After six months the police called to say they were closing the case. I hung up, called Mom, and asked her to help me move out of the apartment. The next morning we threw everything I owned into boxes as movers loaded them into a truck. Just like that I had walked away from my life.
I was absolutely miserable. I was an intensely independent twenty-five-year-old who was living back home with Mommy. I appreciated having a place to go, but I hated being there. I wanted my own life.
As he always does, God had put just the right people in my life at just the right time. Fearing for my safety, a friend offered me a job several hours away, in a town where I had never been and had no history. And that’s how I ended up in my new community by the water. I moved there quietly, leaving my old life behind in the hope of beginning anew.
I told all this to my new friend sitting on the couch, and he asked if I’d had any problems since my move. I started to say no when I was cut short by a noise at the front door. We both froze, eyes darting nervously from each other to the door. The storm door creaked as it opened. It sounded like someone was turning the knob, trying to get in just feet from where we sat, hearts racing.
Silently we sprang to our feet and moved toward the other side of the house. I grabbed my cell phone. My new friend jumped into action, pushing me into the bathroom. “Stay in here and lock the door. I’m going out to see who it is.”
“No, you’re not,” I protested, “I’m calling the police.”
“They may not get here in time,” he whispered. “I’m going out. Don’t open the door until I tell you it’s safe.” Then he raced down the hall toward the garage.
I raised the blind and checked to be sure the bathroom window hadn’t been painted shut. It would be my backup escape route.
The day after I had moved in, winter had hit with a vengeance, and several feet of snow already blanketed the ground. I trembled as I listened to it crunching under the weight of footsteps proceeding along the back of the house. The seconds felt like hours as I debated whether or not to call the police. Maybe it was nothing. Having only been in the house for a couple of days, I hadn’t yet come to know its sounds. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation.
As I waited, my fear turned to anger. This was ridiculous. What more could I do to escape my father’s grasp? This has to end, I thought as I raised the phone to dial 911. That’s when I heard the back door open.
“It’s me,” the familiar voice shouted. His footsteps grew louder as he approached the locked bathroom door and I imagined the trail of snow he was leaving all down the hallway. “It’s me,” he repeated. I opened the door just a crack and saw him standing in the hall with his pants caked with snow to his knees and a screwdriver in his hand. His expression gave nothing away. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
He led me to the front door and opened it. The storm door stood wide open. “Look outside. How many sets of footprints do you see?”
“Just one,” I smiled, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Just one,” he repeated with a laugh, glancing down at the screwdriver in his hand and shaking his head. “It must have been the wind. Had me fooled, though.”
“Yeah, me too. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. We were definitely primed for a good scare.” I pulled the storm door shut and locked it so it wouldn’t blow open again. I closed the door and turned the knob to satisfy myself that it was secure. Then we collapsed onto the couch, laughing.
I nodded toward the screwdriver. “Really?” I teased.
“Yeah, tell me about it. Not sure what good a screwdriver would have done me if there really had been someone out there, but it’s all I could find.”
We went on joking about the incident and laughing at our reactions, but deep down I seethed. No matter how many times I moved or how far away from home I went, I still infected the lives of those near me with fear and danger. They didn’t deserve that.
I looked at this guy sitting opposite me on the couch and knew that even though everything had worked out fine this time, it might not the next time. Was it ethical to expose another person to such risks? Was it selfish of me to ask someone to live that life for me?
I tried to push the questions from my mind. I knew the answers, and I didn’t like them.
We dated for several months. After that night, when we had put his questions to rest, I really did become just the typical girl next door. That’s the way it almost always went in my life, and that was the way I preferred it. With my friends and colleagues, I wasn’t Mahtob, the Not Without My Daughter daughter. I was just Mahtob, a normal person with an interesting story.
I never asked why he’d felt he had to read the book before we met or why he hadn’t told me right away that he had. I suppose he was excited about our date and wanted to learn everything he could about me. It wasn’t that different from the start of any budding relationship—where each person is discovering who the other one is and whether the two of you are a good fit or not. He just got a head start on his research. Other men have gone about it differently, only wanting to know what I decided to tell them when I decided to share it.
Once when I was in my early thirties, a different coworker decided to play matchmaker. For almost a year she tried to arrange for me to meet her friend, and each time I’d made an excuse. I had just come out of a very serious relationship, and my heart was still on the mend. But one afternoon the coworker appeared at my desk while I was engrossed in my work. With my back to her, I issued a distracted greeting and continued to write.
“How’s your day going?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said, trying to finish my thought before I lost it.
“What do you have going on this weekend? Anything fun?”
Still distracted, I finished writing and put down my pen. “No, just a quiet weekend at home. I actually don’t think I have any plans for a change.”
It was just the response she’d hoped to elicit. “Great. Then you’re free for dinner on Saturday. I’ll let him know.”
There was no graceful way out of it, so I said yes. We hit it off from the start. Months into our relationship, however, he told me what had happened when my coworker told him about me.
At the time, he’d known nothing of my story. But that very evening he’d turned on the TV to find Not Without My Daughter playing. He watched the movie. But then, when we met, he had felt guilty for having pried into my past without my permission. To him, it didn’t feel fair that he had access to the intimate and traumatic details of my childhood before we came to know and trust each other enough to share such things. It was in some way an invasion of my privacy, a betrayal.
