In turn, each prisoner picked up the telephone receiver. A line of dark-haired, dark-eyed, unshaven men came forward and faced us; they all looked grim. In the back I could see Abdollah’s smile, like a single ray of sun, shine through the group of men, but his face wasn’t as I remembered. Although his hair was combed with care and parted from the left, it was unstyled and he looked exhausted; his luminous eyes, so like Maman’s, were shadowed. His color was ashen. I stared at a purple bruise on his temple. My eyes moved to the floor and, out of instinct, I grabbed Iman’s hand.
Baba snatched the black phone’s cracked handle and whispered across the glass partition.
“Pesaram.” My son.
“Baba, I’m fine.”
When Abdollah saw me sneaking a look at him, I quickly redirected my gaze to the dried mud on my new red shoes, which I had worn just for the occasion. There was no ventilation in the room; I coughed as it became more difficult to breathe. Although I was afraid to talk on the phone, I wanted to ask him how we would have a pillow fight through the glass? When I finally pressed my palm against Abdollah’s, the glass between our hands felt slippery and thick, like lamp oil on my fingertips. I smiled as I left my sticky handprint.
Hadi shook his head from side to side as Maman tried to hand him the phone.
Baba had anticipated our discomfort speaking to our brother through the dirty glass. He pulled a roll of money from his pocket and reached to shake hands with the large bearded guard.
“Just one of them and only for a minute,” the guard answered, accepting the handclasp and concealed cash. He motioned to us to go to an adjoining room.
I followed as Baba pushed Hadi into a room with metal bars. When Baba put his hands on Hadi’s shoulders and walked him toward his brother, Abdollah whispered, “Hadi, come here. Let me hold you. I miss you all so much.”
Slowly, Hadi approached, his arms open to Abdollah who was kneeling on the floor, his orange prison suit now dirty at the knees. I remained at the entrance, mute. Around us, we could hear the constant clang of slamming metal doors and women crying in the other rooms. I wanted my Maman.
Hadi was quiet as Abdollah spoke. “How’s school, Hadi? How’s Maman? Are you helping her around the house?” When they finally embraced through the bars, Hadi dug his fingers in Abdollah’s orange jumpsuit, squeezed his eyes shut, and placed his head on his big brother’s shoulder. Soon, Abdollah would be marking his sixteenth birthday in prison.
Abdollah took Hadi’s shoulders and gently pushed him away. Staring in his eyes, he kissed him on both cheeks, held his head in his hands, and whispered into his ear. Slowly, Hadi nodded and shook his brother’s hand. As he walked away, he looked back twice and waved. Hadi appeared changed, more troubled then than before the conversation.
Back in the muddy yard where families waited, we helped my parents hand out the stews and rice dishes to those still waiting on the patchy grass for their visits with their loved ones.
When we piled back into our car, a heavy silence filled the space between us as we made our way back home on the dust-blown road.
We children understood that the hot, gray building where Abdollah sat behind greasy glass was a bad place and that he couldn’t leave any time soon. Even Iman and I understood that. But none of us really knew the reason he was there. Our parents didn’t tell us, and we knew not to ask.
We didn’t know about the calls to Grand Ayatollah Shahami, who said he could do nothing to help Abdollah, or the attempts to reach Ayatollah Khabazi, the revolutionary cleric whom Baba and Abdollah had hidden for a year and who was now at the center of the newly-established government. Khabazi never returned Baba’s calls. We didn’t know about the meeting with Maman’s brother, Mohsen, a city official who served as the right-hand man of Mashhad’s Mayor Tabasi.
When my father tried to meet with Mohsen, he stood shading his eyes from the sun and bowed his head, refusing to meet Baba’s eyes.
“Let it be handled in Qom,” he had told Baba. “It’s the new Islamic court, Haji. The new clerics will review the judge’s decisions. I have no authority. The decision is in their hands.”
Baba waved his arms in frustration. “Surely you can see that this is a terrible mistake? The judge must be made to understand that this sentence is unjust.”
