We were all so eager to see Abdollah that morning. We loved him and it never occurred to us that he could ever disappoint us. Ever.
Our mother is looking upon us, her children, with such joy and pride as she feeds us bites of barbari bread, spread with sweet, creamery butter. Iman and I hold hands as we sit cross-legged with our knees touching at the sofreh; Hadi and Zain play with their toy cars across from us. Hadi, being older, observes us in a paternal way, making sure of the safety of the little world in which Iman and I live. In the center of the sofreh is a vivid still life – a platter of fresh cut red watermelon, bowls of scarlet pomegranate kernels, ripe peaches, and yellow cherries – the fruit so beautiful it almost doesn’t look real.
When at last, Abdollah enters the room, we squeal in delight:
“Dadashi! Dadashi!“
Dadashi is the traditional nickname of big brothers, and it fits Abdollah so well. He gives off sparks of energy and charm like the name.
He appears in a great rush, and with a lot of dazzle that seems glamorous to us children. He is so handsome – fresh from the shower, his hair perfectly gelled. He wears modern, Western clothes – a tight-fitting, shiny, polyester shirt with a geometric design and large bell-bottom pants. Even though his clothes are from the Western world, he is still within the boundaries of Muslim custom: unlike the wilder boys who have gone too far, his top shirt button is closed. I will have reason to remember that detail later, afterward. It’s so strange, how a life can hinge on something so small: a button. But, at four years old, I don’t know that and could still enjoy Abdollah, rejoice in him.
He bends to kiss us.
The night before, after a pillow fight, Abdollah tucked the four of us into bed, pulling the sheet to our chins. To Iman and me, he whispered, “Jigar-a-meen” – you are so dear to me – before kissing our foreheads and cleaning up our toys so the maid would have less to do. This is Abdollah’s nightly routine after a long day that began before dawn to pray, attend school, and then to work at the hotel. His job was to greet guests, take orders, oversee the switchboard, act as concierge, do my father’s books, and manage the car parts shop next door.
At fifteen, many Iranian boys are considered to be men, ready to work and to settle down with a family. Many boys join their fathers in the family business. Their opinions and interests reflect this since young children are often included in adult conversations. Fifteen is also the age when Muslim boys formally become adults in the eyes of Islamic tradition: at fifteen, they are responsible for praying, fasting, and abiding by Islamic rules. I was only four years old, but I wondered, “Didn’t Abdollah want to hear the pop singer, Googoosh, or go see her in cinema with kids his age? Googoosh is so stunning, a beauty; everyone loves her.”
Maman registers a sigh of pleasure at the sight of her children. She rises from the sofreh, accepts Abdollah’s kiss on her cheek, and walks with him to the kitchen.
How it hurts to remember now: I could hear them laughing as Maman prepared our individual fruit plates decorated with red roses made from peels of a red apple and tiny human shapes from orange peels. As he returned with a fresh tray of butter, feta cheese, and sangak bread, I heard Abdollah say, “I like that shade of lipstick, Maman. You’re so beautiful.”
They were best friends. Maman often said, “Abdollah is wise beyond his years and mine – I don’t have the liaghat – the worth – to be his mother.”
When Baba, our father, returned from the hotel to share breakfast with us, he sat next to Maman on the floor and gently kissed her neck.
I see them still – that last lovely portrait in my mind’s album: Baba’s presence is immense but kind; his voice is deep and reverberates. He is immaculate in his pressed, gray business suit. I know that even his undershirt is ironed. He smells vaguely of the laundry starch and all that is clean, like sunshine.
“Bas-seh, not in front of the kids,” Maman whispers, tilting her head away and smiling. They are still young and happy. They fell in love when they married – Maman at fourteen and Baba at nineteen – and felt blessed with us five children. While we all pretend to focus on our quince jam and orange slices, we watch and laugh as Baba sneaks another kiss, tickling her side. When Baba tells Maman his favorite joke, my brothers glance at each other, smiling. Even though I didn’t understand the story, I start to bounce and laugh, my voice rising an octave higher.
