Daughters of Smoke and Fire

by Ava Homa

  The large dusty clock on the wall showed half past four. The officers cut down on the visitation time to allow more people to talk to their families. The first people in the lines protested. The little girl woke up. Surprised to find herself in my arms, she clung to her mother. In the men’s section, someone in his seventies had fallen on the floor, and even though his name was called right then, he was not able to get up and visit his son. “I can piggyback him up the stairs,” a burly man offered, but he was ignored by the soldiers.

  “I’m a doctor. I may be able to help him,” a woman near the end of the line announced, but she was not allowed to enter the men’s area. My heart ticked much faster than the clock.

  After all the commotion inside and outside me, I ended up having to leave without getting so much as a glimpse of Chia.

  My migraine made it difficult to keep my eyes open as I walked out of Evin and onto the streets. A car I’d not seen honked at me when I passed the intersection. The world had turned blurry. I took some of the aspirin I had bought for my brother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  My cell phone chimed with a text message when I’d almost finished my shift at the bookstore.

  Strike at Evin. It was Farhad’s wife. Demanding to reduce the restrictions on visiting political prisoners.

  I made placards out of old cardboard boxes, as Chia would have done. When I arrived in front of the gates of Evin in the late afternoon, a couple hundred people had already gathered there. Sunlight filtered through leafy jacaranda trees. We chanted for more than an hour, but the authorities ignored us. A few foreign media correspondents showed up, secretly showing us their press badges, and interviewed a few brave people. The reporters were broadcasting live when men on motorcycles appeared, looking threatening enough for the journalists to scatter.

  The Basiji bikers, the unofficial militia recognizable by their long beards and striped black-and-white scarves, cut through us. “Go home, filthy animals,” they called out. Some carried large buckets of water, which they poured onto the pavement where some elderly protesters had spread towels to sit.

  The Basij pushed and shoved us, spat at us, called the men infidels and the women whores. The armed soldiers were entertained by the harassment and mocked our request for protection.

  I looked straight ahead in silence. Some of the gang members were as young as thirteen and others as old as sixty. Many were opportunists, others sadists. Some looked brainwashed; some were veterans of the eight-year Iran-Iraq war, had lost limbs fighting for their country, and still believed the government was holy—and that we were threats to be eliminated. If I’d joined a gang when I was in school like them, I’d have been a college graduate today—spying for the government was among the most notorious tactics that got people admitted to universities, while others who scored high on the national exam were denied education because of their or their families’ activism.

  I snuck out of the crowd and watched from a distance, trying to film the scenes, holding the cell phone under my large and loose headscarf. A man in his forties—hoping to gain release for his teenage daughter who’d been arrested during a rally—lost self-control, pulling a Basiji off his bike and punching him in the face. People cheered, and the thugs rained down blows on the man. Bystanders tried to protect him, and soon it was an all-out brawl.

  A woman leaped at and beat one of the attackers with her purse. He shoved her. She fell to the ground. A few women and I, who had been standing nervously on the sidelines, ran to help the woman who’d fallen. But the prison guards were immediately on the scene, ordering us to disperse if we wished to stay alive.

  I was pushed forward by the press of the throng, closer to the armed men. Close enough to chant in their faces, “We do not accept humiliation.” The rage I’d kept bottled up inside me boiled over, made me brave. I screamed at the guard who told me to fuck off. “International interventions will soon put a stop to your brutality!”

  “Yeah,” the soldier scoffed, and then laughed humorlessly. “Wait for the world to come and save you. Loser!” Our eyes met. We both paused. His lips curled into a mocking smile before his face turned grave. What I thought was a smirk turned out to be a tic. We sized each other up.

  A layer of skin covered the hole where his left ear had been cut off.

  He sniffed, then directed the tip of his rifle barrel at my forehead, right where Chia had kissed me for the last time.

  “Get out of here before I waste a bullet on you.”

  The photos of the firing squad formed before my eyes, of the victims holding out despite bullets going through their flesh, others crouched in pain. The deadly weapon on my forehead. The soldier’s expressionless face. The cold metal pressing against my skin. His fingers twitched, touching the trigger.

  The crowd around me stilled. I held my breath.

  “You think we’re afraid of death?” My voice was low and even, though my hands shook with adrenaline.

  “I swear to my martyred child, we’ll kill you if you shoot,” a nearby woman threatened the soldier. The crowd chanted in approval, slowly pushed in. A walkie-talkie crackled at the soldier’s belt. He lowered his G3 and picked up his wireless device. I backed slowly into the crowd, crablike, still staring at him. He turned away. I squeezed my way out.

  Deaf to the car horns and hum of the street, blind to those who passed me, I jogged home, the aftershocks of the confrontation shivering my innards.

  Until coming face-to-face with death, I had taken cruelty personally, overlooking how that kind of ruthlessness had roots deep in the history of humankind. It didn’t matter if my name was Leila or Njorge, if I spoke Hebrew or Navajo—it was most certainly not about me.

