Sky of Red Poppies

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  As I began paying close attention, the subtle changes around the city seemed more conspicuous. A new version of guards in army uniforms, carrying rifles, circled the campus. Two police cars parked in the alley behind the medical school were now a permanent feature, and once or twice, I saw strange men walk out of the Dean's office.

  According to Kyan, many intellectuals were detained in Evin and Qasr prisons in Tehran. Though I never asked questions, any time someone mentioned the Fadaiyan, my ears perked. Their name alone, the 'Devotees,' told me enough. I knew at least one member who had been truly devoted to her cause. Despite the government attempts to label them Marxists, most members had a strong religious background. That in time created a new title, 'Islamic Marxist,' a name Kyan considered meaningless.

  "You can't be a religious fanatic and a Marxist at the same time," he said. "This is the government's attempt to appall the general public because nobody likes a communist. The Fadaiyan's goal is to establish true democracy. And, if necessary, they won't hesitate to take from the rich and give to the poor until a reasonable balance is reached."

  "Then why won't the poor support them?" I said.

  "Support them to do what? With SAVAK being everywhere, the authorities would be informed long before they take any action." His lips parted in a sad smile. "Besides, what kind of support would they get from the poor?"

  "Maybe the army will back them up. You know, like they did with Reza Shah."

  "A military coup? My dear, back then the Qajars had no secret police, as we know it. So it was easy for the army to sneak up on them and overthrow their dynasty. People welcomed the new Shah, one who had risen from among them. But times have changed. This shah has learned his lesson and his SAVAK will make sure such history is not repeated."

  The next day, Akbar and I heard a report on the car radio about the most recent demonstrations at Tehran University.

  "I don't know where these young people get their guts," Akbar said.

  "Marching on the streets doesn't need a whole lot of guts."

  He studied me in the mirror, wordlessly .

  I went on, "I would have done it if you hadn't butted in, remember?"

  "You're lucky I did," he said, now sounding annoyed. "You would have liked it even less if they treated you the way they treated Mammad's son."

  "Didn't you say they let him go?"

  "They did," he said and shook his head. "But, as I also said, whatever they did to him, he sure walked funny for a while."

  I felt a chill. What would they do to Shireen? I still didn't have a clear idea about the depth of her involvement. If Mammad's son was involved in Ali's party way back then, did the fact that they knew each other mean Shireen was, too?

  "I haven't seen him around lately, have you?"

  Akbar shrugged. "He wouldn't dare show his face. Not now that he's become an informer."

  "He what?"

  "That's what happens, miss. First they torture them, then make them switch."

  So, the groups were to decay from within. What Pedar had once dismissed as 'child's play,' now seemed anything but childish.

  With Fadaiyan gaining public support, more political messages came through songs, books and pamphlets. Contemporary literature, poetry and prose alike, took a new tone, which ultimately led to more banned books and the arrest of several writers.

  Within months, the surge of public awareness had turned a failed robbery attempt into an impressive campaign. Rumor had it that the captured members were offered amnesty in exchange for a public apology, that is, to ask for the Shah's pardon. But neither bribes, nor SAVAK'S gruesome tortures could bring them to their knees. The country had not seen such bravery since the fall of Doctor Mossaddegh in 1953. The late Prime Minister's supporters had been hushed through brutal punishment. Now, nearly two decades later, once again people were rising against the monarchy and Mashad was proud to be home to many heroes.

  One evening, Auntie and Pedar were at my uncle's house and I went to the family room to watch the nine o'clock news with Reza. I turned the knobs this way and that and adjusted the antenna until a snowy black and white image of a newsman became visible.

  "...have been scheduled for next Saturday," the man announced. "We shall report more on these trials as information becomes available." He then moved on to reports from around the world and Reza turned off the TV.

  "We just missed it," he said.

  I shrugged. "They wouldn't go into details anyway."

  By now, Reza had started to talk to me more about politics. He truly believed the political activists in general, and Fadaiyan in particular, were the country's hope for the future.

  "How come you were never tempted to join?" I asked him.

  "Me?" He laughed. "First of all, those guys are too smart for me. They'd laugh at my ignorance. Secondly, I saw what that deal with Mammad's son did to Pedar. I'd hate to think how he would react to his own children being involved."

  "You're afraid of Pedar, too?"

  He gave me a surprised look. "Afraid?" He shook his head. "He's all about bluffs, he'd never harm me, no matter what. The problem is in the harm such actions may cause him. Pedar is not as tough as you think. But he really loves his country and thinks a monarchy is the only way to rule."

  "Don't be so sure. Pedar has changed, too," I said.

  "A little, maybe. But you can't change a man at his age. Pedar was not raised to accept equality. If you ask me, what hurt him most after the land reforms had nothing to do with wealth. He couldn't bear not being the master." He thought for a moment. "What about you? I remember a time when you seemed tempted."

  A time? I could not begin to count the number of times I had wished to join the students' movement. When I did not respond, Reza persisted, "I mean, being a friend of Shireen Payan, you must have participated in some way, no?"

