That August Grandpa’s battle came to an end. He died in peace, knowing that Mom and I were back home where we belonged. His death marked a perplexing milestone in my life. I was old enough to miss him instantly and yet young enough to wholeheartedly rejoice in the fact that he was in heaven where he suffered no more. I didn’t understand the tears that accompanied Mom’s grief. One evening during a visitation at the funeral home, after watching Mom cry for days, I finally had to ask. “Mommy, Grandpa’s with Jesus. Why are you crying?”
“I know,” she answered feebly, “I’m just sad that he won’t be here with us anymore. It’s okay to cry when you’re sad.”
Still, I didn’t cry.
Grandpa was given a military burial. At the cemetery we gathered around his flag-draped coffin. I recoiled when I caught sight of the uniformed soldiers who had come to carry out the honors. Two soldiers folded Grandpa’s flag with precision, their motions crisp and exact. Then one turned sharply, clapped his heels together, and marched with purpose toward Grandma. Kneeling humbly, he held out the neatly folded triangle of blue studded with white stars. His gentleness was perplexing to me. In Iran I had come into contact with countless soldiers. Never before had I seen one behave in such a way.
By the time of Grandpa’s death, the manuscript for Not Without My Daughter was well underway. Mom had used part of the advance money to rent a small house on the outskirts of the town that I would later come to think of as my hometown. The broken chain-link fence on the side of the house served as my play set. The mesh of fencing had pulled off just enough of the frame to leave me ample room for twirling around the bar or hanging upside down, my long, unruly hair dragging on the ground. Wanting to bring some vitality to our humble dwelling, I proudly filled mom’s beautiful blue vase from Japan with weeds that grew in the unkempt flowerbeds.
What stands out most in my mind about the months Mom was writing is the amount of pizza we ate. I don’t know how she did everything she did—setting up a new home, taking care of me and my brothers, and spending every possible second with Grandpa and the rest of our family, all while throwing herself headlong into the writing process. Something had to be overlooked, and that something was cooking. For the first time ever, we lived on junk food.
Mom’s coauthor, William Hoffer, lived with his wife, Marilyn, and their children outside of Washington, DC. He spent a great deal of time with us in Michigan, but Mom and I also traveled to his home to collaborate. With disheveled hair and the bushy beard of an eccentric genius, Bill looked like an author to me. He was a jolly man who smoked a pipe and liked to be silly with the kids. At the same time he was a profound thinker, a man thirsting for a more thorough understanding of the world around him. This quest to learn had led him to become knowledgeable on a vast array of topics. It was perhaps in watching Bill and Marilyn passionately expound upon relevant philosophical issues with Mom that my love affair with deep intellectual conversation was born. Knowing how much I missed Mr. Bunny and how much I loved books, they gave me a beautifully illustrated copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, along with a matching plush rabbit. It didn’t replace the bunny I had left behind in Iran, but it was a kind gesture intended to validate my loss and assuage my grief.
When Mom and I went to work with Bill and Marilyn, we usually stayed at their home, but once we stayed in a hotel and were confronted with the fear that was omnipresent in our lives. Mom and Bill had worked late into the night, and we returned to the hotel room exhausted. Half asleep, Mom slid the key into the lock and turned the knob. Abruptly the chain caught stopping the door from opening fully.
Mom grabbed me and raced to the hotel lobby, where she breathlessly explained to the clerk that someone was in our room. Rushing back to the room with us he hesitantly turned the key and unlatched the door. This time it opened. The chain had been released, and whoever was inside had vanished. A quick inventory of our belongings revealed that nothing had been taken save for our already feeble sense of security.
When we first escaped, Mom had thought we would change our names and go into hiding. But upon learning that I couldn’t legally change my name without the consent of both parents and that going into hiding meant completely cutting all ties with our friends and family, she’d decided that wasn’t an option. My father had made us prisoners long enough; we wouldn’t sacrifice the rest of our lives to his rule. Writing the book proved to be the perfect solution, giving us the extra one-on-one time we needed to adjust to our new circumstances. Instead of going into hiding, we embraced the opposite extreme. Mom told our story to anyone who would listen, hoping that the public attention would serve as an added measure of security.
