by Marina Nemat
“Do we all have an understanding on this matter?” he asked when he finished speaking.
“Yes,” everyone said.
I was surprised by Ali’s father’s efforts to resolve a difficult situation. Even though our perspectives were completely opposite one another, I decided that I respected Mr. Moosavi. I could see that he loved Ali and wanted him to be happy. If my brother had wanted to marry a girl my father disapproved of, my father would never have called a family meeting but would have told my brother that if he married that girl, he would never see him again.
“So, Marina,” said Mr. Moosavi. “I welcome you to this family. You’re my daughter now. Because of the unusual circumstances, we’ll have a private marriage ceremony here in this house, and you, my dear, are under no pressure to inform your family for now. We’ll be your family and will provide you with everything you need. You, my son, have always been good to us, and we wish you happiness in your marriage. You have our blessing.”
Ali stood up, kissed his father, and thanked him. His mother was crying as she embraced me.
“What do you think about my family? Did you like them?” Ali asked me on our way back to Evin.
“They’re very good to you. My family is different.”
“What do you mean by ‘different’?”
I told him that I loved my parents and missed them but they had always been very distant to me; we had never had a real conversation about anything. He said he was sorry to hear this and told me his father had been very serious about my being a part of his family. “In about a week, we’ll have a small ceremony in Evin for you to convert, and our wedding will be on the Friday about two weeks after that,” he said.
Everything was happening so fast I couldn’t keep up. He told me there was no reason to worry; all I needed to think about was decorating the house. He was planning to take me shopping the next day. I couldn’t understand how I could possibly go shopping.
I had expected his family to be mean and cruel to me. But they had been very kind. They had been everything my family had never been. It had been difficult for me to see Ali as a son, but now I knew that he loved and was loved.
“By the way, anyone converting to Islam has to attend religion and Koran classes and has to choose a Muslim name. You’ve already studied Islam since you were arrested, so you just need a name. I want you to know that I think you have a beautiful name, I love it, and I’ll refuse to call you anything else, but you have to choose something just for the record,” he said.
I was even going to have a new name. It was as if he were taking me apart, piece by piece; I was being dissected alive. He could call me whatever he wanted.
“You can choose a name for me,” I said.
“No. I want you to do it yourself.”
The first name that came into my mind was Fatemeh, and I said it out loud.
“My mother’s name! She’ll be very glad!”
I was going to turn my back on Christ. There was no way out. I thought of Judas. He had also betrayed Jesus. Was I walking the same path? Only at the end did he realize the terrible thing he had done, so he took his own life. In despair, he lost all faith and hope and surrendered to darkness. Wasn’t this his greatest mistake? Maybe if he had faced the truth, maybe if he had asked God for forgiveness, his soul could have been saved. When Jesus was arrested, St. Peter said three times that he didn’t know Jesus, but St. Peter believed in His forgiveness and sought it. God was love. Jesus was tortured, and He died a painful, terrible death. I didn’t need to explain anything to Him. He already knew.
I had to say good-bye to Andre, only a good-bye and nothing more. He didn’t have to know everything. I also had to tell my parents, but I could start by telling them that I had converted to Islam and see their reaction. I also wanted to see my church for one last time. Maybe then, I could move on with my new life.
Ali brought me some fresh barbari bread and cheese for breakfast the next morning.
“Are you ready to go shopping?” he asked after we were done eating.
“Yes, but I have to ask you something before we go.”
“What?”
“Do you really want to help me love you?”
“Yes, I do.” He looked surprised.
“Then take me to my church, just once, to say good-bye.”
“I’ll take you. Anything else?”
I told him that there was one more thing, and I knew he wouldn’t like it. I explained that I understood that we had an agreement. I was going to remain true to my word and do my very best to be a good wife, but I needed to say good-bye to Andre. If I didn’t do this, my past would never leave me.
I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t angry.
“Well, I guess I have to accept that your heart can’t change overnight. I’m going to let you see him only once, but I want you to know that I’m doing this against my will and just to make you happy.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll make the arrangements. He’ll be allowed to come and see you at visitation time, probably not this one, but the one after that.”
I thanked him and said I was planning to tell my parents about my conversion at the next visitation.
“Are you going to tell them about our marriage, too?”
“No, not yet. I’m going to do it step by step.”
“Whatever you think is best for you,” he said.
I converted to Islam about a week later. The ceremony was held after the Friday prayer, which was celebrated outdoors in a quiet, wooded area of Evin. Carpets covered the grassy ground. Evin employees and guards sat in rows, first the men and then the women, but the majority were men. Everyone faced a wooden platform where Ayatollah Ghilani, who was the imam-eh Jomeh—the leader of the Friday prayer—that day, was to give a speech and lead the namaz. I followed Ali to the last couple of rows where women sat. Everyone was seated except a tall woman who was standing, looking around. She was Sister Maryam. She smiled, took my hand, and told me I could sit next to her. Soon, Ayatollah Ghilani arrived and began his speech. He told the crowd about the evils of the United States and praised all that the revolutionary guards and the employees of the Courts of Islamic Revolution were doing to protect Islam. Then, after the namaz, Ayatollah Ghilani called my name and asked me to go to the platform. Sister Maryam squeezed my hand, and I stood up, feeling a little dizzy. Everyone was staring at me. With shaky steps, I made my way to the ayatollah, and he asked me to say a very simple sentence: “I testify that there is no God except Allah, and that Mohammad is His prophet.” To show approval, the crowd yelled “Allaho akbar” three times. I wasn’t a Christian anymore.
