Azadeh didn’t answer, though her eyes remained narrow. She shifted her weight on the side of the bed.
“I pray every day,” she defended herself. “I live by the Five Pillars of our faith.”
“And that is good, my new friend.”
Azadeh shook her head. “It is not enough,” she admitted. “And sometimes
I wonder. Does Allah really love me? And if Allah does, then why this? My father was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. And did I really deserve this . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.
Pari watched her, then leaned forward on her chair and rested her rough hands on Azadeh’s knee. “I know you’ve been wronged, Azadeh,” she said. “That is clear in your face. I’ve seen that look many times before. You are alone here, deserted. There is a long story inside you that perhaps one day you will tell. But regardless of your story, Azadeh, this much I know. You have to decide how you are going to respond. Will you let your heart grow hard and bitter or will you look to the future and remain able to love?”
Azadeh closed her eyes as if she were confessing a great sin. “Sometimes I feel angry. I know that Allah has always helped me, but sometimes, I don’t know.” She sadly turned away. “Sometimes I don’t understand.”
“I can’t answer that, Azadeh. Many things I don’t know. Why we hurt. Why we suffer. I know that life isn’t fair. But I’ve also learned that there is more equity in our struggles than we may believe; there are hidden hurts in those around us that we may never see. Everyone has to suffer—that is part of the plan. But it isn’t the outcome and it isn’t why we are here. So remember that, Azadeh. There are better days ahead. Don’t give up. Don’t grow hard. That is not Allah’s will.”
SEVENTEEN
Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border
Azadeh got out of bed long before the sun came up and dressed quickly, then slipped out of her tent and moved up the hill. Keeping to the shadows, she waited outside for the U.N. contract workers to show up at the cafeteria. The head cook, a thin woman from Algiers, nodded to Azadeh as she plodded up the trail in the darkness, then held back the tent flap and let her slip inside.
Putting on a stained apron, Azadeh went to work. She cleaned the grease drains and ovens, brought in and stacked thirty-pound sacks of flour and ten-pound sacks of sugar and salt, then prepared and kneaded huge blobs of dough. The ovens were warm by the time she finished the first batch, and she shaped the nân into flat cakes, and then set them inside. Two hours later, just as the sun was rising and the refugees were lining up for breakfast, Azadeh cleaned her hands, wiped the flour off her cheek, and turned to the head cook, who reluctantly paid her the agreed-upon wage.
Azadeh stared at the commodities, then took the dripping pork sausage with great care and gingerly with tongs, scrambled eggs, and white cheese, and arranged them carefully on a metal plate. She placed the food in a small box, covered it with a clean cloth, and slipped out of the tent.
Walking quickly, she made her way past the line of hungry refugees, nervous in the knowledge that she was hiding a treasure. She hoped the smell of the sausage wouldn’t penetrate the box or she would be mobbed. Pushing through the crowd at the end of the line, she walked past the administration building, off the low hill, and toward the long row of plywood huts. It had rained the night before, a cold and misty drizzle, and a low fog hung over the hills on the east side of the camp. The ground was almost slimy from the powder-fine mud, and she walked carefully, occasionally slipping as if she were walking on ice.
Down to the second row of huts she walked, then turned left past the latrine and showers, over the small bridge that protected the exposed water pipes and gas line, and east to the fifteenth hut on the right. She stopped in front of the shelter and noted the heavy moisture on the inside of the window. The propane heater created its own condensation, and it appeared that Pari had the heat turned up full blast again.
Which meant Azadeh wasn’t the only one who had woken up covered in sweat in the night.
As she pushed the door open, Azadeh was met by a warm wave of moist air. The older woman was still sleeping. The hut was built on a platform elevated six inches off the ground, and Azadeh stopped on the threshold to take off her muddy shoes, which she left outside the door. In her stockings, she stepped quietly into the hut and closed the door.
Pari rolled over to face Azadeh as she walked into the room. Pari then struggled to push herself up on the side of the bed. Azadeh walked to the small bureau and placed the box down. “Good heavens, darling Azadeh, what are you doing here so early?” Pari said.
