Then he told me about the ride Mr. Gaffari and the hotel manager had taken him on through the lit city streets of Mashhad hours before the wailing women appeared at our home and when we children were rushed out of our home to our grandparents.
BABA’S FINAL CONFESSION
September 1979
“What happened? What accident? Tell me!” Instead he was met with silence.
“Tell me please. Tell me what has really happened?” Baba begged. The men refused to answer, and then Mr. Gaffari said, “There has been an accident.”
“How will I tell his mother he’s been hurt? How can I possibly face her?” Baba whispered to himself as Mr. Gaffari passed the city hospitals, the prison, and now entered a newly-constructed cement compound. In the distance, through one of the windows of an office, Baba saw a group of men in uniform huddled around a desk, guns to their sides.
“What is this place?” Baba asked as he saw tombstones leaning upright against the office wall. Baba immediately reached for the door handle. The car was moving, yet he flung open the door.
Mr. Gaffari slammed on the brakes as Baba jumped out. “Haji, wait!” He ran after Baba, leaving the car door open; the hotel manager trailed behind them. “Wait, Haji, please wait!”
As Baba was about to charge into the office, Mr. Gaffari grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. “Come with me, Haji. Come this way.”
“Tell me what’s happening! Tell me now!” Baba yelled.
The men in the office were staring at them through the window as Mr. Gaffari guided Baba to the back of the building. “Just come with me,” he said again, his head down.
When they entered a dark concrete hallway, Baba’s eyes bounced from door to door. “Why did you bring me here? Where’s Abdollah?” Mr. Gaffari stopped in front of one door and dropped his hand from Baba’s arm.
Through the one–foot–wide window, Baba saw a raised cement pallet on which laid a body – partially covered with a dirty, blood-stained sheet. “What is this place?” Twisting the door handle, Baba pushed into the room screaming, “Who is this? Why isn’t somebody telling me the truth?”
When Baba recognized the Kuwaiti gold watch he had bought for Abdollah on the body’s limp arm, he grabbed the edge of the bloody sheet, pulling some of it with him as he collapsed to the dirty floor.
Baba woke to his own screams. Mr. Gaffari was sitting next to him holding a cup to his lips. Knocking the water away, Baba bunched the fabric of Mr. Gaffari’s shirt in his fist. “Tell me what’s happening?”
Mr. Gaffari’s eyes were red and puffy, his face streaked with sweat and tears. “What should not have happened has happened. I’m so sorry, Haji.”
Gently releasing his shirt from Baba’s grip, Mr. Gaffari offered him the water again. “I would have given my life for you not to have seen this, but if we didn’t come now, these bastards wouldn’t release the …”
Suddenly remembering where he was, Baba rose, shoved away Mr. Gaffari, and ripped the sheet aside.
Abdollah lay on the cold slab with three bullets in him, one in his forehead, and two in his heart.
Throwing himself on Abdollah, Baba pressed his hands on his son’s cheeks, ran his fingers through the thick black hair, and squeezed Abdollah’s stiff, cold hands. “I was coming to tell you that you were going to be free. They all promised me. Even Khomeini.” Baba took a breath. “You’re not dead. You can’t be dead.” Baba’s screams echoed off the walls. “He wasn’t supposed to be executed! He’s not a murderer. He’s only sixteen.” Baba’s wails grew louder. “He’s my son!”
Mr. Gaffari tried to pry Baba free from Abdollah’s body.
“I will kill them all. Take me to Qom so I can kill them all.”
Baba fell to the floor, pulling the bloodied sheet with him, exposing the naked body of his eldest son. Everything went black.
When Baba awoke, he was sitting on the grass leaning against the outside wall of the compound, Mr. Gaffari again trying to give him a sip of water.
The manager’s voice was shaking. “What do you want us to do? We have to act quickly. They plan to throw his body in a ditch with the thugs and the Mujahedeen.”
Baba rose to his feet, his hands clenching into fists. “They’ll have to kill me before they throw him in the ground with those rapists.” Foam collected at the corners of his mouth and anger flashed in his eyes.
“I don’t care what they do to me. I’ll do the ritual bath myself and bury him. I will put him in the earth with my own hands.”
