Seven silver bowls sat on Maman-joon’s dining table. Each was filled with something different, mostly grains. There was also a small mirror, two candles, a goldfish bowl, painted eggs, and all sorts of delicious food. It was Nowruz, the Iranian New Year. The holiday, a time of feasts, fire rituals, and little or no work, stretched over thirteen days, but the biggest celebration was on the first day of spring.
The Samedis always threw a big party, and this year was no exception. The guests—mostly relatives, colleagues, and friends—poured out of the house onto the roof and patio. Laleh complained that there were fewer guests this year, but Nouri told Anna that he didn’t see much difference. Anna recognized faces from the wedding, the albums of which were finally assembled and lying on a table. People nodded and murmured as they flipped through the pages, no doubt wistfully remembering what had been only a few months ago, but now seemed like years.
Nouri had invited executives from the Metro project. They were French, but their English was good, and their Farsi was better than Anna’s. Baba-joon’s colleagues from the oil company came too, as well as some of Laleh’s friends, and, of course, Shaheen. The girls, mostly in miniskirts and revealing tops, flipped and twirled their long hair, triggering sidelong glances from the male guests. Anna felt like an elderly aunt.
For her part, Anna had invited Charlie, her boss at the IAS and her one friend in Iran. Charlie brought her husband, Ibram. Charlie was dressed in a tailored green suit, with a low-cut tank top under the jacket. Anna also wore a suit, hers a baby blue linen with a white chemise.
Maman-joon scurried back and forth, making sure everyone had drinks and food. Although wreathed in smiles and good humor, she looked thinner, Anna thought, and the lines across her brow dug deeper.
The past six weeks had been difficult. Khomeini, who had decamped from Tehran for the religious city of Qom, condemned the idea of a democratic republic, claiming it would be unduly influenced by the West. Over two hundred army officers and SAVAK officials were executed by a new organization called the Islamic Revolutionary Tribunal. In addition, many shah loyalists were thrown in prison, some of them people Baba-joon and Maman-joon knew socially.
The turmoil sent shivers of apprehension through Iran’s elite. Anna recalled how, in the eighteenth century, France’s King Louis XV supposedly warned “après moi le déluge.” It seemed to her as if Iran was indeed in the grip of a raging flood, its citizens trying to steer their flimsy lifeboats to safety.
Nowruz was supposed to be a day of celebration, but to Anna the gaiety seemed forced. Hassan stood in the corner of the living room, his hands flailing in the air in what looked like an intense discussion with a woman. Anna looked more closely. It was Roya, Nouri’s childhood friend. Dressed in a long skirt that reached the floor and a simple blouse, she nodded eagerly. Anna wondered if there might be a spark of romance between them. She walked over.
“Hello, Roya.” She smiled. “How was your hajj with your grand-mother? A good trip?”
Hassan raised his eyebrows as if surprised she knew what a hajj was, but Roya nodded politely. “Very nice,” she answered. “In fact, I believe it was a harbinger of the future.”
“How so?” Anna inclined her head.
“For the first time in many years there is hope. Now that the Imam is back.”
Anna hugged her chest. She wished Nouri was with her, but he was on the other side of the room chatting with one of the Metro managers.
“You studied literature in university, yes?” Roya asked.
“I did.”
“Then perhaps you saw the poem in the newspaper last month. I don’t remember the poet’s name but it said things like ‘no one will tell lies anymore, people will become brothers, they will share the bread of joy, evil and treachery will be eliminated now that the Imam is back.’” Roya’s face grew animated. “Did you see it?”
“I must have missed it.”
“I saw it,” a voice chimed in behind Anna. She turned around to see Charlie, holding a glass of wine.
Anna made introductions.
“The poet was some amateur no one’s heard of.” Charlie glanced at Anna. “It was a disaster, technically speaking.”
Roya’s expression froze.
“Well, it was,” Charlie continued acerbically. “Chock full of sophomoric concepts and images.” She shrugged and sipped her wine. “But obviously someone liked it.”