“I brought you breakfast,” Azadeh smiled as she helped the older woman sit up. Putting her arms under Pari’s shoulders, she looked quickly around, searching for the handkerchief Pari always tried to keep hidden from her, seeing the tip of the red-tinted white cloth sticking out of her clutched hand. As she lifted her weight, Azadeh felt the dampness of the smaller woman’s nightclothes. Pari’s gray hair was matted to her neck, and Azadeh reached for the small washbasin on the bureau. The water was cool, and she dipped a gray washcloth inside. “You didn’t sleep, Bânu?” she asked as she washed Pari’s face and neck.
“I slept very well, Azadeh Jan,” Pari answered in a weak voice.
Azadeh shook her head. “No, Bânu, I can see that you didn’t.”
The older woman didn’t argue but sat, her shoulders slumping, while Azadeh washed her face and combed her hair. “That feels so nice,” she said simply.
“I’m glad,” Azadeh answered.
The two were quiet a moment until Azadeh said, “I brought you a surprise for breakfast.”
Pari’s eyes brightened up. “What? Extra jelly?”
“Even better,” Azadeh said. “And you’d better eat it now before it gets cold.” She washed her hands in the clay bowl, then picked up the box and removed the cloth covering, exposing the sausage, eggs, and melted white cheese that had been hidden inside. The aroma immediately filled the room, and Pari leaned forward, a sudden smile on her lips. “My goodness, Azadeh Jan, how did you arrange that?”
“I guess even we homeless refugees deserve more than bread and jelly once in a while,” she said.
The older woman stared at her. “They are serving this for breakfast?” she asked in a disbelieving tone.
“They are this morning,” Azadeh replied.
Although she had gotten up at 3 a.m. and worked in the kitchen for an entire week for this single meal, she didn’t tell Pari. The woman would not have enjoyed it, perhaps even would have refused to eat it, if she had known.
Pari stared at the scrambled eggs and sausage, then up at Azadeh, her eyes wide with excitement. “I haven’t had eggs for, I don’t know, years and years. And sausage. I can smell it. It makes my mouth water. How could we be so lucky?”
Azadeh spread a paper napkin on Pari’s lap, then settled the single plate in front of her and sat on the bed.
“Oh, no,” Pari said as she saw the plate, “you have to eat too!”
Azadeh looked at the scrambled eggs and the finger-thin rolls of pork sausage. “I ate at the chow tent,” she said.
Pari shook her head, then took a clean fork and divided the eggs in two. “Then you will eat again. You must eat with me, Azadeh, or I won’t feel comfortable.”
Azadeh glanced at the eggs and eagerly nodded yes. The two ate slowly, savoring each bite of the special meal. “Delicious!” Pari murmured as she tasted the sausage.
“So good!” Azadeh agreed as she took a bite of the egg.
They ate in silence. It took only a few minutes before all the food was gone.
While Azadeh cleaned up, Pari put on her dress with blue trim, and then they sat together, Pari on her chair, Azadeh on the corner of the bed.
“Bânu Pari,” Azadeh said, looking her square in the eye. “I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”
The older woman smiled. “Now, Azadeh Jan,” she teased, “you know a lady of proper upbringing can neve
r be perfectly honest. There are always a few secrets one must keep.”
Azadeh smiled, but only barely. “Don’t worry, Bânu Pari, I’m not going to ask your age.”
“As well you shouldn’t, my dear friend, or I would have to ask you to leave.”
Azadeh looked stern. “Bânu, I need to be serious for a moment.”
Pari sat back. “All right, Azadeh Jan, what can I do for you?”
Azadeh nodded toward the red-tinted handkerchief Pari still hid in her hand. “You are sick. You try to hide it. But in the little time I have known you; I have watched you grow frail. I touch you, you have a fever. And the cough. That horrible cough. Now I want you to tell me what is wrong.”