  "Once," I said, and recalled that awful day. "But I'm embarrassed to even mention it."

  "What happened?"

  "Auntie sent Akbar after me. She made me promise I would not do that to the family," I said, then to emphasize how strong her reaction had been, I added. "She cried."

  "Auntie cried?" he sounded as shocked as I had been when I saw it.

  I nodded.

  Reza gave me a kind smile. "Whatever works," he said and put one arm around my neck. "I can't imagine what I would do if any harm came to my little sister."

  Hard to believe this was the same Reza, who once only cared about his acne and failed grades. Now a first year engineering student, he sounded as intellectual as anyone on campus.

  When he got up to leave, I said, "Thanks for the talk. When one of every five people is a SAVAK agent, I don't know whom to trust."

  He turned around with a grin. "What makes you so sure I'm not one?" And he ran out before the shoe I hurled could reach him.

  The next day, I told Auntie I was going to the shrine, and asked if she wanted me to light candles on her behalf.

  "Praying to pass an exam again?" Auntie said. "You shouldn't turn to God only when you want something." But she sounded as if she approved of such faith.

  I had never trusted the power of prayers, but this time God would listen because I was asking a favor not for me, but for someone who had a better relationship with Him.

  As I washed up in preparation for my pilgrimage, visions of sixteen-year old Shireen in the prayer hall came back. "It is the cold winter that helps us to appreciate our warm homes," she had said when the water made her little hands turn maroon. Holding the palms of those hands together, eyes closed, she had surrendered her soul to God. At this moment, He was probably her last hope. Her only hope.

  I followed the line of pilgrims, kissed the silver doors to the courtyard of the Shrine, checked my shoes and entered, taking small steps on the slick marble floor.

  Arabic chants echoed under the domed ceiling, and although I didn't know their meaning, the melancholic reverberation clutched at my heart. The air was heavy with the scent of burning candles, incense and rose
water. From one prayer hall to the next, I kissed the tall, gilded doors and gave a bow to the golden cubical of the Imam's burial. As pilgrims pushed forward, I gasped for air and let the mob carry me. Hands extended over my head toward the golden bars of the tomb. Stumbling against an older woman who had tied herself to the bars in demand for Imam's miracle, I lifted my head upward, but the light reflecting off the mirrored dome was dazzling. I realized that despite the magnificence of the architecture, the place failed to offer the solace I had come for. If anything, it had filled me with awe, even fear.

  Minutes later, I pushed my way back to the courtyard and sat on the stony ground, facing the shrine. Minarets reached high, blending with the long rays of a bright sun. A hexagonal room in the middle of the courtyard housed water dispensers. As a child I used to love drinking from those brass cups chained to faucets. Our nanny, among many others, believed the blessed water could cure just about any ailment.

  "Please dear God, help Shireen and grant all of them - especially Ali who is now with you - peace and comfort." I chose my sentences with care, hoping I came close to how Shireen might have prayed.

  Above the courtyard, hundreds of silver pigeons flew about and rested on the gold dome. They were a fixture around the shrine of this Imam and even considered sacred. With so many people buried on the premises, some believed the pigeons to be the spirits of the deceased. My mother's tomb being across that courtyard, for years I had imagined her spirit in such a bird. I'd extend a hand, waiting for one to land on it. None ever did.

  The hum of the crowd indicated that too many people needed the Divine attention. God seemed busy after all, and I had little faith he would hear me.

  Welcoming the news that the outcome of the trials would be broadcast during school, many students skipped class and gathered in the cafeteria around the radio.

  "Don't talk in there," Kyan cautioned me as we crossed the yard. "It's best not to react at all. God knows how many SAVAKies are in there."

  The cafeteria was packed and most of us sat on the cement floor. Loud conversations killed the music on the radio and the place sounded like a gigantic beehive. I noticed two new workers behind the counter.

  "Shhhh," someone said. Others followed here and there. "Shhh!"

  As soon as the news came on, and particularly the strong voice of the evening reporter, a dead silence fell. Disregarding the fact that the entire country must be waiting to hear the fate of the political prisoners, the first item in the news was about a train accident in northern Iran. Then came the verdicts in the Payans' case.

  "Following days of deliberation, the high court of the Imperial army has reached their verdict concerning each and every one of the recent political detainees." The reporter sounded drier than usual. Each time he repeated "Guilty" with every name and on all accounts, a huge gasp rose collectively from the crowd.

  For some reason, I'd had the impression that the incident involved only Shireen and her family, but now more than ten people had been named. The word 'guilty' was hammered over and over.

  Six men, identified as the "key elements of this sabotage," would face the firing squad. As feared, Eemon was among them. I didn't know the others, but the crowd reacted with equal shock to every one. Later, Kyan told me three were from Mashad. After all the terrible verdicts, it was small comfort to hear that Shireen's younger brother, Ahmad, would be spared.

  The women's verdicts came last. "Shireen Payan, Irandokht Karimi and Atefeh Mehran," he announced. "All three are guilty of conspiracy, and each is sentenced to eight years of imprisonment with hard labor."