Hassan’s lips tightened. “You don’t share the hope the rest of the country feels?”
Charlie took another sip. “To the contrary. I long for Iran to create a parliamentary democracy. It would be a blessing for the people of Iran, the Middle East, the entire world. But Khomeini has made it clear that’s not his priority.”
“You disagree with the idea of an Islamic republic?”
Charlie spread her feet apart. Her chest barreled out. “As I understand it, your Imam,” she emphasized the word, “wants to suspend the law against bigamy, ban abortions, and end co-education. He also wants to require women in government ministries to wear hijab. As a woman, I find these positions unacceptable. Society can’t go backwards.”
Hassan waved a dismissive hand. “Ah yes, but you are an American. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Pardon me, but like Anna, I am married to an Iranian. I have lived here for more than seven years. These proclamations are not the signals of a moderate. They are a call to arms.”
“There is much evil to be wrung out of society before we can be truly free,” Hassan shot back.
Charlie planted one hand on her hip. The other clutched her wine glass. Anna had no idea what she would say next. Again she tried to make eye contact with Nouri.
“You are right, Charlie,” Hassan said. “Religious and secular forces are in conflict. But, you see, the shah created the problem. By choking off democracy and free speech, the only place left where groups could gather and share ideas became the mosque. It’s no wonder the movements born there have religious overtones.”
“The shah is gone,” Charlie countered. “So there is no longer a need for Muslims—or anyone else—to feel constrained. Iran should be flowering with discussions and plans and ideas. Instead, people are being shot by firing squads.” She took another sip of wine. “This is not the Iran I know. The Iran I know is filled with hospitable, generous, open-minded people.”
Roya stepped in. “I understand. But, you see, Hassan’s point is that—”
Charlie cut her off. “And from what I gather, Khomeini is about to ban imports of foreign cars, alcohol, and pork, among other things. But the problem is you can’t legislate religion. It never works.”
“I’m sure it’s just temporary,” Nouri said with a smile. He had finally joined them.
Charlie looked over.
“Khomeini has more pressing problems anyway,” Nouri went on. “He needs to get the country’s economy started again.”
Work on the Metro project had been put on hold. So far, it hadn’t been disruptive. Nouri had been helping survey underground locations and finalize blueprints. But the planning couldn’t last forever. They would need the funds originally promised to them by the shah.
“Khomeini must also deal with the problems in the north,” Nouri said, as he slipped an arm around Anna.
“You mean the Kurds?” Hassan asked.
The Kurds were quasi-independent Muslims who lived in the mountainous regions of Iran and neighboring countries. Like the Palestinians they were stateless, and like the Palestinians, they had been trying for decades to seize their own territory. Now that the shah was gone, fighting had erupted in the north. The problem was particularly sensitive, since the Kurds were mostly Sunni Muslims, unlike most Iranians, who were Shi’ites.
When Anna studied Persian literature in Chicago, she’d learned the difference. The professor gave them a simplified understanding of the two groups—to provide background for their readings—and had summed up the split between the two groups this way: Shi’ite Muslims felt nothing had
gone right for them since they’d chosen Ali, Mohammed’s son-in-law, as Mohammed’s successor centuries ago, and then Ali had been assassinated. Fatalistic and melancholic, Shi’ites were quick to claim they were martyrs and victims of conspiracies. Sunnis, on the other hand, made up most of the Muslim world. They’d chosen Abu Bakr, Mohammed’s adviser, as their successor. There had been friction between the sects ever since. Anna knew there was much more to the conflict and hoped that living in Iran would help her better understand the complicated history of Islam.
Despite the comfort of Nouri’s arm, Anna felt pinched and tense, as if she was preparing to ward off a blow. What she wouldn’t do for a carefree laugh, a funny movie, even a night out at Laleh’s disco. The times were making people as dry as tinder. She hoped no one had a match.