Mr. Gaffari put an arm on Baba’s shoulder. “Haji, there are secret police all around us. They don’t want to release the body.” Mr. Gaffari shook his head. “We can’t have a funeral, Haji, I’m sorry.”
“My son is having an Islamic burial,” Baba retorted, making his way to the office.
At the office, the guard behind the desk jumped when Baba slammed through the door.
“My son was a man of God, unlike you imposters who pretend you know Islam and pretend to be good Muslims. We’re taking my son for an Islamic funeral. Mifahmi? You understand me? Now, sign the papers.”
The man behind the desk glanced at a colleague than back at Baba. “You owe the government 7,000 tomans for each bullet that was shot – that’s 21,000 total.” The man’s voice was cold, his demeanor smug. Baba could not contain himself; he shook his arm free from Mr. Gaffari’s grip, and leaned across the desk, pushing the papers on to the floor. The veins in his neck throbbed with his rage, and he grabbed the guard’s collar. “I’m taking my son. Try to stop me and I’ll kill you.”
The official tried to shake himself free of Baba’s grip as he cursed him. But Baba wouldn’t let go: he tightened his grip and yelled, “Sign the papers, now!”
Mr. Gaffari moved between them. “You’ve killed the man’s son. He wants to take the body to his wife. He wants a proper burial. Let the man have that for God’s sake.”
The official stared at Baba, and freed himself. He pulled papers from the drawer and finally signed and stamped the form.
“Take it before I change my mind.” The official sneered at Baba.
Baba wanted to conduct the religious washing of his son’s body himself. But after walking into the room and seeing the holes on Abdollah’s face and chest, he fell to the floor. Mr. Gaffari dragged Baba outside where they crouched together, knees folded against their chests. Baba composed himself and from the floor where he was sitting, he began to pray, cry, and offer instructions to the official body-washer. When he had seen the kafan – the shroud that Mr. Gaffari had brought to wrap Abdollah’s body – Baba felt faint. He put his hand on the kafan and gripped it tight. As Baba sobbed, the hotel manager pried the kafan from his hand and went inside. Mr. Gaffari whispered, “God will keep him safe.”
Telling the manager to inform only a few family members of the burial, Baba gave him a check for a million tomans to buy the gravesite at the Haram of Imam Reza and hire the local gravedigger. It had to be done fast, and in silence, without too much ceremony or drawing further attention.
When Baba walked through the doors of our home, holding a plastic bag in each hand, Maman rose and pushed through her sisters. “What are these bags? Tell me what’s happening.” Her eyes were wild, looking everywhere but at Baba. “Where’ve you been? Get these people out of my house and let’s go see Abdollah as we planned.” Baba’s gaze dropped to the Persian rug. Silence filled the room.
She dug into the bag and grabbed a wrinkled yellow Rose Hotel towel. “What is this?” It smelled of Abdollah. She pressed it to her face, taking deep gulps of air from the soft fabric. When she pulled the arm of Abdollah’s jacket from the other bag, she screamed and scratched at Baba’s hands.
Maman tugged the jacket and clutched it to her breast, choking for air. Baba dropped the bags and pulled her to him. Abdollah’s gold watch was still clenched tightly in his fist. “Please forgive me.”
Maman broke free and dropped to her knees, rummaging through the bags, grabbing Abdollah’s tasb
eeh and clenching it until the beads marked her palms, crying out, “Haji, tell me you saved him? Tell me.”
Baba buried his head into her shoulder as he fell to the floor. “I am to blame. I am responsible.” He began to weep. “I’m so sorry, we’ve lost our son.”
Maman gripped Baba’s hair in one hand as they embraced for a moment, their moans and wild cries were like a chorus.
Suddenly, Maman pounded on Baba’s chest with her tight fists, shoved him away, and ran through the open door out to the yard, screaming, “They have destroyed my family. I will never forgive them. Please God, never forgive them.”
The hotel workers, clerics, and the ayatollahs in the yard grew silent. As Baba remained sobbing on the floor, his face in his hands, Maman raised her fist high in the air. “I hope all of you burn like me someday. Death to all of you!”
