Persian Girls: A Memoir

by Nahid Rachlin

  “Don’t you talk like that to your sister,” Mohtaram admonished Pari.

  We had to skip the movie that evening.

  Pari and I started to cut classes in the afternoons and secretly went to Javani Cinema. Father gave us allowances, graded according to our ages and gender, with a big jump from Pari to Parviz. We sisters got enough toomans to be able to go to the movies, or to a café occasionally, or buy a few desired items. If I ran out of money Pari paid for me.

  Usually very few people were in the cinema in the afternoons and we felt safe that no one we knew would see us and report to our parents. Watching the American characters on the screen was magical for both of us, transporting us to another way of life. Once Pari took me to see A Star Is Born. Judy Garland portrayed an actress whose career blossoms as her husband’s declines. Pari was particularly excited by the story.

  “Those women can choose a career, marry the person they love,” she said as we walked home. “We aren’t given any options. Freedom is just a trophy the Shah dangles before us.” Pari was wearing the bright red dress that Father had told her not to wear. I interlocked my arm with hers, wanting to protect her, as well as be protected by her.

  When we got home, Mohtaram and Father and Manijeh were sitting on the terrace having tea and pastries. “I want to become an actress,” Pari announced.

  “Stop that nonsense,” Father said sharply. “Didn’t I tell you an actress is no more than a whore?”

  It soon became clear that Pari and I were in our own world within the household. Like her, I resisted the roles prescribed for us by our parents, our school, and the wider society. Manijeh’s dream was closer to what was expected of her. My brothers wanted to go to America to study and planned to return and put their education to use in their own country.

  My former life with Maryam—once my obsession—became more and more remote as I grew closer to Pari and adopted her views and interests. Of Maryam’s religious devotion, Pari said, “It’s a way of coping with all that’s lacking in this life.”

  It was true that it was almost a refrain with Maryam and others around her to say, “It’s the life beyond that matters.” How could they believe in God when he was so unjust? How could they trust that he would lead them to a better life beyond? Those thoughts that had come to me vaguely in the past were now suddenly solidified.

  My brothers were leaving for universities in America in the summer of 1958, when I was twelve and Pari was sixteen. Cyrus had waited for Parviz to graduate so they could go together. They seemed to be on top of the world, with an air of determination and superiority. They spoke in confidential tones between themselves and had “conferences” in Father’s office. Sometimes they sat together and smoked Winston cigarettes, holding them with poised hands, puffing exaggeratedly.

  “I had to pay for every bit of my education, working long hours and studying,” Father told my brothers at breakfast one morning. “You’re lucky to have a father who can support you.”

  “We really appreciate all you have done for us, Father,” Parviz said.

  “You’ve given us so much,” Cyrus said.

  “We’ll return and put our education to use,” Parviz said.

  Cyrus nodded in agreement.

  “Of course that’s what I hope for you to do,” Father said. “Then you’ll marry nice Iranian girls your mother and I will find for you and you’ll give us wonderful grandchildren.”

  “We hope so,” Parviz said.

  They drifted to other subjects, mainly politics. Father’s voice grew fraught with tension. In the privacy of our home he criticized the Shah for giving SAVAK so much power. They could, at any time, declare someone guilty, arrest them, and even execute them for speaking against the Shah.

  My brothers agreed that it was ridiculous that different parties and affiliations—leftist Tudeh, Constitutionalist, Regionalist, Nationalist—and many others were declared illegal at different times.

  Father had resigned from his judgeship because it had become too risky, he said. SAVAK members tried to dictate decisions to him. He had also resigned from the textile company where he had been president for a while, because he didn’t like the working conditions, the poor health benefits, and the low salaries, and because he was unable to get enough support to improve the workers’ lot. As president, he complained, he was a figurehead. The boss, the person in charge of finances, was affiliated with the government and Father had to take orders from him.

  It surprised me that Father was so compassionate in his public life, considering his sternness with us girls and with Mohtaram.

