I see Jesus has not changed much at all since I was a child, but my imprisonment and all that followed made me love Him even more. His being the Son of God makes sense to me, because I believe God to be loving, just, forgiving, and merciful. I also believe that He respects free will. After all, He has given it to us so that we can choose to love or hate Him, do good or evil. But is it fair for a loving God to sit on His throne in Heaven and let us struggle and suffer on our own? Would any good father abandon his children this way? It makes perfect sense to me that God decided to come among us, live like us, and die a horribly painful death after being tortured. This is a God I can love with all my heart. A God who sets an example. A God who has bled and whose heart has been broken. This is who Jesus is to me. I don’t pretend that I understand the Holy Trinity. But I understand love and sacrifice. I understand faithfulness.

  In prison, to make myself feel better, I sometimes compared my suffering with what Jesus went through. He was lashed and so was I. He had to wear a crown of thorns and carry a heavy cross through the streets; I was raped. He had nails hammered into his body and he died from that; I faced a firing squad, although I didn’t die. I have tried to understand what crucifixion must feel like. I just know that the pain must be beyond what I have ever experienced. I respect, love, and trust the One who endured all this when He didn’t have to. I understand Jesus with my heart, and the rest of the world can think of Him as it will. The historians and writers who argue about whether Jesus was married don’t interest me. If He chose to marry, good for Him. This would only make Him more human, more like me, and I can appreciate that. I am a very unconventional Catholic. I believe that even though Jesus is the way to God, other ways to Him exist. I believe that a good Muslim, Baha’i, Jew, Zoroastrian, Hindu, Buddhist—anyone, for that matter—who follows his or her conscience and tries his or her best to do good will find eternal peace in God. What Jesus did was to make it easier for people to relate to God. My religion has only one rule: Love One Another. Even though this seems simple enough, life has shown me that it isn’t easy to follow. Loving one’s enemy is easier said than done.

  After an hour with The Last Supper, we left the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie. As we were about to step out, our guide took my hands in hers and told me that Prisoner of Tehran had affected her deeply. I gazed into her unfamiliar eyes, and I was consoled to know that the memory of those who suffered in Evin lived in her, a complete stranger from a foreign land who didn’t even speak our language.

  *Medjugorje is a town in western Bosnia-Herzegovina that has become famous throughout the world because of the six young people who, beginning on June 24, 1981, claimed to have seen visions of the Madonna there.

  A Star-Shaped

  Christmas Cookie

  My grandmother taught me to pray and first told me about Jesus and Mary. She made sure I understood that even though she would not be around to watch me all the time, God would always know what I was up to. She took me to the very long Russian Orthodox Mass every Sunday, and to reward me for my patience and good behaviour, she bought me treats as we walked home. I loved the chocolate and candy, but Christmas cookies were my favourite. Christmas meant going for a much-longer-than-normal Mass and being terribly bored—but it was worth it, because after the Mass, Bahboo would rush me home and allow me to take a star-shaped cookie from the Christmas tree. My parents were not religious and never attended Mass with Bahboo and me. The Russian Orthodox were a tiny minority in Tehran, and most of the people attending Mass at our church were old women.

  Christians have always been a tiny minority in Iran. Most Iranian Christians are either Armenian, Assyrian, or Chaldean—ethnic groups who have been present in Iran for hundreds of years and have churches in a few large cities, including Tehran, Tabriz, and Isfahan. Following the 1915 genocide of Armenians in Turkey, many of them eventually immigrated to Iran and their community became larger. During the time of Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi (1941–1979), Armenians were allowed to have their own schools. Armenians played a significant role in the modernization of the country, and they became known as a hard-working, honest people. Throughout centuries, they have had a marginal status in Iran and have survived by paying homage to the leadership of the country in exchange for safety and protection from Muslim religious extremists. The majority of their population belongs to the Apostolic Church, but a small number of Armenians are Catholics and Protestants.

  Whether Assyrians are an ethno-national group or a religious community* is not entirely clear. They fall into several denominations, including the Nestorian Church; its Chaldean offshoot; the Russian Orthodox Church; Protestant churches; and the Jacobite Church.

  Iran’s population is currently about seventy-four million. Close to ninety-nine per cent of the population is Muslim, of which approximately eighty-nine per cent is Shia and ten per cent Sunni. Baha’i, Jews, Christians, and Zoroastrians constitute the remaining one per cent of the population.