Pari leaned forward. “Don’t worry for me, Azadeh Jan. I’m not contagious, I promise, or I would never have let you come into my home. Yes, I am sick, but there’s nothing you can do. So let’s not worry about my health, dear. There are other things we can talk about, other things to plan: getting you back in school, getting you out of Khorramshahr, what you will do with your life. So many good things to talk about, so many interesting things. Things of promise and optimism. Yes, there are many things we can talk about, but my health is not one of them.”
“No,” Azadeh said firmly. “We will talk of this. I want to know what is ailing you. I want to know why you have come to accept that you will never leave this camp.”
“Azadeh Jan, why waste our time—”
“Bânu, you must tell me. And I want to know now!” Azadeh eyes grew fierce with a hard light from the fire within. She sat on the edge of the bed, determined, her lips pressed and tight. She had learned—she knew now—that sometimes she had to fight, and she wasn’t going to sit idle and let this thing pass. “You are my friend, Bânu Pari. I trust you. I hope you trust me. But if you feel any affection for me, if you have any feeling for me at all, then I deserve to know.”
The older woman sat still a long moment, though she seemed to deflate. “I really wish we didn’t have to,” she said in a quiet voice.
“I have many wishes, Bânu. Sometime our wishes don’t come true.”
Pari hesitated. “That is something I could have said to you, dear.”
“Then we understand each other, Bânu.”
The old woman was still.
“Now please,” Azadeh begged now, her voice soft and low. “As your friend, as my friend, I have a right to know.”
Pari swallowed awkwardly from the tightness of her throat. “All right then, Azadeh Jan, if you really must. I have tuberculosis, and there is nothing they can do.”
Azadeh hesitated, then asked, her voice sad, “You are going to die, Bânu?”
Pari laughed quietly. “We’re all going to die sometime, Azadeh Jan.”
“No, I mean, you know, are you going to die soon?”
“No, I don’t think so. If you had asked me five years ago, I would have said I’d be gone by now. But it seems this old body just keeps slogging along. Another month. Another year. Another five years. I don’t know.”
“Tuberculosis . . . ?” Azadeh wondered, an uncertain look on her face.
“Tuberculosis is a bacterial disease that usually affects the lungs,” Pari explained, “though it can affect other parts of the body as well—the lymph nodes, kidneys, or bones.”
“And this tuberculosis is the reason why you have never left Khorramshahr?”
“Well, yes and no. Having tuberculosis is what keeps me here now, but it isn’t that simple. The reason I’ve never been able to leave Khorramshahr goes back even further than that.
“Being a Christian means it has always been much harder for me to find a sponsor so I could leave the camp. But for me it was even worse. I had other issues as well. You see, Azadeh, my husband . . . he was a very good man, but good men have enemies. A list of enemies is but a list of the battles one has fought. If a man has no enemies, then he was a coward, I think.
“And my husband fought many battles. He was a very controversial man. Very wealthy, very strong, a man of great means. He was courageous and ambitious. And, well . . .” her voice trailed off. “Let’s just say it is a very long story that I may tell you some day.”
“Bânu,” Azadeh said softly, “I don’t understand.”
Pari took a pained breath. “You asked if my tuberculosis is the reason I have never left Khorramshahr, and the answer is no, at least it wasn’t at first. My husband had many enemies in the government who had great interest in keeping me here. If I were to leave, I could hurt them. They owe me many things.
“But some of that eventually passed, and after many years I was told that I could apply for release. I started making arrangements. A few more years passed while I searched for a sponsor. Again, I am a Persian Christian. It was difficult. Then I was diagnosed with tuberculosis, which was the final delay. A refugee cannot immigrate with an infectious disease. And untreated tuberculosis is infectious—”
“Untreated,” Azadeh interrupted. “So there must be a treatment. There is a way you can be cured!”
“Yes, Azadeh, there is. People with tuberculosis can be treated effectively. Treatment usually includes taking a combination of anti-tuberculosis medications for six months or so. It takes time. It takes money. And the exact treatment plan must be determined by a highly qualified physician.”