After we had known each other for quite some time, he once again turned on the TV to find the movie playing. This time, though, he was angered by what he saw and had to turn it off. Having developed a relationship with me, he found it hard to tolerate the idea that I had endured such violence.
He’s not the only one to have had those feelings. Once the curiosity of the notoriety fades, what’s typically left is the reality of my father’s abuse. That’s a much harder thing for people who care about me to accept. More often than not, they are left holding the anger that I so deliberately let go of in the years after our escape. Some feel a need to protect me, even if that means putting themselves in harm’s way.
To me it’s flattering, humbling, and sad, all at the same time. I pay my childhood very little thought now. It is a thing of the past, just one of the many threads in my tapestry, and I’ve had decades to develop an appreciation for the good that has come into my life because of it. It serves me well, however, to catch an occasional glimpse of my past through the eyes of those who care about me.
My family rarely talks about what happened. We’ve moved on with our lives. Recently, though, one of my cousins asked me about the abuse Mom and I experienced in Iran. Hearing of my father’s extreme brutality infuriated her. Expounding about what a jerk my father was, she realized to her amazement that in all the years since our es
cape, she had never once heard Mom speak ill of the man. It was true. Mom spoke openly and matter-of-factly about our experiences, but she did not speak harshly about my father.
Others have been less kind. Most of the people in my family can’t remember a single good thing about my father anymore. Given the magnitude of his betrayal, this is not surprising. My father earned their disdain. I don’t pity him for that.
Growing up, I was especially close to my Uncle Pete, my mom’s brother. He was my protector. A Vietnam veteran and a General Motors worker, he was invincible in my eyes. Uncle Pete hated my father not only for what he had done to us in Iran, but also for the threat he posed to our family even after our escape.
Shortly before my thirtieth birthday, Uncle Pete and Myrt, a longtime family friend, made the three-and-a-half-hour drive to visit me for the weekend. At a local steakhouse, we reminisced about how I had always had him wrapped around my little finger. “Mandy,” he said, “you know there’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you, right?”
Years had passed since I had thought of myself as Mandy, but I liked that he still called me by my assumed name. It would have felt strange coming from almost anyone else, but not from him. I reached across the table and patted his burly arm. “I love you, too, Uncle Pete,” I told him with a smile. The way he grinned back at me, I couldn’t help noticing how much he had grown to look like Grandpa.
“You know,” he said, “you broke my heart when you were a little girl.”
“I did, huh?” I said playfully, thinking he was teasing me as usual. He had Grandpa’s good looks and his sense of humor too. “Now, how’d I do that?”
“When you were young, we all thought your dad would show up and do something stupid. And I was ready for him. I was going to do whatever it took to keep my little Mandy Sue safe.” His voice caught in his throat, and I realized his eyes were misty. For all his tough talk, my Uncle Pete was softhearted and sentimental when it came to me.
“One day you gave me a great big hug, and you looked up at me with those big brown eyes of yours and said, ‘Uncle Pete, if my daddy comes back to take me, you won’t shoot him, will you?’ That just broke my heart. No little girl should have to worry about things like that.”
I remembered well my fear that someone in my family would kill my father to protect me. Even in my youth, I had recognized the intensity of their conviction to keep me safe. I had been afraid of my father, but at the same time, I still cared about him. I didn’t want him to be hurt because of his love for me, however warped his expression of that love may have been. My concern was also for my family members, who loved me enough to resort to violence on my behalf. Violence begets violence. As a child it seemed that no matter how resolutely I clung to peace, violence swirled all around me. I swallowed hard to choke back the lump that was rising in my throat.
“You would have shot him,” I said in jest, trying to lighten the mood. “If it meant protecting me, you wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I’ve always known you’ve got my back!”
“Absolutely!” he exclaimed with gusto, smacking his hand on the table. “I wasn’t going to go looking for him, but if he showed up, I was going to take care of you. No one better think they can mess with my Mandy Sue and get away with it, not as long as I’m around!”
“Exactly. That’s exactly why I worried about you. I didn’t want you to pay the price for my safety. Plus, I didn’t want to have to go visit you in prison. I don’t think orange is your color,” I teased.
I had the luxury of choosing a path of peace, in part, because I was protected by an army of loved ones who were willing to go to any extreme for my well-being. I could speak softly because they would carry a big stick on my behalf. I prayed unceasingly that my dad would never show up at my door, not only because I was afraid of him, but also because I was afraid of how far my loved ones would go to protect me from him.
CHAPTER 30
Eager to continue delving through the box, I set down the yellow notebook in exchange for a manila envelope. As I begin to open it, however, I realize the day has slipped away and I haven’t eaten. So I head for the freezer to see what’s for dinner.
