Iman usually followed my lead on matters like this, but this time, he, too, had resistance to facing our past. After I addressed his disclaimer that he was not ready to hear the stories that had haunted us all these years, he sat back, and, his apprehension apparent, and let me take charge.
I began. I told my brothers about the letter in red, the many conversations I’d had with our parents, my investigation of the many narratives of what had happened, the talks with our cousins, and contacts in Iran about the rape, about Room 314. I confided in them that I had begun to document everything, intent on sharing it.
Hadi looked at me and saw the resolve in my eyes. He looked away, exasperated, and then looked back at me, finally nodding and giving me his blessing to go on.
Iman, too, had a dire question he had suppressed for years, and he finally had permission to expel it. He shifted in his chair and, with a gentle look toward me, said, “I heard he shot someone. Did he?”
Hadi looked at Iman with raised eyebrows, surprised at what he had just revealed. “Man, you have thought the worst.”
“That is often the case when people don’t have the freedom to talk about an event,” Dr. John said, looking straight at Iman.
“Abdollah didn’t kill anyone. There is no question about that. And Baba was not responsible for his death,” I yelled out before a silence followed.
Dr. John used the stillness to take us deeper. “The fact that your brother has died isn’t as much the issue here as the memories are. That’s how we all understand ourselves. So the memory is crucial, and you have different memories of this man and of his death and of the other people involved. But if you can talk about it freely and get curious instead of feeling powerless, I think you can all benefit from what you will feel and you will free yourself from the guilt that, by proxy, you all experience with your dad. He most probably feels tremendously guilty, even if he had nothing to do with his son’s death, just by virtue of being a father and losing his son. Your mom, too. That’s a guilt that parents never generally get over.” Dr. John stopped and took a breath in.
I flashed through the years and the many conversations in which Hadi had resisted and been defensive about joining me in therapy. I was grateful I hadn’t given up – happy we were here now. I looked over at Iman and thought of his secondary trauma: the pain of watching his older brothers and me struggle with the past, his own work pressure, and the enormous responsibility of caring for our immigrant parents who were dependent on us. I worried for him, but was never concerned about Iman the way I was for Hadi or Zain. Iman was grounded and consistent; he thought things through, he planned and fulfilled his goals, and unlike my other brothers, he was not impulsive, not running from his demons. His baggage didn’t seem to be weighing down his shoulders.
Iman re-crossed his legs, moving the couch cushion. The motion brought me back to the present. Iman smiled as if he knew where my thoughts had taken me. I pushed back into the couch as Dr. John continued, “You know, when somebody dies and you could do nothing to save him, you carry that burden for the rest of your life. The guilt prevents you from living. When Abdollah died, Iman was three or so. He had nothing to do with his death, but to this day, he also feels guilty.”
Hadi’s eyes concentrated on Iman before he turned his attention to Dr. John. “There wasn’t a single thing that he could have done to save him. Nothing.”
Looking at Hadi, I asked the one thing that I hadn’t uttered before, “Do you think there is something you could have done to save him? Do you feel guilty?”
“I do.” Hadi said without a hesitation.
The confession lightened the room, giving me hope.
“How old were you?” Dr. John’s voice was soft.
“I was eleven or so.”
“What could you have done to save your brother at eleven years old, Hadi?”
“It’s a long story,” Hadi replied, his feet fidgeting.
Looking at his watch, Dr. John quipped, “Well, we have time.” We all shared a laugh.
Hadi remained silent. His eyes caught mine, and I cheered him on with a smile.
“There was something I saw, that maybe I could have done something about. But it’s between me and Abdollah. So don’t ask me about it, Rahimeh.” He cocked his head toward me. His voice was rough.
All of the years of anger and grief I had been carrying for my family trailed in tears down my face. “Please Hadi, no more secrets. Please, no more.”
“Listen, I knew what he was doing, like listening to music, or when I found out he crashed his car, or him sneaking out of the window late at night. You know? Things like that I kept secret. I covered for him.”