  When I got home, I sat out on the balcony as if being between walls would take this little epiphany away from me. I felt light, relieved of my crippling self-pity. I hugged my knees and massaged my aching feet, then stared up at the gray-and-black clouds marching across the sky. Wicked people lived in this world, and it wasn’t my fault. It was all part of the game. “Arguing with the rules, complaining about your bad hand . . . none of that works. Shift your focus on playing your hand the best you can and notice the difference,” Joanna had said once, and only now did I understand.

  The rain splattered down after a loud thunderclap. I lifted my face and palms to the sky. I wasn’t alone, I saw then. People in Rwanda, Bosnia, plantations, and indigenous residential schools in North America were standing shoulder to shoulder with the Kurds. I remained in the rain long enough to witness the rainbow that appeared afterward.

  In the morning the fog had evaporated. I reread a few pages of Chia’s diary and felt nourished by his thoughts.

  I knew what to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Shiler set up a video chat for me with her new commander so I could learn some important cybersecurity tips. The all-female militia of her political party elected a new commander every six months to prevent the corruption of power. Berivan—a computer engineer raised in Van whose entire village had been torched by Turkey when she was a child—patiently taught me how to create two-step verifications, avoid easily monitored applications, download encryption software, deactivate automatic backup on my phone, and permanently delete chats.

  “You’ll be the first culprit in their eyes if his writings go viral,” she warned me. “You shouldn’t give the monsters any evidence to jail you too. You are playing with fire by drawing attention to his case.” Her rifle lay quietly on her lap like a sleeping pet as she had me repeat everything she had taught me.

  After she was done, Shiler appeared on the screen.

  “You look sunburnt.” I was surprised.

  “You could use a little vitamin D yourself.”

  I admitted to Shiler that I was not afraid of the attention that posting Chia’s writings would garner, but rather the possibility that no one would care. “Look at the selfie-mania on social media, the ugliness put on full display in the comment sections.”

  “Do you
think the team here is making this much of an effort for him just because I asked? No, haval. Listen to me: Chia is going to draw a lot of attention, and not just because you and I love him. You may not see it from where you stand.” Shiler picked up the laptop and moved to another room inside her humble base. The wall behind her was peeling, revealing clay mixed with straw, an ancient method of ventilation. “Chia is a unifying voice for a divided opposition, because he is proof that all is not lost in this morass—and he has one hell of a moving pen.”

  The connection sputtered, and her face, thoughtful for a moment, pixelated on the screen.

  “Okay, here’s what you do. Type up all of Chia’s diary entries, poems, essays, everything. And I’ve kept all the letters he wrote me over the years, I can share some of those too. When a cellmate is released, he might be able to smuggle some new writing out. If . . . not if, actually, when they come for you, tell them you shared his letters only with your parents, who must have shared them with someone else who posted them. Act like you don’t understand how the internet works. They’ll monitor your phone and wireless connection. Once you post everything, we’ll help spread his words.”

  “Thanks, Shiler. I truly couldn’t do this without you. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “I am so sorry I left, Leila. I swear on my mother’s life, had I stayed there another day, I’d have completely lost it. I finally understood why so many women do themselves in. Everywhere I looked was a dead end.”

  “Are you truly happy there? Honestly?”

  “I won’t lie to you. It was hard on my body at first. But I feel so free. You’d love it here too. Full of butterflies and wildflowers for you. We hunt partridges, and we catch fish and barbeque them fresh. We plant our own garden too and . . .”

  “And when Turkish and Iranian air strikes rain bombs on you?”

  “We usually outsmart them, and they can’t locate our position, but it is heartbreaking when they target innocent villagers. You know what, Leila? The truth is that they don’t really want to kill us all. How else are they going to get people to vote for them if there isn’t some ‘enemy’ out there? I see it so clearly now. The end of racism and other fears will be the end of dictators. Our weapons may look like toys before their artillery, but what we stand for scares the hell out of them. So they’re more focused on distorting our image than actually killing us, and they can do that. They control the masses through media.”

  “So what exactly are you doing?”

  “A lot of things. Small but good things. We go into the villages and teach women how to make pickles and sell them so they have some financial independence. We give them contraceptives. We teach children how to identify land mines and stay safe. You know, the fields haven’t been demined in the three decades since the war, and children still lose limbs because of them. Some die. No one reports on it, but it’s happening. Some of the comrades sit with the Imams of the villages and convince them to tell people female genital mutilation is not right. We teach men how to avoid overhunting and be mindful of the ecosystem.”

  “And what happens when Revolutionary Guards walk in on you?”

  “When someone’s discovered, if they’re not arrested, they run back here or go abroad to continue the work, but they always recruit new members. Leila, people are a lot more amazing than you and I knew. Or maybe the most amazing people are drawn to us because there is very little one can do alone.”

  “Chia knew all of that, didn’t he?”

  “He did, but he was more interested in working alone. And not obeying orders. Listen, I’ll create a shared email we can both check, and I will send all the updates through it. Never check this from your home internet.”

  Shiler put her lips on the monitor.

  I blew a kiss. We both hugged our computers and laughed.

  I typed up some of Chia’s journal entries, created a Facebook page, linked to his blog, and shared his words.