Mom speaks love through food. If she can’t be here to heap my plate with homemade delicacies steaming from the stove, she makes sure I still get a good meal courtesy of a freezer stocked with single-serve containers of her devotion. Whether we’re together or not, she is forever providing for me. Scanning my options, I decide on a pasty. The story goes that during the logging days, Finnish settlers in Michigan’s frigid Upper Peninsula used to take these pastries stuffed with meat and veggies to work with them. In the morning they would place the warm bundle on their heads beneath their hats to offer a little extra warmth until lunchtime.
I toss the pasty in the oven and set the timer. Twenty minutes—that’s enough time to do a little more digging. The clutter grows in my sunroom with each new round of excavation. I step over crumpled newspaper and grab the manila envelope as I sink into the recliner. The return address says “Undergraduate Program, Department of Psychology.” My name is written across the front with a neon green highlighter. It clearly belongs to me, but I don’t recognize it.
Leafing through its contents, I recognize the paper records of my academic career. A certificate declaring me a lifetime member of Psi Chi, the national honor society in psychology. A letter congratulating me on graduating in the top 15 percent of my class and announcing my induction into the Golden Key International Honour Society. Another certificate announcing my membership in Phi Beta Kappa, which I’m told puts me in the company of presidents and Nobel Prize recipients.
That I, of all people, would be selected for such honors is a mystery to me. At that time, there was so much going on in my life that I was hardly able to register, let alone appreciate, the magnitude of these distinctions as they were bestowed upon me. Sliding the pages back into the envelope, I spot another paper, which I recognize as my transcript. Examining it, my eyes go first to the listing for fall semester 2000. That was the semester my dad found me. I was taking eighteen credits, well above the full-time student requirement of twelve credits per semester. And I got a 4.0 in every class. I don’t know if I did it to spite my dad or if I did it in spite of him.
My grades became proof to me that I was surviving, that my dad was not defeating me. They were a tangible measure of my resilience. Four semesters in a row I got nothing but 4.0 GPA. At a time when I felt so utterly and completely helpless, academic achievement became my avenue of regaining a measure of control in my life. Perhaps I should thank my dad for the hand he had in pushing me to my books as an escape from reality. . . .
Refolding the transcript, I set it on the stand beside me, and reach for Grandma’s afghan. The comforting aroma of the pasty baking in the oven swirls around me. I press back in the recliner and the footrest extends, inviting my eyes to close.
I wake to the chiming of the oven timer. Dinner is ready. Pasties are at the top of my list of ultimate comfort foods. In the fall, Mom and I make huge batches together, often two hundred or more at a time, to put in the freezer. That may seem like a lot, but once they’re shared with family members, we usually end up having to ration our supplies by summer.
After dinner I debate taking the rest of the night off from the box, but my curiosity gets the best of me. Just one more item, I tell myself. One item and no more. Kneeling beside the open box, I rifle through its contents until I spot a picture of me dancing with Pastor Mueller at a wedding. My heart catches in my throat. I love him so dearly.
I’ve kept in touch with many of my teachers from Salem over the years, and we still get emotional when we see each other. Pastor Mueller and I can’t even look at each other without crying. I can scarcely think of him without tears welling in my eyes. The love and protective instincts of those who nurtured me at Salem has only grown with the years. Mr. Milbrath, my fourth grade teacher, freely admits that he still bristles at the sound of an airplane overhead when he�
�s on playground duty. The danger is gone, yet the need to protect me is still deeply ingrained in him.
With the photo of Pastor Mueller is an old card from Mrs. Janetzke. She and Mrs. Norder had been my wonderful fifth grade teachers. Having heard that my lupus was once again active, Mrs. Janetzke reached out to me offering her prayers and encouragement. She fostered my love of music, science and art, but the most important lesson she taught me was to serve the Lord with joy. When my dad first found us, Mrs. Janetzke’s immediate reaction was to invite Mom and me to seek refuge on her family’s farm. She and her husband would gladly hide us as long as we needed. We didn’t take her up on the offer, but knowing we had the option was a great comfort.
My heart overflowing with warmth and gratitude, I set aside the photo and the card and pull the next item from the box. But the instant I see the envelope with its flowery stamps, I stiffen with anger. Yet again I have come face-to-face with a part of my past that I’ve dedicated my life to putting behind me. Why didn’t I stop when this was still fun? Why did I have to keep digging?
I have successfully avoided this envelope since Mom gave it to me about four years ago.
I was at the office that day when Mom arrived for one of her frequent visits. We lived several hours apart, but no distance was sufficient to separate us for long. While I worked, she let herself in and busied herself in my kitchen. That evening when I pulled into the garage, I knew I would find my stacks of papers tidied, the laundry well underway, and the house filled with the most wonderful aroma of onions sautéing in olive oil, meat braising, and rice steaming.
Mom always knew how to make a house—any house—feel like home. She whipped together gourmet meals with unparalleled efficiency, cleaning as she went so that no matter how many courses she prepared, she always worked in a neat and orderly kitchen.
Knowing my long work hours made it difficult for me to cook the Persian food I loved, she took every opportunity to prepare my favorite meals. Heritage is transferred through food, and she refused to let mine slip from my grasp. She was determined not to let the apathy of young adulthood rob me of the cultural richness that was my birthright.
My Name Is Mahtob: The Story That Began the Global Phenomenon Not Without My Daughter Continues Page 24