Sparrows continued to chirp happily on the branches of the surrounding trees, and the mountain breeze ruffled the leaves, making sunlight quiver on its way to the ground. The sky remained as blue as before. I was waiting for God’s anger. I wanted a bolt of lightning to come and strike me where I stood. Ali sat in the first row, and the look of love on his face struck me harder than lightning ever could. It made my heart ache with guilt. “Love one another, the way I have loved you,” Jesus had said. Did He expect me to love Ali? How could He possibly expect such a thing?
Ali rose and gave me a folded black chador.
“My mother cried with joy and prayed for you as she sewed this. We’re very proud of you.”
I wished I could feel the same.
At the visitation, I told my parents about my conversion. I didn’t expect them to ask me why I had converted, and they didn’t. No one dared question what happened in Evin. They stared at me and cried. I guessed they knew that an Evin prisoner was nobody’s son or daughter, husband or wife, mother or father; he or she was only a prisoner and nothing more.
Ali kept his promise and took me to the church a few days later. His friend Mohammad came with us, because, as Ali had told me, Mohammad had never been to a church and was curious to see one from the inside. Ali parked the car in front of the building. It hadn’t changed at all, but I felt like a compl
ete stranger. I stepped out of the car and walked to the main door. It was locked. I went to the side door and rang the doorbell.
“Who is it?” called the priest, Father Martini, through the intercom.
My heart sank. “Marina,” I answered.
Rushed steps neared the door, and it opened. For a moment, Father Martini was frozen with shock and disbelief.
“Marina, I’m so happy to see you. Please…come in,” he finally said.
I followed him across the yard to the small office. Ali and Mohammad were behind us.
“Can I call her mother and Andre, one of her friends, to come and see her here?” Father Martini asked Ali.
Ali and I exchanged a glance. My heart almost stopped.
“Yes, you can,” he said and asked Mohammad to step outside with him.
Mohammad came back in after a moment, but I couldn’t see Ali. He was probably waiting in the car. I guessed he didn’t want to see Andre. Father Martini asked me how I was, and I told him I was fine. His eyes moved from me to Mohammad and vice versa. I realized how terrifying it was for him to have me there. I had never thought of the fear my presence would create. I knew I had not put the priests in danger, but they had no way of knowing this. I expected to feel happy and safe here, but now I could see that my happiness and safety had died the day I was arrested.
Both my mother and Andre arrived within minutes. How I wished I could tell them the whole story, but I knew I might never be able to do that. Was it even possible to put so much pain into words? I had come to say good-bye. That was the only right thing to do. I had to give them and myself a chance to heal and forget. I had to close the doors on the past.
My mother wore a large navy scarf, which covered her hair, a black Islamic manteau, and black pants. She embraced me and wouldn’t let go. I could feel her ribs under my fingers; she had lost weight and, as always, smelled of cigarettes.
“You all right?” she whispered in my ear.
Her hands carefully moved around my back and arms; she was trying to make sure I was not missing any limbs. I finally stepped away from her, and her eyes examined me from head to toe, but because of my black chador, there wasn’t much of me she could see; only my face was visible.
“Mom, I’m okay,” I said, smiling.
She managed a forced smile.
“Where did you get the chador?” she asked.
I told her a friend had given it to me.
“You know that Marina has converted to Islam, right?” Mohammad’s deep voice filled the room.
“Yes,” my mother and Father Martini said together. My mother opened her purse, took out a tissue paper, and wiped her tears.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Andre, looking at me and then at Mohammad.
“I’m fine.” I had so much to say but couldn’t think.
Andre had seen the struggle in my eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
Words were lost deep inside me. The last few months of my life had created a circle of pain and confusion around me, holding me captive, not only within the walls of Evin, but inside myself. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“When are you coming home?” Andre asked.
“Never,” I whispered.
“I’ll wait for you,” he said and smiled with conviction. The look in his eyes told me that regardless of everything, he loved me. I didn’t need to say another word. I knew that even if I begged him to forget me, he wouldn’t. When someone waits for you, it means there is hope. He was my life the way it had been before Evin, and I had to hang on to him to survive. Silent tears falling down my face, I turned around and walked out. Mohammad and I stepped in the car, and Ali drove away but pulled over after a few minutes.
“Why have you pulled over?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen you this pale.”
“I’m fine. Thank you for bringing me. You didn’t have to let them come and see me. I’m grateful. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
“You’ve forgotten that I love you.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Yes, you do,” he said.