“Then we will do that!” Azadeh shouted, standing up from the bed. “We will arrange a treatment plan. I don’t care what it takes. I am smart. I can do it! We will figure a way.”
Pari smiled and pulled her down, setting her on the edge of the bed. “Yes, Azadeh Jan, you are smart, maybe even brilliant. But more, you are determined and willing to work.” She nodded quickly to the greasy plates. “How long did you have to work for that tigress of a cook to earn that simple meal? A week? A month?” She cocked her head in understanding. “I’ve been here long enough to know it was a long time. Which only proves what you said. You are very capable.
“But this is different, Azadeh, different. And much more difficult.”
“But why? I don’t understand! There must be something I could do.”
“But you see, there is a thing now, a complication,” Pari tried to explain. “After years of waiting and begging and standing in line for the U.N. doctors who visit Khorramshahr every six months or so, I finally began to receive treatment for my disease. But it turned out poorly, I guess. The doctors gave me inferior quality drugs, drugs that were old and weak. I should have taken the anti-tuberculosis medications for several months, but I only had enough medicine for two or three weeks. So the bacteria in my body wasn’t eliminated. Instead it grew stronger. Six months later, the doctors came back again. Same weak medicines. Once again, not enough. And the bacteria grew stronger and even more powerful. They call it multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis. It is nearly impossible to treat.”
Azadeh looked confused. “Then what does it mean? Isn’t there something they can do?”
Pari shook her head slowly, coughing into her handkerchief. “From what I can learn, patients with a drug-resistant disease can sometimes be treated with drugs to which their organisms are still susceptible. But it is difficult. Very rare. And very expensive. I need an expert who has experience in treating multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis, and not many of those can be found around Khorramshahr, my dear. And even if they were somehow to provide me access to such a specialist, the effectiveness of treatment for multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis is very uncertain. It might work, it might not. Knowing that, do you think they are going to spend the money to treat an old woman such as me?”
Azadeh was silent as she stared at her hands. “There is nothing they can do, then?”
“No, dear, there’s not.”
Azadeh hesitated. Then, lifting her eyes, she asked, “Might I be in danger?” Before Pari could answer, Azadeh cut in again. “It doesn’t matter to me, Bânu. I will not leave you either way. But if there is something I could do to lessen the risk of infection.”
Pari s
hook her head. “I cannot spread the disease anymore,” she said. “The tuberculosis has done its damage inside me, but I have no germs in my sputum anymore and I cannot spread the disease.”
“Then why won’t they let you leave Khorramshahr?” Azadeh exclaimed.
“Once you are on the list of the contagious, it is very difficult to be removed. I’ve been fighting them for years, I have notes and reports from a U.N. doctor, but the paperwork is suffocating, and I just can’t fight anymore. I’m tired, Azadeh, worn down, and it is hard for me to care anymore.”
“No,” Azadeh mumbled. “Pari, you can’t give up like that.”
“Azadeh, I won’t be the first one to get lost and die in a refugee camp.” Pari nodded to the west. “There is a camp cemetery out there, and I won’t be its first occupant.”
“No, Pari, no. If you are no longer contagious, you can get your name on the release list. But you’ve got to keep trying. You cannot give up. And you cannot die here.”
Pari took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She sat unmoving, then slowly said, “Listen to me, child, and let me try to explain.” She opened her eyes and stood up, took two small steps, and bent down to look into Azadeh’s eyes. “It’s all right. I’m not unhappy. In fact, I think I might be better off in this place than anywhere else I could be. What else would I do? Where would I go? I am too old to start over. I have no children left alive now. No family. I have nowhere to live. No friends to take me in. No matter where they sent me, I would be a stranger in a strange land. Where would I stay? How would I eat? I must be realistic and consider these things. And there are worse places than Khorramshahr, believe me, I know. It isn’t much, but over the years I have come to think of this as my home.
“And I don’t have much more time left, Azadeh Jan. I know you are young and that makes it very difficult for you to understand, but I have accepted my fate here and I am satisfied.”
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