Twenty-two
The knock on the door surprised Anna. It was a hot, arid evening near the end of May, and the heat hinted at the blistering summer to come. She’d kept the door open to fan the breeze; perhaps it had closed without her noticing. But when she went to the door, it was open, and Hassan stood outside.
Anna’s eyes widened. She hadn’t seen Hassan since Nowruz, almost three months earlier. Since then he’d grown a beard, and he wore a dark green uniform. A gun belt ringed his waist, and the gun in the holster was huge.
“Hassan! You look…so…different.”
“I joined the Revolutionary Guards.”
The month before, Khomeini had created his own army, men loyal to the revolution. They were not part of the regular Iranian Army, nor were they part of the police. Among other things, the Pasdaran, or Revolutionary Guards, were directed to go after leftist guerilla groups who were unhappy with Khomeini and the Islamic republic he’d created.
Her hand flew to her mouth although, to be honest, she wasn’t that shocked. Hassan had been leaning that way for a long time. Still. “Why?”
He straightened up, looking proud. “It is the natural consequence of the revolution. The people who were powerless will finally have justice.”
Anna’s stomach clenched—she was wary of anyone who spouted polemics of any kind—but she said nothing. She opened the door wider. “Well, come in. Nouri’s upstairs. I’ll get him.”
Hassan didn’t move.
“I said, come in.”
“Anna, I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“I should never be with a woman alone, especially if she is another man’s wife.”
A flash of irritation streaked through Anna. “You’re not. Nouri’s upstairs.”
Hassan still hesitated.
Anna clutched the edge of the door. “I guess you have become a devout Muslim too?”
He stared at her. “And if I have?” She heard the challenge in his voice.
Anna stared right back. “You were going to be a doctor, Hassan. Save people’s lives. Make them whole. It’s a noble calling.”
“It is an even nobler calling to become the best Muslim possible. To help bring the gifts of Islam to our people.”
Anna was about to reply when Nouri’s voice floated down from upstairs. “Is that Hassan?”
“Yes, he’s here,” Anna replied. “Come down.”
“Tell him to come up.”
“He won’t.” Anna still clutched the edge of the door.
Nouri, his face filled with curiosity, appeared at the top of the landing. He hurried down the steps and did a double-take when he saw Hassan. “My god, Hassan. What’s going on?”
Hassan repeated what he’d told Anna.
Nouri’s brow furrowed. Then he cracked a smile. “Very funny, Hassan. That’s a good one. You had me going for a minute.”
Hassan jutted out his chin. “It is not a joke.”
“But, of course it is…” Nouri’s voice trailed off as he focused on Hassan, whose face was painted with a mix of pride and defiance. There was a moment of silence during which Nouri and Anna exchanged glances. “I see.”
“Do you, Nouri? I am not sure. You ran off to America, and when you came back, you had an important job waiting for you. You never had to worry about where your next meal was coming from. Or whether you would make enough to support your family. You have never had to deal with a superior who withheld your salary because you did not sell enough supplies to doctors or hospitals. I do not think you do understand.” He glanced over at Anna. “Nor does she.”
Nouri winced. “I didn’t know you were that bad off, Hassan. You never said anything. I would have helped. You know that. You’re my closest friend.”
“You never asked.”
“I should have. For that I am sorry.” Nouri gestured. “Please, come in. We will talk.” He glanced at Anna who gave him a curt nod.
Hassan caught their exchange. He hesitated, then came inside. They sat somewhat awkwardly in the living room.
“Can I get you a drink, Hassan?” Anna asked.
He shook his head.
“I can’t help feeling sad, Hassan,” Nouri began. “You and I…we shared the same beliefs. All those discussions and plans to save the country. Yes, we opposed the shah. But our goal was a democratic government, not an Islamic republic. Don’t you remember?”
Hassan gestured. “Idle chatter. The stuff of childhood. It is time to grow up. Especially since the referendum.” Iranians had voted on the formation of an Islamic republic at the end of March.
“But what about our dreams?”