Khaleh dragged Maman back inside, whispering, “You can’t say things like that publicly. Don’t curse them; they’ll arrest you or your husband.”
Standing outside the gate to our yard was a man wearing a white shirt buttoned at the collar with a carefully groomed short beard, all telltale signs of the undercover police of the new Islamic Republic.
Pushing her sisters aside, Maman faced the yard again, bracing herself against the doorframe and screamed, “I want them to hear me!” She shook off Khaleh’s hand, and let loose a long mournful wail. “He was my child. Nothing else matters now. I want the same bullet. Kill me, too!”
Moving Khaleh aside, my grandmother pulled Maman back into the house, and handed her a folded paper. When Maman recognized Abdollah’s handwriting in red ink, she began to hit herself on the chest and cheeks. Her screams grew louder; her sisters tried to take the letter back and lead her to the bedroom but she pushed her sisters’ hands away. She unfolded the paper and began to read Abdollah’s final letter, written just moments before his execution: his final message to her. Tears wet the pages as she reread the letter multiple times. Finally, she kissed the pages, pressed it against her forehead, and wailed.
My grandmother appeared with a glass of watermelon juice. “Drink all of it,” she said, pushing the glass toward Maman’s mouth. Small white pieces of crushed Valium floated in the glass. Maman did not notice.
At the Haram of Imam Reza, Baba fought dizziness as he, Mr. Gaffari, and several hotel workers carried the wooden box suspended above their heads and circled the shrine three times in their bare feet. Thirty men followed behind him as the sun’s light dimmed, and they moved into the Haram’s basement cemetery with its smell of freshly-turned dirt forming a dark cloud in the air; the particles of dust caught in the backs of their throats and in the corners of their eyes as their tears rose and began to flow.
From the coffin, Baba and Mr. Gaffari gently lifted the white kafan wrapped body from the coffin. The voice of the imam, and the mosque leader, reciting prayers that echoed off the walls as Baba held both hands under Abdollah’s head and the other men gently lowered him into the earth.
Baba had not uttered a word in hours. Mr. Gaffari had done the talking. Now, above the soil that covered his son’s body, Baba prayed. The dirt was fresh and wet, the same smell that filled the air minutes after Maman watered the yard, the scent of home. Baba finally lifted his head from prostrating and Mr. Gaffari helped him stand up. They stood side-by-side, hands folded in front of them. The color drained from Baba’s face as he stared at the raised mound.
He wanted to get it over with quickly. He had told Mr. Gaffari, “My wife mustn’t see this.”
In the Haram’s outer yard, my aunts had reached the same conclusion. They grabbed Maman as she slammed her head against the decorative tiles lining the walls, screaming, “This was the answer to my prayers? Imam Reza, you took him from me?”
Our grandmother and aunts surrounded Maman, all of them whispering at once.
“You have to calm your voice.”
“You cannot scream.”
“You shouldn’t curse.”
“It’s like a dungeon down there.”
“There’s no air downstairs, maybe we should just go home.”
Banging her head and fists against the wall, Maman shouted, “I don’t care to breathe. I want to die with him. Take me to my son; take me to see him now.”
As the women descended the cement stairs into the underground cemetery, men with pickaxes were ripping new graves into the earth. Maman’s breathing was labored. Across the muddy dirt floor, her sisters held her arms, as they walked toward Baba and Mr. Gaffari.
As she stared at the fresh mound of dirt, the resting place of her eldest son, she faced Baba, meeting his eyes. “Why didn’t you bring me to him sooner? I wanted to see his face. I wanted to talk to him.” She began to wheeze. When Baba tried to steady her, she pushed him away.
Mr. Gaffari’s voice was soft. “It is better that you didn’t see. It’s much better this way, please trust me.”
Maman dug her fingers into the earth, not caring that everyone was watching, listening. She screamed and threw her body onto the mound of wet soil. “Let me be. Let me be with my son.”
After the burial, a man with a stiffly-buttoned white shirt and a salt and pepper beard was waiting for Baba at the hotel.
“I need to warn you. There won’t be a reception, no mourning ceremonies.” He spoke to my Baba in a lowered voice.