Whenever she could take a short break from writing, Mom diligently made her way through our belongings from before we went to Iran. When my parents and I hadn’t returned from “vacation,” everything had been packed up and put into storage. Now Mom faced the monumental task of sorting through the relics of our past lives and deciding which items belonged in our present.
It was painful for me to see piles of our old belongings going into the trash. The more Mom sorted, the more she pitched. And as soon as she turned her attention back to writing, I would pilfer through the garbage, ferreting away worthless treasures that I wasn’t yet ready to part with. One was a giant aqua-colored pen that had belonged to my dad. I don’t know why I felt compelled to keep it. I was angry with him. I feared him. I hated him. Yet I was drawn to the things that represented who he had been when he was still my beloved Baba Jon. I also kept his medical bag and two of his scrub jackets. One became my painting smock, and the other hung in the back of my closet for years.
Then there was my Care Bear bouncy ball. Taking it in my hands, I brought it to my nose and inhaled deeply. “Mommy, it smells like Stacey!”
The aroma had transported me back to the summer days spent running through the sprinkler and playing on the swing set, the days before the innocence of my childhood was shattered.
CHAPTER 12
As summer drew to a close, so did my opportunity to remain at Mom’s protective side. I needed to start school, and Mom decided to enroll me in a private school where the teachers, she hoped, would be able to keep an eye on me and any suspicious activity on my dad’s part would easily set off warning bells. She enrolled me at Salem, the local Lutheran school. In order to protect myself and the other students, I would use a different name. In August of 1986, the embassy hostage crisis had not been forgotten, and the Iran Contra Affair was about to capture the world’s attention. Aside from violence and hatred toward America and American ideals, not much was known in the United States about Iran, and school officials were understandably cautious.
Further complicating our situation was the fact that the legal systems had not caught up with our globalizing society. When Mom inquired about filing for divorce, she was told that she would be required to serve notice on my father so he could defend himself in court. If my dad knew where we were, it would be easier for him to make good on his threats. We were going to great lengths to stay hidden from him, so her divorce would have to wait.
While I couldn’t officially change my name, however, nothing prevented me from simply using a different name. The night before my first day of school, Mom sat me down and taught me my new name, explaining that my real name would now be our secret. I would be known as Amanda Smith, Mandy for short, just like her first doll.
I took easily to my new name. I did not take easily, however, to relating with other children my age. I was quiet and awkward, an easy target for the other kids in my neighborhood. They teased me because I was different, because I didn’t talk, because I wasn’t any good at riding a bike, and especially because I had trouble staying in my seat. Used to standing at a desk for the duration of the school day, I had difficulty adjusting to sitting while I worked. At times, engrossed in a task, I would forget to remain in my seat, only realizing I had risen when the giggles of the other children reached my ears. Self-consciously, I would slump into my seat
and fold in on myself.
Things soon got better, though. A girl named Jamie was one of the first classmates to reach out to me. She offered her chunky Care Bear pencil and a smile, signaling to the others that I was now officially one of the family.
My seventh birthday arrived a month, almost to the day, after my grandpa died. To mark the occasion, Joe gave me his stereo and a Ronnie Milsap cassette tape so I could listen to “Happy, Happy Birthday Baby,” otherwise known as “my song.” whenever I wanted. Just as in Iran, even after our escape, it was the things that connected me to my loved ones in some tangible way that I held most dear.
That autumn we moved to a house in an adjacent town. It was my tenth move, but I didn’t mind it. Our new house was across the street from a golf course, the yard was filled with beautiful old trees eager to drop mountains of leaves for me to jump in. Joe and John were both living with us, and life was good. Salem had become my sanctuary, my source of structure and stability. The consistent routine of school life provided a sense of security that I desperately needed.