  I sat at the computer all day and posted as many photos, articles, and stories as I could find. I researched websites and blogs dedicated to political prisoners and submitted Chia’s information, emailed every activist whose name I could look up, and asked them to prepare petitions for my brother, whose alleged crime was accompanying someone who had recorded a government’s murder scene.

  Shiler, who, unlike me, had access to unfiltered internet, joined the effort and recruited her havalan—comrades—to translate Chia’s words into Turkish, Arabic, English, German, French, Dutch, and more. She moved her massive network, since her party had attracted leftist members and sympathizers all over the globe, especially in Europe.

  Chia’s words spread.

  When Mama called the week after, furious that I had lied to her about Chia, I realized Shiler was indeed right about his letters going viral.

  “I was trying to spare you the heartache. It’s nearly killed me, not knowing where he was, if he was safe—or alive, even. And as for lying, did you ever tell Baba about your affair with your intersex client?” I finally confronted her. She drew in a sharp breath.

  “It was a mistake. A momentary mistake. Do you want to tell him now? In the middle of this crisis? Are you planning on giving your father a heart attack? He’s devastated. When he heard about Chia, he curled up like an infant and sobbed for hours.”

  I placed the “Be back in five minutes” sticky note on the door of the bookstore and hid behind the counter. I could hear the fear in her voice. “No, Mama. I’m not going to tell him anything now. I’m just making a point about how some things are better left unsaid.”

  “When will Chia be released? I’ve been getting phone calls from TV and radio stations digging for information.”

  I gaped. “Mama, you should immediately hang up when strangers call. Okay? Remember, it’s not safe. Unplug the phone. Or change your number. Do you want to go to prison too? At this age? Do not talk to anyone. Not even one person. If you do, they will torture Chia. Even one word can mean a lot of trouble.”

  “What can I do? People come to our door. Acquaintances. Everybody has heard about Chia.”

  My legs began to ache from hunkering behind the cluttered counter, but there was a big grin on my face. I had to hide the smile from my voice. “Just don’t answer. They could easily be spies. Even if they look like friends. Remember how your neighbor told on Baba and they raided your house?”

  “We want to come visit him.”

  “I haven’t been able to see him, but when I can try for visitation again, I’ll tell you. Just be patient until I sort this out.”

  “I tell everyone my son is innocent.”

  “Of course he is. Everybody knows this. So please, just don’t get him into more trouble. All it takes is one word to the wrong person.”

  “Your father says you should come home. Living on your own is not safe.”

  “Is he dis-disowning me now?”

  “Please, Leila. Your father wants us to return to Halabja.”

  “Brilliant! That’s an excellent idea. Go. Leave this country. Find a farm there. Chia and I will join you. We will plant pomegranate trees together.”

  “Not yet! We couldn’t leave Chia here. After he’s released. When will he be released?” she sobbed.

  “Mama, I have to go.” I hung up the phone. My knees were tingling. I reopened the store and continued working until eight o’clock.

  After closing the shop, I took the bus to an underground internet café I’d learned about from the prison visitors I’d befriended. The café, located in the basement of a fancy shopping mall, was expensive, but they offered unfiltered high-speed internet and privacy, things regulated internet cafés lacked. Inside it was dark and hazy with cigarette smoke, lit only by the blue-green glow of the screens. Each customer wore a headset and was immersed in his computer. I noticed the heavy eyes of the men and avoided looking at their private screens as I made my way to the last available stall to check the email account Shiler had set up.

  There they were: the heartening, s
ympathetic comments and letters from strangers contacting the website where Shiler and I had posted Chia’s writing. He had indeed touched a lot of people. Since printouts of the messages would have meant trouble if I were caught, I sat there and reread the letters, trying to memorize the heartwarming lines. One said that Chia’s words, his imagination, his ability to communicate the anguish of others made him an icon representing all political prisoners.

  That night I left the café in tears. “Aw, did your boyfriend cheat on you?” asked one of the guys.

  The protests outside of Evin gained international attention, and the global condemnations regarding the way Iran treated the families of political prisoners finally made the authorities grant more visitations. Meanwhile, not a single piece of evidence was brought forward against Chia; the public and officials alike knew he was innocent.

  When I finally set eyes on Chia behind the thick window, 183 days after his disappearance, I couldn’t control my sobs. How could I? His hazel eyes were bruised, his skin sallow, his right arm shaking from electrocution. His cheeks were hollow, his formerly full hair receding and graying. His scraggly beard had grown long and disheveled.

  He couldn’t control his tears either and placed both palms on the window. Chia’s endearing terms followed mine, were mixed in mine. I mouthed “dllakam”—darling—meaning it more than ever, and I watched him say “dllakam” in return. I wasn’t sure if I was at the receiving or the sending end of love as relief fizzled in every molecule of my being.

  “Choni khoshkakam?” How are you, sister? Chia mimed the question, pretending to wipe my tears despite the glass. We laughed and we cried together. He placed a hand on his heart, miming “So happy to see you.”

  “Me too,” I mimed back. We didn’t need words. We just needed to see each other, and that was the most heartwarming thing in the world.

  I picked up the receiver, ready to speak. “You have gained muscles, haven’t you?” He had lost a good twenty pounds, if not more.