“Misbehaviors? Acting like the teenager that he was? Is that what you’re talking about?” I asked through the tears I could no longer control.
Hadi’s voice was low; he spoke slowly. “Yeah. Maybe if I wouldn’t have covered for him...” His voice collapsed as he shook his head.
“Do you think you could have prevented him from hanging out with those boys?” I reached deep to the bottom of the Kleenex box for another tissue.
“You know, it happened so quickly, in just two weeks. What if I had ratted him out? Baba would have confiscated his car and those thugs would have found someone else to give them a ride.”
Iman looked over at me with sad eyes. A few balls of wadded wet tissues rolled off the couch.
Hadi looked hard at me.
“Was there anything else that you saw or that he told you?” I said gingerly.
“That’s between me and my older brother! There may be things he shared with me, but that’s private.”
“So there is something we don’t know?” I sounded confused.
“I’m just saying if there was something, and he made me promise, I want you to respect that. That’s between him and me.”
“I don’t get you. He’s dead and we are alive. What are you doing this for?” I yelled.
Hadi started to get up, and then sat down again. “I’m doing it so you understand what the hell I’m going through.”
Silence filled the space between us and I took a deep breath. I knew this felt like torture for Hadi. I couldn’t push anymore.
“Let me make another observation about the impact of secrets on relationships. Saying something like that, Hadi, that it’s between your older brother and you and keeping a ‘secret’ in the company of your siblings, basically excludes them. What you’re saying to them is that you have a special relationship with Abdollah that they will never have because he shared something with you that you won’t share with them.” Dr. John watched Hadi lean back, crossing his legs again.
Dr. John continued maintaining his eye contact with Hadi. “Even if that is not your intention, that’s the effect it has. Even if what you’re holding is not important or won’t change the narrative of what happened with Abdollah, by not sharing it, you’re creating a separation between you and them. They’re here, and your older brother is gone.”
To distract the conversation, Hadi brought up his concerns for Zain. Dr. John leaned over his chair toward Hadi, unwilling to let that happen. “The point might be that the way all of you have treated Zain may have been colored, to some extent, by Abdollah’s death. You guys talking about Abdollah freely is very significant. Maybe Zain, with all the concerns he’s created, has done a great job at helping you avoid your own pain.” Dr. John’s voice was soothing.
Hadi looked down. For the first time, he wasn’t preparing a response, he was thinking.
“When you talk about the past with freedom, without censorship or secrecy, and approach it with curiosity, you free yourselves. Your sister desperately wants to connect with you, but feels you’re privileging your relationship with Abdollah.” Dr. John was still leaning toward Hadi.
The light in the room seemed brighter.
The image of Hadi was becoming a blur as my eyes refilled with tears. Hadi looked at me again.
“I love you very much, Sis. You know that? An
d I’m sorry.” Hadi put his head down, and for the first time, I saw tears roll down his face. “I’m sorry you lost him.” The pressure inside of him was being forced out as he cried. I leaped across the room to him, leaned on my knees and held him in my arms. “I’m sorry you lost him, too.” Hadi tried to push me back.
Dr. John spoke up. “Let yourself be comforted by your sister, Hadi, instead of having to be the one to do the comforting.” And with that, Hadi dug into my shoulder with his head, and for the first time in our lives, we wept together.
Long minutes later, Hadi whispered in my ear as he let me go, “I’ll be fine.” I felt the heaviness on my back lift, and the tightness inside me loosen. For the first time in thirty years, I believed him.
After talking freely about Abdollah, remembering our pillow fights, how Baba and Dadashi had gone for a week to help the earthquake victims in Tabas, how much I resembled him physically, and how Iman’s personality and spirit resembled Abdollah’s quiet gentle nature, Dr. John made his final descent into our past.
“Do you remember the last time you saw Abdollah?”