The eight o’clock bell rang, and we were all seated quietly with our hands folded atop our desks. Mrs. Hatzung stood at the front of the class in her cornflower-blue dress, cinched at the waist with a thick matching belt. She wore camel-colored shoes with the slightest hint of a heel. She was tender and kind like a grandma.
Punctual as ever, in marched the principal. He was fit for a middle-aged man, with hair and a goatee that matched his gray suit. He paused at the front of the room and greeted Mrs. Hatzung. Turning, he added, “Good morning, first graders.”
“Good morning, Mr. Schultz,” we answered in unison, just as we’d practiced.
Mrs. Hatzung beamed approvingly. And with that, he was off to pay his morning visit to the second graders next door.
“Okay, children, join me up front for our opening devotion. Today we’re going to talk about Joseph,” Mrs. Hatzung announced. She took the devotional calendar down from the sunny yellow wall and flipped the page.
Each morning brought with it a new calendar picture and an accompanying Bible lesson. There was David, the young shepherd who, armed only with a slingshot and his faith in God, had defeated Goliath, a fierce Philistine giant. Then there was Daniel, who’d been thrown into the lions’ den for praying to his God, which was forbidden by the government, just like in Iran. God had sent an angel to close the mouths of the lions so Daniel wouldn’t be eaten. Even better, the king had seen this miracle and believed.
Even though she was a grown-up, Mrs. Hatzung sat on a first-grade-sized red plastic chair with metal legs. We formed a tight half circle around her in our matching chairs. This was my favorite part of the school day. Fearing that each lesson could be the last before my dad snatched me back to Iran, where the Bible was forbidden, I hungered to store up every kernel of God’s Word.
It turned out that Joseph and I had much in common. He’d been taken away from his family, too, though I’d had it better than he did. I’d had my mom with me, while Joseph, sold as a slave by his brothers, had been all alone. I wondered if he’d watched the moon the way I had when my dad took me away from my mom. Had he known that no matter where you are, you can look at the moon and know that your family is looking at the same moon and thinking of you?
God had protected Joseph just as he’d protected Daniel and David—just as he had protected Mom and me. Years later, when Joseph’s family was starving because of famine, Joseph had forgiven his brothers for being jealous of his colorful coat and their father’s love. He’d had pity on them and given them food.
That’s where Joseph and I differed. I could never forgive my dad for what he did to us. I hated him. I never wanted to see him again—ever.
“You’ve done a very nice job listening today. Now you may return to your desks, but please remain standing.” Mrs. Hatzung’s words broke into my thoughts, bringing me back to our cheerful yellow classroom.
Each day after devotion, we watched with excitement as Mrs. Hatzung took her yardstick from the ledge beneath the chalkboard and made her way across the room. Sandwiched on the wall between our most recent artistic creations and an oversized poster of a box of crayons in a rainbow of colors ran two rows of numbers. They would be the focus of our next exercise.
I surveyed our drawings as Mrs. Hatzung approached the wall. They were as unique and varied as the pupils who filled the room. Here, unlike in Iran, we were free to color our pictures any hue we chose.
With the yardstick, Mrs. Hatzung pointed to our number for the day. On the first day of school, back in August, she had started with the number one. Each day we added a number. She liked to ask us if we thought we would get all the way to two hundred before summer. I had a hunch she knew the answer, but she wouldn’t tell. She just grinned and said, “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“It’s time to count,” she said today. “First let’s count by twos.” She pointed to the numbers as we said them.
“Two, four, six,” we recited.
“Nicely done, students. Now by fives.”
When the 3:15 the bell rang, we were dismissed for the day. Mrs. Hatzung waited at the door with a hug for each student as she sent us on our way. Our teachers took turns waiting outside with us until our parents arrived. That day it was Miss Neujahr’s turn. She would be my teacher the next year. The bigger kids said she sometimes played her guitar when her class sang hymns instead of the piano like the other teachers. My favorite hymn so far was “Now Thank We All Our God,” which we were learning for Thanksgiving.
