Moody Jon, let me be very frank with you. It is absolutely OK with me for you to defend yourself and try to justify what you did. This you could do with all the people in the world except me. I was there, witnessed it and know everything about this case. . . .
You became a victim of your own prejudice and fanaticism. . . .
How had I previously missed all these valid points that Kombiz was making? He said all the things I would have said to my dad had I felt it worth the risk. How fascinating that Kombiz, of all people, had said these things to my father. They had so much in common—both Iranian, both well-educated men of science, both lovers of the arts, both intensely proud of their heritage. Where had their paths diverged?
There is much about Iranian politics—and American politics for that matter—that I do not understand. But Mom and Kombiz each described my father’s ideological and behavioral shift the same way. One day he was a happy-go-lucky, gregarious, gentle man, and the next he was a fanatic militant who was prone to violent outbursts. Why did my dad stop seeing people as people and start seeing them as Iranian or American, good or evil?
I continue to read, and another image begins to solidify in my mind—one of two old friends rekindling their long-dormant kinship. I see each of the men sitting at their computer on opposite sides of the globe, thoroughly enjoying this reconnection—laughing and joking, exchanging small talk and sharing fond memories, their smiles only fading when the calls for accountability rang out.
“Let me ask a personal question. Deep down, do you not think that you made a big mistake?”
“Yes, I do. I never thought . . . Betty would destroy our family.”
There, that was it. My dad had the opportunity to acknowledge the truth, to admit his mistake, and what did he do? He pointed the finger of blame at Mom. It makes me sad to read that, yet at the same time it’s validating. It’s the answer I expected from him.
That is a big part of the reason I decided as a child not to engage him in conversation. I didn’t feel the need to open myself up to any more of his lies or manipulation. Yet a part of me, even to the end, held out hope that when confronted with the truth he would be honest, at least with himself and with me. I guess I can be thankful that by not communicating with him for all those years I was spared a lifetime of such deceit.
I firmly believe that even to the day he died, my dad thought Mom and not his own behavior was to blame for his misery. He thought Mom gave Iranians a bad name by telling our story, rather than seeing that his actions reflected poorly on his nation, on his culture, and on his religion. Mom has always gone out of her way to draw a distinction between the actions of one man and the character of an entire nation. She’s the one who raised me to celebrate my Iranian heritage. What a sad and twisted irony that my dad didn’t recognize that.
Folding the letters, I slip them back into their envelope and walk into my study to turn on my computer. The walnut desk feels refreshingly cool and solid beneath my fingers. Lights flicker across the screen, and my mind struggles to come to terms with everything I have just read.
The last time I tried to make sense of the contents of these pages, I was completely overwrought with emotion. I felt angry, betrayed, and threatened. Now I just feel sad. I feel sad for my dad and the poor choices he made, sad that he squandered his life in such a way, sad that so many people were negatively affected.
When I found out he had died, I was momentarily relieved. I thought that at last this whole saga was over. That relief gave way to fear of reprisal by the people who had taken up his cause. And then, almost in that same instant, the sadness hit. It wasn’t sadness for my father, whose life had just ended. I was sad that this man had let his dysfunction rule his life.
I google the words, “DSM-IV criteria Narcissistic Personality Disorder.” A description pops up on the screen, and instantly my eyes meet with the truth my heart already knows: “grandiosity . . . need for admiration . . . lack of empathy . . . sense of self-importance . . . fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love . . . interpersonally exploitative.” And so on.
It doesn’t excuse him. It doesn’t justify him. It doesn’t in any way make what he did okay, but it does help me make sense of it. It does help me understand my dad’s level of dysfunction and the implications it had in our family.
I feel a strange sense of relief. I spent years obsessed with understanding the workings of the human mind so I could keep myself from falling apart. And yet I spent so little time truly exploring what prompted my dad to do the things he did. Now, after taking in his conversation with Kombiz, I realize I owe my resilience, in a large part, to his absence from my life. I got to have the best of both worlds. Mom and Kombiz and a whole host of others along the way helped make sure I was given the good my dad had to offer while insulating me, for most of my life, from the bulk of his destructive devices.