Hadi looked out the window. His eyes fixed on the veins of the green leaves pasted on the window. He appeared lost in memory. Then, suddenly, the distant sound of a train whistle broke the silence and brought Hadi back into the room.
“I went there with my parents. Baba took me in. I didn’t want to be there. The prison. It was painful.”
“You didn’t want to see him in jail?”
“I had no idea he was going to die. If someone had told me, I would have…” Hadi’s voice fell and began to show signs of cracking. “I saw him for a few minutes, but I looked away. I didn’t want him to….” Hadi stopped talking and started to cry again. It was the kind of immense crying that boys and men often hold in.
“I was embarrassed to be there. I didn’t want to look at him. I just looked over at him for a few moments and had to look away.”
“You were only eleven, weren’t you?”
“Yes, and it was the last time.” Hadi’s tears rolled off his face, staining his blue shirt.
“Do you remember being afraid for him?”
“No. He was strong” Hadi stuttered, “You know this family makes it through somehow. We’re tough.”
“Yes, you are all real survivors.”
Hadi took a tissue from the box I had passed to Iman to pass to him.
Dr. John looked over at Iman, then me, and finally moved back toward Hadi. “None of you...all of you could not have saved him.”
Hadi kept crying.
“So you never got to say goodbye to him because you had no idea you weren’t going to see him again. No one told you of the grave nature of his situation. No one, not even your parents, could possibly have believed it.”
“I just remember what he said to me when he pulled me in from the bars…”
Hadi gasped a bit, pausing in his intense weeping, and stopped to catch his breath. After several minutes, he took a breath and whispered.
“He was on his knees in his orange jumpsuit. He pushed his arms through the jail bars, put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me toward him. I remember he said, ‘You take care of these little guys now, little brother. You are the eldest now.’
Hadi’s agonizing cry now filled the room. His tears emptied from his nose, his eyes, even his mouth. He wept and wept and we, too, let ourselves follow his rhythm. It was the cry he needed. The cry we all needed to witness.
“I’ve lived by those words all my life,” he said. “That’s it. That’s all of it. There is no other secret.” He looked out the window for a moment and then at me. “So after I sensed that Abdollah was gone, I lied to these guys and pretended, like my family had, that he was studying abroad.”
Dr. John nodded. “How could you bear to tell them the truth? It’s hardly bearable even now, thirty years later.”
“I just don’t want to lose another brother.” He looked over at the empty chair. Zain’s absence now filled the room. He glanced at me, and with a high-breaking voice, he immediately suggested we all go see Zain.
We all stood in the middle of the room as the session came to a close. I hugged my brothers, both at the same time, for a long while. As we prepared to leave, Dr. John added. “You are lucky to have each other.” We walked toward the door, nodding. “Yes, we are.” I smiled and thanked Dr. John with my eyes.
“Where is Zain now?” Dr. John asked.
Hadi shook hands with Dr. John again as I opened the door.
“In Tajikistan.”
FROM TAJIKISAN
January 2011
Sis,
I know it’s been a while since we really connected. And I know behind the scenes, you and the family have been the support in my life and Zahra’s, too. Thank you for everything you’ve done and always do for Zahra.
I’m coming to America to deal with my legal issues. I’m scared shitless but I’m coming to deal with my past. I hope to see you when I’m there. And, if you don’t mind helping, I would like to improve my relationship with Zahra and could really use your guidance.
I’m sorry. For everything.
Zain
I would start to type a response, only to stop and delete each word I had managed to get on the page. I wasn’t clear what to say to my brother anymore. I thought about how I should respond to his request, what his return to the U.S. to face his legal troubles meant, or if Zain was the same broken, addicted brother I had last seen. But no matter how hard it would be, one thing was becoming clear, it was time to reintegrate Zain back into the family.
Zain held the door open for me as I entered the courthouse. We couldn’t help having a few laughs at the expense of his lawyer, with his slicked-back hair and ancient briefcase overflowing with creased papers.