  “The wheels of this country are turned by the Shah and his circle,” Parviz said. “Or Shah and America.”

  “Parviz, are you careful when you give talks?” Father asked. Parviz often gave talks at his high school’s adult education program about public concerns like sanitation and disease control.

  “Don’t worry, Father, I stay on safe ground.”

  Father got up to leave; so did Cyrus. Parviz and I lingered.

  “I wish I could go to America, too, one day,” I said.

  “Nahid joon, I hope you will. You’re my studious sister.”

  Then he got up to leave as Father called him.

  It was even hotter than most summers that year, with temperatures reaching 110 degrees. Damp winds blew in from Shatt-Al-Arab, the river at the Iraqi border, a marshy channel contaminated with oil. Homeless beggars died on the street from heatstroke. The asphalt melted and stuck to our shoes. The dank air brought many mosquitoes, and Ali constantly pumped mosquito repellent into every room.

  On the long, hot summer days when every moment was like an eternity I had only Pari to make the time move. Pari and I dipped our feet into the pool in the courtyard to cool off. The pool was shallow and full of frogs. Lizards emerged from behind palm trees, looked around, and went back to their shady spot. We dampened our clothes and sat under the fan turned on high in Pari’s room. Sometimes we climbed the stairs to the roof and watched the scenes on the outdoor screen of Sahara Cinema across the street. Though they showed mediocre movies, we still liked watching the images on the screen and catching some of the dialogue. We drank glass after glass of doogh to quench our ever-present thirst, and indulged in flights of fantasy about what we could do with our lives, and were full of hope that we could resist our parents’ pressures.

  One evening, in the middle of August, Father took the family to Akbari chelo kababi restaurant on Pahlavi Avenue, as a farewell dinner for our brothers. Father chose that old, traditional restaurant because my brothers most likely wouldn’t have that kind of food for a long time. Parviz was going to a university in St. Louis, and Cyrus to an engineering school in Indiana. My brothers said again how they intended to return home after completing their education. They agreed with father that it was a pity we didn’t have enough Iranian experts and that foreigners had to do those jobs. The unfavorable exchange rate from toomans to dollars made my brothers’ education in America very expensive, but Father was willing to make the sacrifice for the good it would do. American universities were considered to be far superior to Iranian ones.

  The next day after breakfast our brothers kissed us good-bye and left, with Father accompanying them to the airport. The moment they were out of the house, the rest of us fell into silence. It was as if a limb had been cut off and we were watching it bleed, not knowing what to do about it.

  I found a package on my bed, put there by Ali—as he did with my mail. It was the tapestry depicting paradise, which had been in my old room. With Ali’s help I hung it on the wall of my new room. Maryam had embroidered the tapestry for her own dowry. In the middle of the lush green square cloth a stream meandered; trees full of exotic flowers stood on the four sides; birds flew out of the center to the edges; huris carried platters of fruit to men and women who reclined against cushions set under the trees; angels clustered in the air, ready to be of service. I found something new in it almost every time I looked—a rabbit peeking out of a
bush, a gazelle half hidden behind a rock. But what I liked most about it now was that in the sky the birds were in flight.

  Eight

  In the fall I entered the seventh grade and joined Pari and Manijeh in the same school. Pari and I walked back and forth together; Manijeh chose to be driven by the chauffeur in the family limousine. Students in Nezam Vafa High School came from the same family background as our parents, middle to upper-middle class, as had been the case in the elementary school. Having a high income, as we did, didn’t make a family more or less western. The same conflicting attitudes and values dominated most families, rich or poor.

  Pari and I were keenly aware of how different we were, not just from Manijeh but also from most of the girls in the school, who accepted their prescribed roles. Many of the girls were already engaged to be married as soon as they reached legal age, which had been raised to sixteen.

  The engaged girls formed a clique of their own. All their fiancés were much older. This was due partly to the fact that ideally husbands had to be “established” to be able to support a family. If you married someone who was not established you would be forced to live at the groom’s parents’ or siblings’ homes until they saved enough money to have their own places.