“It is necessary to wipe out the evils of the shah. To strip away Western influence. Iranians do not do well unless there is a strong leader. Democracy dilutes everything.”
“Do you really believe that?” Anna asked softly.
Hassan stiffened. “Democracy breeds corruption, greed, and imperialism. Its culture is insidious. It has crept into films, music, clothing, even food. Shariah law will cleanse society. And keep our enemies at bay.”
“Which enemies are those?” Nouri asked.
Hassan looked uncomfortable. “The Communist groups who are opposed to the Islamic republic. They have infected young people, especially at the universities. They are responsible for much of the unrest, you know.”
Anna knew about the protests by leftists at Tehran University. There had been discussions about them among young Iranians at the IAS. But she didn’t know how serious a threat the Communists really were. Maybe Hassan had fallen victim to the conspiratorial nature of some revolutionaries. It had happened before, during the activism of the Sixties, the French and Russian revolutions, movements throughout history, in fact.
“The students have a point, don’t you think?” Nouri persisted. “The people who are running things now are not the people who led the opposition to the shah. This new government is made up of barely literate men with scruffy beards—you being the exception, of course. They have no idea how to run a country, to do what’s needed. All they know how to do is call for revenge.”
Anna remembered Laleh repeating the rock music line about the new boss being the same as the old boss.
Hassan crossed then uncrossed his legs. “It is true that power has shifted. But this is the future.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Nouri said.
“Do not be naïve, Nouri,” Hassan said. “What’s more, I’d advise you to be careful.”
“Me?” Nouri sat up. “Why? What are you saying, Hassan?”
“It is known that you were once a Marxist. If you continue to identify yourself as one, you too might become an enemy of the Revolution.” Anna heard an edge of warning in Hassan’s voice.
Nouri’s face darkened. “Is that a threat?”
“It is a suggestion. In fact, you might even consider growing a beard.”
A wave of nausea climbed up Anna’s throat. She stood up. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not feeling well. I need to go upstairs. There is food in the kitchen, Nouri. Help yourself. You too, Hassan.”
*****
Though it had to be the warmest night of the year, Anna and Nouri held tight to each other in bed as
if it was a frigid Chicago winter. Neither of them wanted to let go.
“What do you think?” Anna whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“It makes me nervous.”
Nouri ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.”
Anna snuggled in closer. “We knew he was changing.”
“Yes, but I never thought he’d go this far.”
Anna stared at the liquid moonlight pouring through the window. “What did he say after I left?”
Nouri was quiet for a moment. Then, “Nothing of importance.”
“Was it about me?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I thought I heard you mention my name.”
Nouri didn’t reply.
“Nouri…”
He cleared his throat. “Well, he did say something.”
“What?”
“He thinks you are too outspoken.”
A sour taste came into her mouth.
“He said it is not good for a woman to argue or contradict a man. Especially about politics or religion.”
Twenty-three
How can they possibly expect us to call it ‘Vali-ye Asr’? It’s Pahlavi Avenue, and always will be,” Laleh fumed on a hot summer day. She and Anna were driving to a bookstore near Tehran University. Many of the streets in Tehran had been renamed in an effort to purge Iran of all traces of the shah. Anna remembered Nouri pointing the street out when they’d first arrived in Tehran. Still, whether they called it Pahlavi Avenue or Vali-ye Asr Street, it remained one of the longest streets in the world.
“I can’t believe they’re calling Shahyad Aryamehr, Azadi Tower.” Laleh wiped her brow. The heat had crept inside, despite the Mercedes’ air conditioning. “Freedom Tower! What freedom? What happened to all their promises of women’s rights, democracy, and justice?”
Anna couldn’t disagree. The new government had continued its crackdown on counter-revolutionaries, recently executing more than twenty people in just one day. The problem was their definition of “counter-revolutionary.” It seemed to change depending on who was being targeted. As far as Anna could tell, it was anyone in a high position who was not an Islamic fundamentalist.
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