“Baba tell us my favorite, the one about the bride and groom.” Baba doesn’t need my encouragement, however. To him, every time he tells this joke, it is as fresh as the first time. Baba always makes us laugh, and to him, making us smile is his mission before he leaves home for work.
Baba is as handsome as Maman is lovely. He is a big man, a protector, and a power. He is the source of our wealth and safety; even as little girl, I sense that Baba is the reason our life is good. We have two drivers, four maids, twenty-five chickens, one rooster, daily deliveries of fresh fruit and bread. Our father is no ordinary man; he is the great Baba, who is a community leader and hero. We lead no ordinary life – we take vacations throughout the world. We travel throughout West Asia and the greater Middle East. We have been to places like Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Kuwait, Turkey, and the holiest of places, Mecca and Medina.
At the sofreh, Baba turns to Abdollah as they begin to talk of the day’s business. Baba offers Abdollah the freshest bites of feta cheese and the crispiest sangak flatbread and then, as he always does, wraps his arm around Abdollah’s neck and kisses his forehead.
We wave to Abdollah and Baba as they stop at the front door to put on their shoes and walk side by side to the Rose Hotel, Abdollah carrying Baba’s briefcase.
Then the phone rang. It was the Grand Ayatollah.
We did not know that morning would be the last – the end of such assured affection, plenitude, and kindness.
THE NAKED WOMAN IN THE SNOW
While we finished our delicious breakfast, kilometers away, an elderly woman regained consciousness, and awakened to the shock of her incomprehensible condition. How could she be lying naked in the snow? Yet, this was not a nightmare – her skin was numbed and dark with frostbite and bruises. She could taste her own blood in her mouth, feel the jagged edges where her lips were torn, her teeth broken. And from deep within her, the worst pain of all, her violation.
She stared at the hunks of hair and bloodied scalp that rested near her head and then recognized them as her own. She could not stand; her ankle twisted under her. Naked, numb, she began to crawl toward a distant light. Around her, the snow fell, whispering as if in pity – or complicity.
The snow had nearly covered the misdeed, and almost her body. Yet, some willpower remained alive and she continued to try, as best she could, to reach the distant doorway, where the light and curlicued wrought iron gate promised a possible sanctuary.
She was afraid to remember what she knew she would never forget. Mindless, primordial, she dragged herself toward the light, her only thought her prayer to God, to live to see her husband and children once more. To her, the world had already ended; she could not have known that it was also ending for many thousands of others. She had only been one of the first. Her battered brain, swollen in her tightening skull, would not process such a thought – ever. She crawled on.
Bit by bit, the previous evening returned to her in all its detail. After spending six hours in an Islamic religious ceremony at her friend’s home, the woman had welcomed the fresh air and cool wind when she walked out on the street. A rose-violet light filtered through the falling snow.
The snow dampened the heavy fabric of her black chador as she walked in the quiet night, accompanied only by the soft moonlight that appeared as a faint shred of gauze behind the curtain of snow. Passing between bare trees, branches now outlined in white, the woman left a trail of footprints in the white powder. Her eyes began to water from the wind and the cold bit the hand under her chin as she clutched her chador to keep it closed. Through the blur of the bitter wind and snow, she could see only half
a block ahead to the glow of lamp light and a welcoming gate. She relished the thought of her warm home, the dear faces and voices of her family within the stout walls, the safe, soft plush of the carpeted rooms. She would be home soon; there would be hot food, the embraces of her family, the kisses on her cheeks.
Then she heard the engine of a car behind her, and pulled the chador even tighter. During the past six months, there had been so much unrest and disturbances; lootings and assaults had become more common.