“Each one of these clerics, these new mullahs, are fighting for power; and, Haji, the judge doesn’t like you. You’ve been talking about this too much.” Mohsen stopped walking and faced Baba. “He’s not going to let Abdollah free after he’s already ruled and have the community accuse him of accepting a bribe. You have to know who you are dealing with.”
“Mohsen Jaan,” Maman said, as she placed a hand on her brother’s arm.
Mohsen didn’t look at her. “It’s out of my hands. I can’t do anything. It’s a new regime. Even my boss has no power here in Mashhad. And for my own family’s sake, I cannot risk any involvement.”
For the next six months, except for once a week when we drove to the prison with a trunk filled with enough watermelons, canned beans, pineapple, and peaches for Abdollah and the other prisoners, Maman spent her days making bargains with God and Imam Reza. Although Baba hated the Islamic state where he witnessed abuses take place by men who had hijacked his beloved religion for power, he had no choice but to appeal to those clerics, the ‘men of God,’ for his son’s release.
Nothing more could be done in Mashhad. Baba’s goodwill and community service were no match for the ambition and fear inspired by the men of this new regime. People who had been intimate friends and had borrowed money from Baba, stayed at his hotel, and even traveled with him for free, were now distancing themselves. After the Revolution, everything was fraught with uncertainty; no one wanted to risk their rank or connection in the new government or put their families in jeopardy.
It was a dangerous time and, although I was too young to realize the full extent, I felt Maman’s uneasiness and sensed that we were all at risk.
THE POMEGRANATE FARM
Without telling us where we were going, Maman and Baba crowded my three brothers and me into the backseat of the car and drove sixteen hours west to Rasht, where the Salamats, our close family friends, owned a pomegranate farm. This was the first time we were to be away from our parents, and our distress was palpable. After the Salamats greeted us and our parents had left, Iman wouldn’t let go of my hand, and we both kept our heads down and our eyes focused on the ground. As they ushered us through the pomegranate trees and the fruit fields, we barely noticed the bright flowers that stretched like an endless line of ballerinas over the slender paths or the heavy scent of lemon blossoms floating in the air. We didn’t stop, as we normally would have, to taste the cherries and mulberries – the toot – that the Salamats picked from the trees in an attempt to distract us and make us feel comfortable.
Hadi, restless and agitated from the moment we arrived, finally took his eyes off the ground and climbed a tree, then jumped down to climb another. Like a monkey, he clawed his way up and down the trunks, trying to settle himself. When he finally came down, Mr. Salamat reached for his hand and put his arm around Hadi’s shoulder. Hadi shrugged it away and ran off ahead.
Zain was the only one who ate that night. He shoved bread, rice, and fresh whitefish in his mouth, and then complained when the tiny fish bones pricked at his mouth and throat.
Iman and I slept on a mattress on the floor, our bodies tangled in an embrace, while Hadi stayed awake watching the door. I couldn’t hear Zain crying himself to sleep, but I woke up a few times and saw the vibration of his sobs beneath his blanket. And for the first time since I was in diapers, I wet the bed every night. After changing my pajamas, I eased my sleeping little brother to the dry corner of the mattress and curled my arms around him again. Avoiding the wetness of the mattress would become our nightly routine as we counted the days until Maman and Baba would return for us.
Maman
In Tehran, across the mountains and hours away, Maman’s hands and legs
still trembled as she adjusted her chador and underwear after the strip search at the entrance to the Khomeini compound.
“I’m so deeply sorry for their behavior,” Mrs. Khomeini whispered. “They’re overprotective of my husband. They had specific instructions not to search you. Please forgive me.”
Embracing Maman, Mrs. Khomeini kissed her on both cheeks. “I told them you’re like a sister. I will never forget your great hospitality and all the wonderful meals you prepared for us when we stayed at your hotel in Mashhad.”
“I’m here about my son, Abdollah,” Maman answered, trying to be businesslike though she couldn’t disguise the pleading tone of her voice. “A great injustice has been committed and I came to speak to Ayatollah Khomeini, to tell him what people are doing in his name and in the name of religion, and to beg him to intercede. My son is just sixteen.” Maman, who was squeezing Mrs. Khomeini’s hand, said this all in one breath, then gulped for air, trying to control the tears that she knew would flood her soon.