  EVEN THOUGH Bahboo couldn’t carry a tune, she was a member of the church choir. I keenly remember her standing next to the other singers, who were all at least as old as she was, her grey hair gathered into a tight bun at her nape, her white blouse and black skirt perfectly ironed, and a little red scarf tied around her slim neck. I watched her as she smiled, singing joyful hymns that had found their way out of her heart and were now dancing over the flickering flames of the candles, images of the Virgin and the Child, and members of the congregation. Bahboo was happiest at Christmas and Easter. She was a kind and generous woman who had lived an arduous life and, as she had explained to me, had forgotten how to smile. Christmas became a miracle to me at a very young age because it was one of the two special days of the year that I could see happiness in Bahboo’s eyes.

  Bahboo’s life in Iran in the twenties and thirties was vastly different from mine in the seventies. I grew up wearing what I wanted to on the streets, and during the time of the shah, I was never discriminated against because I was a member of a religious minority. I read Western literature and went to a good school. However, when Bahboo arrived in Iran around 1921, she was forced to wear the hejab, which at the time had to be the chador, and sometimes as she walked to the market, the neighbourhood children threw rocks at her, calling her a dirty Christian.

  Then times changed. On February 21, 1921, Reza Khan staged a coup d’état and overthrew Ahmad Shah Qajar, the last king of the Qajar dynasty, which had ruled Iran since 1794. According to some sources, the British Empire helped Reza Khan come to power to stop the penetration of the Bolsheviks in Iran. Reza Khan was declared shah—king—in 1925 and began the Pahlavi dynasty with a vision of modernizing Iran. During his sixteen-year reign, he built the trans-Iranian railway, connecting the north of the country to the south. He constructed many roads, introduced modern education to the country by establishing the University of Tehran, and erected many modern industrial plants. At the beginning of his reign, all women in Iran observed the hejab in public, because this had been their religious tradition for hundreds of years. In another attempt to modernize Iran, in the late thirties Reza Shah declared the hejab illegal. He believed that it held women back and prevented them from taking an active role in the progress of the country. After Reza Shah’s decree against the hejab, if a woman wore the chador in public, the police would forcibly remove it or even arrest her if she resisted
.

  Reza Shah was a dictator. He had no tolerance for criticism and created a system where freedom of speech did not exist and anyone who dared criticize him was arrested, imprisoned, tortured, even killed. He arrested many political leaders, including Mohammad Mosaddegh, and gave the order for the killing of others, such as Teymourtash (his minister of court from 1925 to 1932). He confiscated land from the Qajars and his rivals and added it to his own estates. Corruption continued under his rule and became more and more widespread. He closed down Armenian schools in 1938–39 and threatened the internal autonomy of the Armenians. Many villages in Iran’s Azerbaijan Province had ancient Armenian names, but Reza Shah changed them to Persian ones.

  Article 13 of the Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran states: “Zoroastrian, Jewish, and Christian Iranians are the only recognized minorities, who, within the limits of the law, are free to perform their religious rites and ceremonies, and to act according to their own canon in matters of persona, affairs, and religious education.”

  The phrase “within the limits of the law” has certainly been open to interpretation by Iran’s regime. Even though the recognized religious minorities in Iran are allowed to have their temples, synagogues, and churches, they cannot advertise their religion openly because they would be suspected of encouraging Muslims to apostatize. In Iran, conversion from Islam to another religion is punishable by death. The government of Iran has been particularly vigilant in recent years in curbing proselytizing activities by Christians whose services are conducted in Persian.

  In 1985 and 1986 I worked with a group of Catholic Armenian nuns who ran an all-girl school in Tehran. Although the Catholic Armenian Church still appeared to own this school, the government had significantly limited the nuns’ authority. The government had assigned a Muslim principal and many Muslim teachers to the school, and the nuns were not permitted to teach the students from Christian catechism books. Instead, the Islamic government had designed and written religious education books for Christian students, and these books had nothing to do with the teachings of the Church. These amended and distorted catechism books had to be in Persian instead of Armenian so the government would have complete control over the teaching material. Soon, all religious minorities were banned from teaching their language in their schools. A decree prohibited having a school on church, synagogue, or temple grounds. Purportedly, the purpose of this new rule was to keep the Muslims who attended these schools from being exposed to other religions. In his letter to Ayatollah Montazeri, published in Iran Times on July 6, 1984, Archbishop Manukian wrote, “Despite your comforting words, not only did the problems raised in connection with the schools remain unresolved, but recent orders have actually worsened the situation: the unwarranted replacement of school principals, the dismissal of several teachers of the Armenian language and religion, and the closure of a number of schools.”*