“He’s old and half-deaf, but he’s a nice guy,” Zain said pointing to his lawyer as we followed behind him. “You know, I think he’s still drunk. He told me he has been in recovery for twenty years. He said he only deals with DUIs now.” The lawyer walked into the wrong room, started to talk to himself, and walked right back out. Zain’s laughter grew louder. “See what I mean?”
Waiting on the bench in front of Room 19, I asked Zain about his adventures the last few years in Dubai, Syria, and Tajikistan.
Zain didn’t hesitate. “After that car accident I went to Dubai, but before that, I stopped in Mecca. It is the only place I had ever been free of drinking, out of respect for God. I begged God to free me from my addictions. And it was there that the miracle happened for me. I stopped. I mean I really stopped. The temptation to drink and use left me. I went to Dubai for work, and there, I met my wife.” The sweat glistening off of his forehead began to roll down his face.
“I’m so grateful to be free of drugs. When my son was born, I had a new addiction.” He wiped his face with a tissue I held out to him. “This medication makes me sweat. You see how much weight I’ve put on?” I nodded. I was so curious about his journey that, before he finished his thought, I interrupted. I had so many questions. “I’m so grateful you are alive and better, Brother. Tell me about…”
Zain cut me off. “You know, you always talk over me. You need to just listen. Stop doing this so much, Sis. Stop worrying so much, it’s so controlling.” This was the first time Zain had confronted and helped me at the same time.
“You’re right. You tell me what you want. I’m shutting up for the next hour,” I said. Zain looked surprised.
“I have nothing else to say, I said it all already.” Zain looked over at me and we broke into laughter. We were so loud that the Hispanic man next to me who had just been sentenced to three years in prison stopped crying, looked up at us, and stared. I was relieved to let go, I was delighted to see the past pass us by, and I was excited for our new relationship to unfold.
“Promise you’ll stop worrying about me so much,” Zain said as he stood up and reached for my hand. “Okay, Sis?” Zain reached out his hand to grab mine. “Thanks for coming to co
urt with me. I’m less scared shitless.”
I stood up with him. “Don’t worry, Bro. I hear prison has filtered water.” Zain laughed as he caught my wink.
“And outstanding law libraries. Maybe I’ll finally become a lawyer.” He hugged me back and we walked inside the courtroom together.
After two hours of waiting and passing notes to each other like kids in a classroom, we were beginning to feel a bit relieved. Zain’s case wasn’t as bad as those heard ahead of him, and we felt more hopeful.
When we walked out, Zain gave his lawyer Persian sweets Maman had packed in a plastic bag. The two shook hands, and Zain and I walked out toward the car. He had gotten two months of home confinement and some fees, but no prison time.
Zain was surrounded by carnations in my parents’ living room. Maman offered everyone sweets and tea. She was delighted to have all her children, almost her entire brood, back together again. When Iman walked into the room, Zain stood to embrace him. They both smiled.
“Hello, my brother!” Iman wrapped his arms around Zain.
“Sorry for the rollercoaster ride, man,” Zain said, his first admission of his impact on us.
“I’m glad you’re back.” Like Zain, Iman never hung on to old feelings for long.
For an hour we gathered, swapping stories, laughing, and sharing our favorite treats. The air was freer and we were able to be together without any worry or sadness lurking. Baba pulled out the bowl of pomegranate kernels he had carefully separated from the membrane. As he began to pour them into the bowls, Zahra knocked on the door and I went to greet her. Maman glanced at Baba; they bit their lips and hoped for the best.
When Zahra walked into the room, her cheeks turned red and she reached for my hand. She hadn’t seen her father since he had fled the country years earlier. I had spent hours talking with her and her mom about this reunion and how important it would be for their family to end the estrangement and connect again. After seeing Zahra struggle with watching her father’s ups and down, my only hope was that I had not made a mistake bringing her close to him again.
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