“We won’t tolerate any commotion. No more crying or weeping.” The man’s tone was arrogant. “Your wife certainly made a scene at the Haram. That won’t continue,” he asserted.
“Are you threatening me? Baba’s swollen eyes were magnified by his glasses as he stood nose to nose with the man. “What are you going to do, shoot me? You’ve already killed me.”
The lobby grew quiet. Somewhere a teacup rattled on a saucer as the wind shook a window. Baba’s eyes were as red as blood; his anger filled the room.
“Tell your superiors that if any of you come near me or my family from now on, I will do to you what you’ve done to my son. Keep your secret police away from me and my home. You hear me? Now get off my property and take your fake faith with you!”
Instead, the man followed Baba into his office.
“Listen, we’re offering you a Peykan. You could put your son’s picture in the back window so passersby can send prayers for his soul. We would also like to name this street after him, in his honor, Shaheed Abdollah, the martyr.”
“You are insane. You executed my son! You want to buy me off? How dare you!” Baba took a big step toward the man. “You put an ayatollah with no experience in charge of a courtroom and my son’s life and then called it Islamic? Nothing about how you are running this country is Islamic. Nothing!” Baba was shaking now and the blood vessels around his temples were pumping wilder. “You killed me and my wife. My children will never be free of this. And now you dare to come to face me, to bribe me with a Peykan and a street name, you ruthless bastard!”
“We realize you feel you’ve been wronged,” the man insisted, keeping calm. And without letting Baba’s anger sink in, he added, “How much would be sufficient?” The man began to reach for his coat pocket, and pulled out a checkbook.
The man took out a pen, still impervious to Baba’s rage. “How about 300,000 tomans? That’s twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars to you and your family for his spilled blood. Should I make it out to your wife?”
“Go to hell!” Baba swung his briefcase at the official’s head. “Get out before I claw out your eyes. Get out!” Before the man began his next sentence, Baba took another swing at him.
Baba stared at Khomeini’s messenger as if he were boring a hole into his heart. “God will meet you at the gates of Mahshar, and on that judgment day, he will hold you accountable.”
The cab driver slowed down and turned toward us, asking in Arabic if we needed to pull over.
“No, we’re fine,” Baba said and gestured with his hand to keep moving. “We are just fine,” Baba looked back and shared a half-smile with me.
I smiled back,
feeling something new build up inside me. I felt for his heavy heart and whispered to him, “Thank you, Baba Jaan.”
I knew I would find myself in conflict with Baba, especially as I grew more independent. But having gained greater understanding of him, his intentions, and his heavy load, I felt proud to be his daughter. I made a commitment to always sustain my connection to my family, no matter how challenging, as I came to know myself more deeply.
And soon, that commitment would be tested.
LOVE AND WAR
California – Saudi Arabia – Iran
2001-2005
The next battle I faced was me against my father; the territory we fought over was the human heart – mine.
I faced my dilemma on a camping trip with a man I was falling in love with. I knew that Baba would oppose me. Everything he cherished was about to be tested.
I would risk his love and approval.
Here, under the sapphire California sky in nature where I felt at peace, I questioned everything. Would I really go to hell if I didn’t wear the scarf? Or if I dated? Was I even a good Muslim anymore? What did I believe? Although I had covered my hair since I was a six-year-old girl in Iran, I began to ask whether I was doing it out of habit or true religious belief.
I sat with the cascade of the waterfall whispering behind me and sought shade in the colossal redwoods, relief from the sweltering August sun. With one bold gesture, I untied the scarf under my chin, and let my hair fall free and drape across my shoulders.
I dipped my head in the icy Kings River and flung my hair back up. The crisp water chilled my scalp and dripped down my neck and back. I shivered and lifted my face to the sky. The sun’s scorching heat was welcomed.
I arranged my scarf over my wet hair, and checked to see if Yarek was still sitting down on a rock near the trail. This was his first outing with a girl wearing a headscarf. We had been working together at the psych hospital. When we had decided to take this trip, I already knew I could love him. When I called his name, he smiled and looked away again, giving me my privacy. Looking into the sun again, I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. I had embarked on my two most profound challenges yet, questioning my religion and falling in love.
The Rose Hotel Page 21