  Jaleh Yazdan, with her olive skin and curly dark brown hair, was engaged to a colonel twice her age. Minou Tajar and Shahla Sadeghpour, cousins, were engaged to brothers, both doctors, both twice as old as their brides. Girls referred to their fiancés by their titles, colonel, doctor, engineer. They whispered to each other as they stood under trees or in other shady spots. In public they were polite, proper. They addressed people with taarof, self-deprecating remarks combined with flattery. “I’m not worth your trouble.” “It’s the beauty of your eyes that cast the glow.” “Please forgive me, I’m less than a particle of dust.” Taarof, which Pari and I criticized between ourselves, was a traditional code of behavior that played a double function. It showed good manners and politeness and at the same time put you at a distance, so that you could guard your privacy in a culture full of taboos.

  Girls didn’t ever run, laugh out loud, or look at boys standing in doorways or against walls. Boys were waiting for them to pass by, to put letters in their hands inviting them to secret meetings. The engaged girls moved in a slow way, spoke softly; any raised voice, any swift or jerky movement was considered unfeminine and not in good taste. They had to be careful not to do anything inappropriate for fear that they would drive the men away. Those who didn’t have anyone yet had to do their best to attract suitable men. To that end the wealthier girls underwent plastic surgery to make their noses smaller or to take the hook out of them. Some even had their breasts enlarged.

  Rumor had it that if anyone “slipped” and lost her virginity, she would have her hymen sewed up by a special surgeon so she wouldn’t be discovered on the wedding night.

  “Modern” girls, too, were afraid of the power men had, no less so than Maryam and other women in her ancient neighborhood. “Men are murky, inscrutable,” one girl said. “You never know what they may do to you. For one thing, they flatter you and then once they get their way they abandon you.”

  I was now at an age when my breasts were budding and I had an awareness of men.

  “When you have your periods, can you become pregnant if you let a man . . . ?” I started to ask Pari once, as we walked back from school.

  “Go all the way,” Pari said. “Yes, you can get pregnant.”

  Two boys began to follow us, coming close and brushing against our arms, whispering endearing words. They were only two among many latis, lechers, who followed girls on the streets. When we entered crowded Pahlavi Avenue the boys melted away and disappeared among the people on the street.

  “There’s only one man I like,” Pari whispered.

  “Who?”

  “Majid. He’s nice, not one of the latis. And he’s different from most men, not tyrannical. I met him when I auditioned for a play they’re putting on at school. He came a few times to discuss the play with Miss Partovi. I’m filled with desire at his mere sight. It’s like being inflamed.”

  I thought of Maryam talking with other women about sex as something a woman performed only for the sake of her husband. It was a sin for a woman to enjoy sex or to feel desire. The model for a woman in Maryam’s neighborhood was Fatemeh, Prophet Mohammad’s daughter. They believed she was a virgin when she gave birth to a son. She had gone bathing and emerged from the water pregnant. The pregnancy lasted for six months; during those months her womb glowed with incandescent light. Angels came to her and helped her give birth.

  “Aren’t you afraid to feel that way?” I asked Pari.

  “Don’t you see how men and women desire each other in American movies?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Nahid, they gave me the part I really wanted, of the girl Laura.”

  “Oh, Pari, I’m so happy for you.”

  “The Glass Menagerie is a serious play by an American. Miss Jahanbani, you know, the principal, said there’s no point having a play at school. But Majid and Miss Partovi talked her into it.”

  “How exciting,” I said.

  “The play has been changed a lot from the original. Miss Jahanbani insisted on certain changes. But the grain of it is still there.” Pari turned to look at me. “Don’t tell Father I’ll be in it.”

  “Isn’t he going to find out? Manijeh will tell him. Maybe it will be in the newspaper.”