One of Mrs. Khomeini’s three daughters offered Maman tea and sweets and the women gathered around Maman, touching her hands and shoulders and listening to her as she told her son’s story. Taking Maman’s hands again, Mrs. Khomeini reassured her that Abdollah would be exonerated.
When the eldest daughter returned from speaking to her father, she reported that illness prevented him from receiving visitors, but that he promised he would intercede in Abdollah’s case. Later, in fact, he arranged a meeting between Baba and a lead judge who was to reroute Abdollah’s file from the court in Qom to Tehran. There, under Khomeini’s oversight, the judge was to “personally review the case and correct it.”
However, my parents had heard of so many innocent deaths in the midst of the post-revolution chaos, that they worried that Abdollah’s file would not be handled as planned. They decided to drive to Qom to intervene with the newly-formed religious high court who would be the ultimate decision makers in Abdollah’s case.
The son-in-law of Maman’s sister, a cleric with the new court, was the next person to take Maman’s hand. “I know his case well. I know it’s on its way here to Qom. I’m to receive it and personally take it to my superior. Rest assured.” He added, “My mother is inviting you all to her house for a feast after Abdollah’s release. Go home and rest. Your nightmare will be over soon.”
Even with reassurance from Mrs. Khomeini and now Maman’s family, my parents decided to seek the support of one last person. Although Ayatollah Khabazi had received many urgent messages that Abdollah was in trouble, he had not returned Baba’s calls in the last few months since the verdict. Now a key figure in putting the Qom leadership together, it appeared that Ayatollah Khabazi had forgotten the risks Baba had taken for the Khabazi family when Baba hid them from the Shah back in Mashhad.
At his home they found only Mrs. Khabazi, who invited them in, offered tea and dinner, and insisted they spend the night. Again and again, Mrs. Khabazi thanked Baba for saving their lives during their year in hiding, and said that if it hadn’t been for him, her family would not have this chance for a new life in Iran. Although she reported her husband was traveling, she promised that he would take care of the matter.
“They’re back. They’re back!” Zain screamed as he jumped down the stairs having caught a glimpse of our parents’ car pulling up the long driveway. It had been three long days since we had seen our parents.
I ran to the window, and as I watched Maman step out from the car, my shoulders relaxed and then Iman, Hadi, and I ran down to greet her. She was overjoyed to touch and kiss each one of us and my father, looking deflated and exhausted, gathered us up in his big arms. Refusing an offer of dinner, my parents stayed at the pomegranate farm only long enough to perform the ritual cleansings – wudu – before their evening prayers, and then herded us into the car for the journey back home to Mashhad.
With promises from the highest authorities in Iran, including the person next to the Supreme Leader himself, our parents’ hopeful mood filled the car for the long ride home to Mashhad. Holding Iman with one arm on her lap, Maman reached out the other and massaged Baba’s neck. “Khaste nabashi..” She whispered endearments for the first time since this ordeal began. Baba reached behind his neck to touch her hand. “I did my duty. This has been a hard burden for you, but I promise our family will be whole again soon.”
Eventually Maman sent Iman to me in the backseat so she could feed Baba slices of peeled tangerines to keep him alert for the long eighteen-hour drive home. Looking at her, he began singing the only song lyrics he knew, the song he always sang when we traveled in the car. “Baroon barooneh – it’s raining, it’s raining and the ground is getting wet. Don’t worry my flower, everything will be set. We’ll survive the storm, we’ll survive the pain.” One by one, we all joined in, humming in unison as we arranged ourselves on two blankets that kept us warm over the course of the cold drive east. Iman’s head was on my lap, and he held tight to my index finger with both his hands as I rested my head on Hadi’s shoulder, which had now pressed against Zain’s. I worked hard to keep my eyes open, but finally settled into dreaming as Maman continued to hum to us.
When we finally arrived home, my parents each carried a limp child into the house. After Baba finished carrying each of us to our beds, he dropped to the couch, and, still wearing his glasses, fell fast asleep. He had been driving for days.