“Ya Allah…” she whispered, and watched her prayer rise as vapor in the cold night air. God would keep her safe. This was, after all, in her childhood neighborhood, her safe haven. Her focus was broken by the sudden sound of the car’s tires braking on the iced pavement. Her feet lost their grip and she slipped onto the cold cement. She tried to stand but her ankle buckled under her, broken or sprained. She lay helpless on the freezing pavement.
When she didn’t hear the car doors close – only the sound of the still and running engine and footsteps behind her – she turned, hoping that perhaps, it was a neighbor stopping to help her. But silhouetted in the headlights of a Peykan car, two teenage boys were coming toward her. The taller one pulled a whiskey bottle from behind him and slammed it on the wall near her head, shattering the bottleneck.
As the strangers approached, her heart beat like a trapped bird’s, a scream rose in her throat, but somehow she could not make a sound.
“What are you afraid of sexy lady?” asked one of the boys, whom she surmised couldn’t have been more than seventeen.
“Salaam. I have a grandson your age,” she said; a survival reflex. “Perhaps you know him? Ali? He is a good boy, as I’m sure you both are.” The stench of alcohol on the two boys’ breath reached her nostrils and her throat burned.
“Don’t be afraid of us,” the smaller boy said. He came close. She could smell his hair: foul, unwashed, long and stringy with grease. He offered her the broken whiskey bottle, as if encouraging her to drink. She pulled the chador tighter around her, exposing only a sliver of one eye.
“You don’t want to have fun with us? Come on, we just want to talk to you about God!”
She tried to stand, but collapsed – the newly twisted ankle anchored her in place. She could not flee.
While taking a drink from another whiskey bottle he had in his other hand, and waving the broken bottle in the air, the boy put his foot in front of her, blocking her from any move, and pushed her. She was on the ground – trapped.
“Where are you going? You too good for us? Too godly?” he asked.
He raised the heavy glass whiskey bottle from which he was drinking, and slammed it against the back of her head. She felt her mouth force shut with the impact. She involuntarily bit her tongue and tasted the surge of blood in her mouth.
“We’re inviting you to a party. I said take a drink!” the other boy hissed as he pinned her arms to the icy, wet cement.
She struggled to push the boys away and as the taller of the two boys pushed the broken bottle against her mouth, she began to retch. Her resistance and his drunkenness made his first attempts unsuccessful, but he did not stop until he was able to force the bottle between her lips and then the strong brown liquid down her throat. The heaviness and force of the bottle’s impact broke her jaw; she heard her teeth crack. She screamed as the jagged edges of the glass tore her lips, and she writhed against the stony ground.
They dragged her, gagging and choking, and threw her into the trunk of the car. As she fell, through the red blur of her pain, she caught a glimpse of her house – the white-decorated gate, the glow of light, reflecting on the snow. In front, a stray dog gazed at her, the only witness.
After a cold, bumpy car ride in which she drifted in and out of a pain-sleep, the woman felt the boys haul her out of the trunk and dump her on the ground. She landed on her back, against the hard snow-packed road. She tried to let out a scream, but the boys crammed her chador in her mouth. The two began pulling at her clothes until they tore them from her body. She could feel her bare skin against the cold earth. She tried to cover her nakedness as the two boys kicked and punched her body as if she were already dead. She screamed again when they pulled her hair so hard that she could see a hunk of scalp with hair in one boy’s hand.
Finally, when she was almost unconscious, they held down her legs, and parted them wide. Then, one after the other, the boys shoved themselves against her and penetrated her. They panted like animals and she felt their hot and meaty dog breath in her face.
She closed her eyes, picturing the smiles of her husband and her sweet grandchildren. She had never known any man but her loving husband, in the sacredness of their long marriage. At last, the boys, hot and bloodied, finished with her.
When she heard the car speed away, her body suddenly began to shiver and convulse. She bobbed up and down. She spasmed and felt she could die. Then, just as abruptly, the convulsions stopped. For a moment, she turned to her side and opened her eyes, trying to focus on the moon, now half-covered by the gauze as if bandaged. Then everything went black.