Sixteen
ON OUR WEDDING DAY July 23, 1982, after the morning namaz, Ali picked me up at my solitary cell at 209, where I had spent about a month without having any contact with other prisoners. I hadn’t slept the night before. My fear was my savior; it paralyzed my thoughts and left me numb. I sat in a corner, staring at my small, barred window, at the way its gray metal lines cut the dark-blue vastness beyond them into small, flat rectangles. I had always loved early mornings when light slowly filled the darkness of the night. A deep blue creeping into the blackness of the sky, like rain seeping into the body of the desert. But from here, this beauty seemed unreal.
Ali softly knocked on the door. With trembling hands, I put on my chador and stood up. Looking straight into my eyes, he came in and closed the door behind him. I looked down.
“You won’t regret this,” he said, stepping closer to me. “Did you sleep last night?”
“No.”
“Neither did I. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
We drove to his parents’ in silence. As soon as we arrived, Ali and his father left the house. His mother hugged and kissed me, insisting that I should have a good breakfast. I wasn’t hungry, but she wouldn’t have any of that. I followed her to the kitchen. She made me sit down and broke a few eggs over a frying pan. Unlike my mother’s kitchen, hers was spacious and bright. The large stainless-steel samovar hummed gently, filling the uncomfortable silence.
“Family and friends all wanted to come to the wedding,” she said after a couple of minutes. “I have three sisters and two brothers, and they all have children. Most of them are married and have children of their own. Mr. Moosavi has three brothers and a sister, who also have children and so on. There are also aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends. They were very disappointed to hear that no one was invited to Ali’s wedding. But we explained, and most of them understood and sent you their best wishes. As soon as you and Ali are ready, I’ll invite them here to meet you.”
She had spoken slowly and had paused a few times, trying to choose her words carefully.
Uncomfortable silence again. The wooden spoon scraping against the frying pan.
“I know you’re scared.” Ali’s mother sighed, still standing in front of the stove with her back to me. “I remember the day I married Mr. Moosavi. I was younger than you are now. It was an arranged marriage, and I was terrified. Ali has told me that you’re very brave, and from what I’ve heard and seen, I know you are. But I also know that today, you’re scared, and you have every right to be, especially without your family by your side. But let me tell you that Ali is a good man. He’s very much like his father.”
When she turned around, we were both crying. She came to me, held my head to her chest, and stroked my hair. I had not been comforted like this since my grandmother’s death. Then we sat together and had some scrambled eggs. She explained that it was traditional for me—the bride-to-be—to take a long bath, and she also mentioned that she was expecting the bandandaz, who was a close friend of hers, to arrive in about two hours. I had not taken a bath in months, only quick showers. I remembered the bath I never had a chance to take on the night of my arrest.
Before showing me to the bathroom, she took me to one of the bedrooms that had been cleared for the sofreh-yeh aghd, which means “the cloth of marriage”: A silky white tablecloth was spread on the floor, and in the middle of it was a large mirror in a silver frame, on either side of which stood a large crystal candleholder holding a white candle, and in front of the mirror, there was a copy of the Koran. Silver platters filled with sweets and fruits covered the rest of the tablecloth. I knew it was customary for the mullah to perform the marriage ceremony with the bride and groom sitting by the sofreh-yeh aghd.
In the bathroom, the expensive ceramic tiles gleamed. I filled the tub and soaked in the steaming water. Although
it was summertime, I had felt cold all morning. As the intoxicating warmth surrounded me, my tightened muscles began to relax. I closed my eyes. God had given me a lifesaving ability: I could usually switch off my thoughts when they were too much to bear. I was not going to think about what was going to happen that night.
A while later, when the water had started to cool down, there was a gentle knock on the bathroom door, and Akram told me that the bandandaz, Shirin Khanoom, had arrived. “You don’t need your hejab. The men are still out and won’t be back until late afternoon,” she added. I dressed and stepped out of the bathroom. In Akram’s old bedroom, a large woman was spreading a white bed sheet on the floor. As soon as I entered the room, her eyes moved up and down my body.
“Beautiful girl,” she said, nodding in approval. “Too thin, though. Fatemeh Khanoom, you’ll have to feed her. She’ll look even better with fuller curves.” She came up to me, put a finger under my chin and examined my face. “Nice skin. Her eyebrows need a little bit of work, though.”
“Akram and I will be in the kitchen if you need anything,” Ali’s mother said to Shirin Khanoom and smiled at me as she and Akram left the room.
Sitting down on the sheet, Shirin Khanoom said, “Well dear, I’m ready. Take off your clothes and come sit in front of me.”
I didn’t move.
“What are you waiting for? Come on,” she laughed. “There’s no need to be shy. This needs to get done. You want to look your best for your husband, don’t you?”
No, I don’t, I thought but didn’t say anything.
Shivering, I slowly took off my clothes, sat on the sheet, and folded my knees to my chest. Shirin Khanoom told me to stretch out my legs. I obeyed. She took a long piece of string, spun one end of it around her fingers a few times, held the other end between her teeth, and bending over my legs, moved the string in a scissors-like manner and at an amazing speed to remove the hair. It was painful. Once finished, she told me to take a cold shower. After the shower, she braided my hair, which was almost to my waist, and gathered it in a bun behind my head.