As I finally began to drift into sleep, I felt Maman’s loving eyes pass over each one of us as we rested in our beds. Maman left our bedroom door open and paced through the dark quiet hallway, the rustle of her nightgown the last whisper of fear.
When she finally fell asleep with her black stockings still on her feet, I could faintly hear the sound of her moans as she dreamt and slept fitfully. The promises from people in high positions had not left her at peace. At one point, I heard her gasping for breath and saw Zain leap from the bed to check on her. We all woke in unison and stood by our door and saw Baba now in the bedroom holding Maman’s head in his hands. She clutched at her throat and gestured toward Baba to help her. Pounding on her chest, she whispered, “Khoda please help me, my heart is closing. Everything is going black. I’m being buried alive. God can you hear me? Please help me.”
Half asleep, her palms clammy and wet, she mumbled the content of her dreams to Baba. She seemed unaware of us nearby. She told Baba of the shadows of young men, standing hunched next to each other in a line like trees in a forest, screaming as bullets rained on them. Blood splattered everywhere and she, a witness to this carnage, could do nothing. “When I moved closer to the trees, I saw him, I saw our son. It was Abdollah and his lips were moving. He was reciting a prayer. He had a light around him, like an angel’s glow. Bullets flew at him but bounced off,” Maman choked through her tears.
When at last, she became aware of us, she understood the dream was not real. She rose from the bed and reassured us that she was all right. “Go back to bed, azizanam, I’m okay now,” she said after finally catching her breath. Baba gently coaxed us back to bed, but as I fell back asleep, I saw the light in the living room at the bottom of our door. I knew she would not sleep the rest of the night.
Maman
Before dawn, Maman walked around our house waiting for a dim light to hit the windows, signaling prayer time, the visit to see Abdollah drawing closer. She walked toward the open front door, intrigued by the sounds coming from the outer walls. As she saw dozens of women enter the courtyard, their faces pale, her breath suddenly caught; her chest tightened. She pressed her hand over her heart.
The voices of my grandmother, three of Maman’s sisters, and dozens of other female relatives and friends woke us as they flooded into the house. My aunts entered slapping their cheeks with their hands as they cried out “Vaveyla – Oh, dear God. What has happened?” Maman’s fingernails dug in as she gripped her chest. She couldn’t breathe or speak; she dropped to the couch. The women encircled her fanning her as they recited Qur’anic lyrics.
The slapping of shoes on the brick walkway shook the deck and angry caws filled the yard as the chatter of men’s voices talking over one another woke the crows. Through the window we watched dozens of ayatollahs, many of whom we had never seen before, rip off their turbans and dash them to the deck, crying out “foul play,” and chanting in unison “Chera?” asking each other why this had happened and praying for God’s help.
Maman started to tremble. “What’s happened? Tell me the truth.” Maman demanded as her head spun. She fell to the floor and then tried to stand, pounding her chest, but her legs gave out again and she collapsed and fainted. Minutes later, she opened her heavy eyes, seeing a glimpse of her gentle older sister, our favorite aunt – Khaleh – holding a glass of rose water with sugar crystals. As her eyes shut again, Maman’s fingers loosened her blouse, exposing her chest.
At the window, still in our pajamas, we were watching the sweat drip down the foreheads of the clerics whose head wraps were piled on the cement deck. At first no one seemed to notice my brothers and me.
When Khaleh brought us to kiss Maman, she whispered, “Say goodbye to your mommy. We’ll come back home in a few days.” Maman was confused and her breathing was labored. Zain started to cry, and Hadi scrambled away.
“I won’t leave Maman!” Hadi yelled as Khaleh pulled him toward the door.
“Let me go! I have something to say to her. I promised him,” Hadi said, as he pushed himself against Khaleh’s body screaming, “I have something to tell her!”
Maman’s sisters pushed us toward the door.
“Mamani,” I whispered as we stumbled down the walk, the strange ayatollahs on the deck wailing, “God, please forgive us.”
I repeated my mother’s desperate pleas although I knew no one could hear me: “What’s happened? Tell me the truth.”
The Rose Hotel Page 7