  “Manijeh doesn’t pay attention to such things at school. She may not even know about the play. And I doubt it will be in the newspaper.”

  That evening we went to the balcony and looked out on the street. Groups of boys stood talking under streetlamps or trees. Some had lined up in front of Sahara Cinema. We had seen them around the town. They tried to amplify their individuality by their clothes. One always wore a black shirt to show his affiliation with the conservative Nationalist Party, one wore a red kerchief in his jacket pocket to indicate he supported the Tudeh Party, or Communism, which was outlawed; its members were arrested if they were caught. He was taking a big chance by wearing the kerchief.

  “The handsome but conceited one,” Pari referred to the boys. “The one trying to imitate Marlon Brando.” “The one with the tiny eyes and funny-looking head.”

  She sank into a somber mood. “I know Father and Mother are going to try to force me into marrying some old man,” she said. “I won’t give in.”

  Later that night, Pari practiced her part for me, playing Laura. She contemplated how to move or hold her hand, how simple or complex her facial expressions should be at any moment. The story of a girl whose mother’s hope for her and the family was to find her a suitable husband was not unfamiliar to us. It was the sole wish of almost all parents to match up their daughters with the right man as soon as possible, to avoid the danger of their becoming “old maids,” and “sour,” like some of the teachers and nurses. Higher education was for girls who couldn’t find husbands. Girls without husbands would be pitied or shunned. After their parents died, they would have to live with family members willing to take them in.

  Pari’s ability to put herself in the head of the shy American girl filled me with awe and admiration.

  When Pari stayed at school to rehearse I eagerly awaited her return as the household went through its slow, anxious routine. I was worried that Father might notice Pari’s delay in coming home as he came out of his office periodically to check up on what everyone was doing. Mohtaram fretted over her domestic tasks, Manijeh hovering around her, Ali watching or feeding the pigeons between his chores.

  After I did my homework I read or wrote. I wrote little sketches and stories, aside from my assignments for composition class. I fantasized that one day I would write a play and Pari would act in it. As soon as Pari came back, the pulse of the household returned.

  On the day of The Glass Menagerie opening Pari was ecstatic.

  “What’s the most exciting thing for you about acting?�
� I asked.

  “To get to a point where I feel I’m the character.”

  “I like to write fiction so that I can shape a character’s life, make sense of it.”

  She had managed to keep her part in the play a secret from Father. But then Father came into her room, where I was sitting with her, and said, “I don’t approve of your involvement with that school play. We can get into trouble.” He threw a cutting from Etalaat, the daily newspaper he subscribed to, on the floor and left.

  Pari picked it up and we both read it.

  Iraj Moghadessi, the producer, Parviz Ahmadi, the director, and all the actresses, among them Simin Baghouli, were arrested for participating in Ibsen’s play Public Enemy at DadeBad Playhouse in Abadan. . . .

  “I wonder how Father found out about your being in the school play,” I said.

  “Miss Jahanbani must have told him. You know Father talks about us with her all the time. But The Glass Menagerie doesn’t have anything anyone could possibly misconstrue as anti-government.”

  Pari went to Father, cried and begged, and he finally told her she could go ahead this one time. But he didn’t come to see the play. Neither did Mohtaram, going along with Father’s wish. Manijeh wasn’t interested. I was the only one in our family who went to see it.

  The stage was designed to look like a shabby St. Louis tenement apartment: two soft armchairs, with exposed stuffing and faded floral upholstery, a worn rug on the floor, a table covered with a checkered plastic tablecloth, and four chairs. The audience, not a large one, consisted of teachers, some from other schools, a few parents and students. I sat in the first row. The stage was dimly lit but a spotlight focused on Pari’s face. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She had become Laura. Wearing a full-skirted dress falling below her knees, with puffy sleeves and frills at the neckline, she sat at the table and played with small glass animals. The mother, Amanda, wore a long silk dress and pumps. She pressed her son to find a “gentleman caller” for his sister while Laura avoided them by engaging herself with the animals.