These letters in so many ways validate my decision to exclude my father from my life. They’re also a gift in that they present me, as an adult, with a glimpse into the man he was. He was just as I remembered, and now I don’t have to wonder if my memories have been distorted by my opinions or the opinions of others.
It wasn’t the gift Kombiz intended to give me, but it was the gift I needed. What Kombiz didn’t understand was that I didn’t need to talk to my dad to make peace with his place in my life. I did that years earlier, and I laboriously repeated the process each time he resurfaced. This was no exception.
CHAPTER 32
Light surrounds me. It pours in through my bedroom window and warms me in its glow. I open my eyes to a new day and know what I must do. Wrapping my dad’s old sweater around me, I stop in the kitchen just long enough to start a pot of coffee before I make my way back to my desk. The comforting aroma of Berres Brothers’ Highlander Grog fills the room as I begin to type.
Hi, Amoo Kombiz,
I think about you so much, but especially this time of year. I pray you are happy and healthy and that our new year brings you much joy.
Mom brought me boxes of old pictures. Some belonged to my dad before my parents met. I thought you might enjoy this photo of two handsome men.
Oh, I threw in a pic of my haft sin too. The only thing missing is anar and my favorite Persian uncle.
Love, Mahtob
I scan a black-and-white photo of Kombiz and my dad and attach it to the message. Before I hit Send, I add the words, “A belated Eid Eshoma Mobarak!” to the subject line. A belated Happy New Year.
The e-mail is generic, to be sure, but it’s been years since we have spoken. I want to feel him out before I say what I have to say.
He doesn’t make me wait long for his response. The following morning I awake to his reply.
Hello Precious Mahtob Jon:
Eide Shoma Mobarak as well. No, it is still not too late for Eid Mobaraki. The New Year celebration continues until Sunday which is the thirteenth day of the first month. We call that Sizdeh Bedar. Sizdeh is 13th in Farsi.
This No-ruz is entirely Persian tradition and has nothing to do with religion. It starts with the last Tuesday of the year when people create bon fire and jump over it. As they jump over it, they recite my yellowness to you, and your redness to me. This tradition is left from Zoroastrian days where Persians worshiped fire. They would set fire and would signify exchanging their yellowness (weaknesses and bad parts to the fire to burn away) and would take the redness, purity, heat and warmth from the fire.
We just did that couple or weeks ago where a restaurant owner set four sets of containers on the asphalt of a parking lot and several hundred Persians came over and jumped over the fire. Kids had the most fun. What was interesting, they had put several layers of metal containers and bricks on the asphalt and after everything was cleaned up, there were no sign of damage to the asphalt.
Many years ago, the Persian community in the San Jose area decided to do the same, but in a public park. They went to the police department to get a permit for such an event
. As they explained to the officers that they were going to put several bonfires in the park so the kids and adults would jump over them.
The officers asked “you are going to do what?!!!!!!, setting bon fire and have kids jump over them. When was the last time you had your head examined.”
They said but this is a Persian tradition going 4000 years old.
They said we don’t care, you are just not going to do it.
So, finally, police said, we will have a fire truck in hand and you will pay for the cost and we will monitor the process. So, they did and the next year, things got a bit easier. However, there are still idiots on this planet. Two ladies were there with long skirts made with nylons. All it would take is one of their skirts would catch on fire. I can just see the headline in the paper the next day.
I was very impressed with your Haft Sin and also greatly appreciated sharing the picture with your dad. First, there was only your dad and I did not see another guy in the picture justifying “two handsome” guys. Who was the other one?
The other point I would like to share is the use of the word “dad” by you. I would have thought you would refer to him as your father and not dad. I am very happy that this is the word you selected. I don’t know if you ever forgave him or not. I hope for your sake that you did.