“Now thank we all our God,” I sang in my head,
With hearts and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things hath done,
In whom his world rejoices;
Who from our mothers’ arms
hath blessed us on our way . . .
(That was my favorite line, the one about our mothers’ arms.)
With countless gifts of love,
And still is ours today.
We lined up along the brick wall of the school, looked beyond the kickball field and through the fence, and watched for our parents’ cars to appear on the street. The other kids took off running at the first glimpse of their car. Not I. None of the students knew about my dad, but all the teachers were aware of the danger he posed and so were ever vigilant.
I continued in my head with verse two of the hymn, which ends with the promise that God will
. . . keep us in his grace,
And guide us when perplexed,
And free us from all ills
In this world and the next.
Mrs. Hatzung said perplexed meant confused and that when we found ourselves unsure of what to do in life, we could go to God in prayer. She said he heard our prayers and he’d make everything work out for our good. That didn’t mean we’d always get what we wanted. God was wiser than we were, and we could trust that what he gave us was always in our best interest, even if we didn’t recognize it right away. I thought about this as I scanned the cars that stopped on the edge of the schoolyard.
My mind wandered back to Joseph. His brothers had intended to harm him, but God had used Joseph to save his family and many others. Mrs. Hatzung said that God worked the same way in our lives today. Sometimes things looked really bad on the surface, but God could use even the bad things for our good down the road.
I was contemplating Mrs. Hatzung’s words when Mom drove up. Quietly I tugged on Miss Neujahr’s sleeve and pointed.
“Okay, go ahead, Mandy,” she said after confirming that it was Mom behind the wheel, “have a nice night.”
Then and only then was I permitted to leave my post along the wall. Miss Neujahr watched until I was safely in the car.
Mom was not wearing her typical smile. “I’ve got some sad news, Mahtob,” she said softly. “Today there was a plane crash in Iran, and a lot of Iranian people died.” She was obviously shaken.
I looked past her out the window and said nothing.
“Did you hear w
hat I said?” Mom asked quietly. “A lot of Iranian people died today.”
Still staring blankly ahead, I crossed my arms over my chest, “Good,” I huffed. “I hope my dad was one of them.”
Rarely can one look back and know at precisely which moment one’s life was set on a different course. Generally, such shifts happen gradually and go somewhat unnoticed. Yet in all our lives, there are key moments that stand out as life altering. That conversation in the car with Mom on November 3, 1986, proved to be one of the clearly evident crossroads in my life.
It was a startling wakeup call for Mom to see that I had mutated into someone cold and bitter. That was not the life she wanted for me. She hadn’t fought to free us so that I could waste my life wallowing in anger and hostility. As long as hatred ruled my heart, my father would imprison me even in his absence. Mom was not going to stand idly by and let that happen. That very day she jumped into action.
For her, writing Not Without My Daughter had been deeply cathartic. She’d been forced to explain to the reader all the sides of my father—not only the bad that was foremost in our minds, but also the good that had drawn her to him in the first place. Mom recognized that if I were to have any chance of being free, I needed to be forced, as she had been, to remember the endearing qualities of the daddy I had once loved.
That night she pulled out the photo albums bursting with images my father had captured for posterity, many of which flagrantly boasted a red fox on the reverse. We flipped through photos of birthdays, holidays, vacations, dinner parties, even quiet everyday moments. There were pictures of me on the day I was born, at my first Halloween (dressed as an angel and sleeping on Mom’s shoulder), crawling, standing, taking my first steps, eating my first strawberry, posing by the haft sin each No-ruz.
Each picture offered a glimpse into my past, but not just mine. Each was also, in some way, a reflection of the photographer. My dad had adored me so wholeheartedly that he was compelled to capture and hold on to every possible moment of my life. There was nothing about me that didn’t fill him with joy to the point of wanting to carry the memory with him in a tangible way.
My Name Is Mahtob: The Story That Began the Global Phenomenon Not Without My Daughter Continues Page 9