Dawn broke; the battered woman had found strength to crawl inch by bloodied inch toward the dim lights ahead. When she reached the doorstep of the first house, she rang the doorbell before she fell into a fetal position, curling her knees to her chest to hide her breasts and private parts.
The woman who answered the door screamed, and at once, removed her own chador and covered the naked victim. With gentle hands, she pulled the wounded woman inside her house and began to clean her. She murmured to her in a compassionate voice, “Oh dear! Don’t worry; you’re going to be all right.”
The woman, almost unconscious, flinched when the other woman brought the warm washcloth toward her ripped mouth. The other woman finished cleaning off the dry blood as she repeated in a whisper, “God will heal you. Time and God will heal you.” Her voice was musical, and her words repeated as a refrain in the almost-dead woman’s cracked skull: “Time and God will heal you. Time and God will heal you.”
She covered the woman’s nakedness with a Kashmir blanket and then rushed toward the black rotary phone and dialed the number of someone important: the Grand Ayatollah.
Baba
Two nights earlier, there had been an event that Baba had dismissed as “an incident.” Baba had realized at the time that it was a confrontation but he did not comprehend the impact. He imagined he had headed off the major conflict.
Hostilities had been building ever since Baba got on a list for having openly denied the Shah’s political cronies access to the Rose Hotel because they refused to observe his strict religious codes of conduct: no alcohol, no music, no women who weren’t covered in a chador, and no unrelated men and women together.
After that perceived insult, the Shah’s officials, in their armored cars, would pull up in the driveway of the Rose Hotel and jeer out the window. This last time, they pantomimed shooting at the hotel, aiming with their fingers as if poised on their automatic rifle’s release. The guns they wore at their hips were real enough.
Baba was not intimidated. “Get out. You are not welcome here.”
As owner of one of the biggest hotels in the city, Baba took his orders from God, not the monarchy. It did not take long for this story to pass from one person to the next in the town.
Unrest had been building for a year since the exiled Ayatollah Khomeini’s son was rumored to have been assassinated while being interrogated by the SAVAK, the Shah’s secret police. The first anti-government protests had begun. The Shah’s attempt to stifle public dissent resulted in many civilian deaths, and subsequently threw Iran into turmoil, which was fast becoming a national movement that demanded the end of the Shah’s rule.
The United States and Britain were seen as the power behind the Pahlavi regime. There was a long history of resentment that had been festering against the two countries since 1953 when both nations led the military coup d’état against Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh.
By wi
nter 1978, Mashhad was in the throes of massive unrest. Baba was sympathetic to the growing Islamic movement as were the majority of Iran’s people, since the Shah, with Western and U.S. support, had full authoritative control in Iran, and left no room for involvement of the average citizen. The people could not yet foresee where that would lead them, or what dangers lay ahead. All they were thinking at that time was that they preferred the religious leader, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, to the Shah. The Shah was viewed as a corrupt and irreligious monarch who was fueling his own lavish lifestyle with Iranian oil, while the average citizen suffered, and disparity of income and wealth were worsening dramatically.
The daily protests were beginning to affect every aspect of life. Mistrust filled the air and unrelenting strikes by transportation and oil industry workers, in addition to street demonstrations paralyzed the country.
As we innocently enjoyed our last peaceful breakfast, the revolution had begun. It was during this turmoil of the Islamic Revolution that two decisions imploded my family – the first was my father’s, and the second my brother Abdollah’s.
What followed was inexorable and tragic.
The phone call might as well have been a draft notice to our father: Grand Ayatollah Shahami’s call to Baba would enlist our family in the forthcoming regime destined to soon become the Islamic Republic of Iran.
Ayatollah Shahami, an important member of the clergy, had asked Baba to marshal the hotel staff, search for the two boys accused of raping the woman, and apprehend them. It was easy for Ayatollah Shahami to draft Baba for the job. He told him, “Only a man with your courage and sense of duty to God could do this.”
The Rose Hotel Page 2