Ihad several frank exchanges with him once we established email communication and couple of times telephone conversation. One time I asked him if he was every sorry for what he did. He said “of course.” I shared those exchanges with your mom. I don’t know if she shared them with you. He once told me that he was making $30,000 a month in Corpus Christi and had the most affluent house in that city. He blew it all over his religious ideology. It is so regrettable for him to be that dedicated to a cause which was worthless, in my view. He learned of his grave error in judgment that was already too late. If you want me to, I will forward those exchanges with him.
Tell me something about yourself. A) where you are with respect to your education (finished University and became a child psychologist) single or are in a relationship? Where you are in your religious beliefs? I vividly remember where once in a car we discussed religion and you were very emphatic with your belief. Please forgive me, but I don’t follow any religion, especially Islam. It is my belief that Religion as a belief has afflicted more damage to mankind that all other causes combined. Having said that, I respect everyone’s right to his or her religious ideology. Do take care and be absolutely certain that I have always loved you and will do so for always.
Love, Uncle K.
I feel the weight being lifted off my shoulders as I read those gracious words. Kombiz was right when he wrote to Mom, “Deep down I think there is a pleasure in forgiving that there is not in vengeance.” I breathe a prayer of gratitude, then open my eyes and begin typing.
My dear Amoo Kombiz,
It is so great to talk with you! You are exactly as I remembered and that makes me so happy. I laughed aloud when I started reading your email and saw that your first priority was to teach me about my Persian heritage. I so appreciate your lessons. I don’t remember the jumping over fire tradition. The only fires I remember in Iran were the result of Iraq’s bombs. It sounds like a fun tradition, and it’s interesting to see how the color references permeate even western culture today. Calling someone yellow-bellied is calling them weak or cowardly. How fun to celebrate No-ruz with so many Persians. . . .
Last year for No-ruz, I hosted a big dinner. My pastor and his family came and so did my college roommate and her family. Mom and I made all kinds of Persian food. I was living in a small apartment and the only way all twelve of us could eat together was to serve the meal on the floor so we had a traditional Persian meal seated on my living room floor.
There were several small children there and when they found out we were eating on the floor, they must have assumed we were having a pretend meal with imaginary food like a pretend tea party. You should have seen their faces when we started placing huge platters of rice and Khoreshes and Kebabs before them. It was such fun! We planted wheatgrass and colored eggs and they helped me set up the haft sin. I told them the story you used to tell me as a little girl about the ram who holds the world on one horn all year long.
This year Mom and Vergine were visiting me. . . . Anyway, Vergine came that day because she wanted to make Armenian food with Mom and me. We’ve been cooking together since I was a little girl. So we set up the haft sin together and before we started cooking the Armenian food, we ate Shish Kebab with sumac and rice (you should have seen the Tahdeeg. It was beautiful. I can’t take any credit, Mom made it) with Ghormeh Sabzi and Mom’s delicious Torshi. She still makes a year’s worth every summer.
We’ve found a restaurant that has authentic Persian food. The Torshi’s not good though. Mom teased the waiter so much about it that he told us to bring our own the next time and to bring some for him too. Haha! We did. On our freedom day, we went for lunch and left him a jar of Torshi. He wasn’t working that day, and I haven’t been back since to hear if he tasted it.
As for the picture, don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you’re still a very handsome man. Mom brought me boxes and boxes of loose photos. I haven’t gone through them all yet but I’ve already come across several fun pictures of you and your family. Someday, I’ll scan the others for you.
My dad is my dad. I had to come to grips with that. It was a waste of energy to burn with anger every time someone called him that. . . . Whenever he was mentioned, he was mentioned in relation to me. For a while I tried calling him Moody, but that made people uncomfortable, so I learned to deal with dad.
Yes, I did forgive my dad. I forgave him for what he did to us in Iran probably within the first year of our escape. I know how you feel about religion, but it was religion that taught me to forgive and for that I am grateful. Where I really struggled was forgiving him for his repeated intrusions in my life. I was terrified of him. Even when he was silent, I was afraid. When he reappeared, especially when I was at university and he was filming his documentary, my hatred reappeared as well. That intrusion, more than any of his previous intrusions, paralyzed me. I became very, very depressed and it took a heavy toll on my physical health. He really made my life difficult for many years. It took a lot of soul searching for me to learn to forgive him once more.
Your evaluation of Mom was correct. She is a kind and integrity filled woman. She gave me your letters along with her encouragement to communicate with my dad. She thought it would be especially good for me to learn more about his medical history given the health issues I’ve faced over the years. I was the one who was adamant about not having anything to do with him. I had forgiven him, but I didn’t trust him and I was still afraid of him. I refused to endure any more of his abuse or his lies.
Reading your correspondence just bolstered my stance. So much of what he said was just blatant lies. You said he was sorry. I’ve read his words over and over hoping to see that sorrow and I don’t think it is there to be found. He was sorry that he didn’t get what he wanted. He wasn’t sorry for his actions. He wasn’t sorry for the pain he caused Mom and me. He wasn’t sorry that we lived in fear because of him. He wasn’t sorry for his physical and emotional brutality. He was only sorry that Mom and I got away and that we told the world what he did.
As for loving me, I believe he did love me, but he didn’t love me for who I was. He loved me because I belonged to him and because I reminded him of his mother. He really showed very little concern for me or my well-being. He was concerned with saving face and with bashing my mom. I had become an obsession to him, not an object of his selfless love, rather a symbol of a slight he had experienced.
Reuniting with me would have served as a means of victory for him. It would have been his chance to bombard me with his lies in an attempt to convince me that what I remember never happened. He said as much in a message he left on the answering machine at Mom’s house when he was filming his documentary. . . .
Your evaluation of me was also correct. I had not forgotten. In fact, my initial response to hearing his message was to turn to Mom and ask, “Did he forget I was there!?”
When Mom gave me the packet you sent, I burned with anger. I was furious with YOU for falling prey to his manipulative powers. I thought you of all people would be able to see through his charm and his lies. I put the envelope away and didn’t pull it back out for a couple of years.
Only recently have I reread those pages, and I owe you an apology. You knew the truth and you boldly confronted him with it. I shouldn’t have doubted your love and the honesty of your intentions. Never have you betrayed me. You weren’t his puppet, you were acting out of genuine concern for my well-being. I know now that you wanted only what was best for me and I respect you for doing what you thought was for my good. Thank you. It must have been an uncomfortable position for you to be in.
My dad’s actions left a wide wake of destruction. He didn’t only hurt Mom and me, it must have been painful for you to lose a friendship you held so dear. It really means a lot to me that in spite of the way he treated you, you continued to treat Mom and me as family.
To answer your questions, I got my degree in Psychology, only a bachelor’s, and have worked in the field since graduating in 2002. I guess I’m like my dad. I have many interests. I could never pick one to pursue on a graduate level though, maybe someday . . .
As for love . . . I avoided relationships all through my adolescence, mostly out of fear that I would end up with an abusive spouse. Still I seemed to usually have a very close platonic male friend. There were several such close friendships over the years and even today, I continue to be blessed with dear male friends. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I started to let down my guard enough to have more serious relationships . . .
As for religion, I believe this life is brief and relatively insignificant. Our death leads to a life that will last for eternity. In my view, that is the life that counts. Religion for me ensures that thanks to Jesus’ death and resurrection, I will be spending eternity in heaven instead of hell—simply by believing, not because of my own value or works or money or for any other reason. Simply by faith, through the grace of God, I am saved for all eternity.
My Name Is Mahtob: The Story That Began the Global Phenomenon Not Without My Daughter Continues Page 28