  The students' objections became a distant hum as the room began to spin around me. The air was heavy with grief and all I could feel was someone holding my shoulders, keeping me upright. Eight years! That was twice the number of years that I had even known Shireen. Kyan handed me a glass of water. "Good girl," he whispered. "Not a word now."

  Soon after the news, the crowd dispersed and everyone went back to class. Kyan stayed with me and we listened to a more detailed report of the "crimes."

  "These women were the collaborators, giving the team-houses their facade of a normal home. Neighbors became suspicious and the recent clean up was the result of a tip from one such neighbor," a female reporter said.

  In my mind, I imagined them living in a cul-de-sac similar to our alley. I saw a neighbor's wife peek through the curtains. Shireen carried heavy bags of grocery in one arm, holding Behrang in the other. I saw her hold the edge of her chador in her teeth while struggling with the keys. Did she know she was being watched?

  Clean up? I hated the reporter for her choice ofwords. Oh, the horror Shireen and her friends must have felt when they heard the bang on the front door.

  Back to the original reporter, his final words caught my attention. "The Payan family has publicly condemned these activities. Although they plan to hold a memorial service for their son, Ali, Mr. Payan told our reporter, 'Anyone who betrays this country deserves to die.' Their younger son, Ahmad, is sentenced to twenty years without the chance for parole."

  All I needed for sneaking into Ali's memorial service were some dark clothes and a black chador. I found a T-shirt and skirt to wear, but didn't know whom to ask for the chador, without raising suspicion. I called Tahereh Ahmadi, now a second year nursing student. We had been out of touch for some time and she sounded happy when I told her I was going to stop by and see her.

  Jorjani School of Nursing was located adjacent to the Shah Reza Hospital. Everyone there seemed to know Miss Ahmadi and a young girl went to call her. The 'new' Tahereh greeted me with newfound confidence. Her complexion had cleared, her unmanageable hair was neatly tucked under her white nurse's cap, and the white uniform gave her a whole new look. As she smiled, I concluded she was even pretty.

  "I hate to come here for a favor, but I'm desperate for a black chador," I said after we had exchanged initial greetings.

  She studied me with intent. A smart girl, it didn't take her long to figure out where I might want to go, that my own family would not pro -vide a chador.

  "Will you be safe?" she asked. "I don't want you to get in trouble."

  "I won't. Promise."

  "Let me get mine."

  The next day, I told Auntie I'd be late for dinner. She gave me one of her wary looks and it made my heart sink to think that once again she could be on to me.

  She went back to her knitting. "Don't be too late."

  After the last lecture, I changed clothes in the ladies' room, took a taxi to the Payans' and wrapped Tahereh's chador around me. Made of a thick fabric, it was the heaviest chador I had ever worn and smelled of mothballs. As the taxi pulled to the curb, I saw an older man standing there. From his black armband I guessed him to be a close relative of the deceased. He wore a gray pinstriped suit and his shirt collar was unbuttoned - another sign of mourning. I paid the driver and while I waited for my change, a younger man, also wearing a black armband, came out of the house, approached the taxi and leaned into the side window. "The Goharshad Mosque?" he said, naming his destination.

  The driver agreed to take him.

  "Wait one minute," he said and turned to the older gentleman, "Mr. Payan, please, this way."

  I got out of the taxi and studied the old man with interest. Without a response, he took another drag from his cigarette before tossing it to the pavement. As if grief had shrunken him, his coat hung loosely from his bony shoulders. I found little resemblance between this frail man and the strong figure I had seen in the Payan family photo. He wore round, tinted glasses and leaned on the young man's arm.

  As they passed me, I said hello. He looked in my general direction, but it was clear he hadn't seen or heard me.

  I approached the house. Unlike other funeral services, no black flags hung outside the home and I did not hear the sound of the Quran's recital, a rowzeh, or cry of mourners.

  The door was wide open and a small group of women had gathered in the hallway. I thought I recognized a female teacher
from high school. I knew this to be the women's service, a chance to pay their respects to Mrs. Payan. Kyan had told me that the men would gather at the big mosque. Although he did not know the family, he planned to be there. "It's the right thing to do," he said. Somehow I had a feeling Reza would also attend.

  I spotted Mrs. Payan standing next to the living room. In her white silk blouse and gray skirt, she presented a contrast to the rest of us in black and I saw no sign of grief in her proud face. She shook my hand. "Thank you for coming, Miss Afshar." Then she leaned closer and whispered, "Stop looking so sad, Roya. And remember, there will be no crying!" She motioned to the living room, and ushered me in.

  Inside, all the furniture had been removed to make room for a larger crowd. Women sat on the carpeted floor in a circle, leaning against the walls. Someone moved over and made room for me.

  A young girl carrying a large tray offered me coffee. The Turkish coffee had no sugar - its bitter taste indicating the young age of the deceased. A few women spoke softly to each other, but in general, the room was much too quiet, even for a funeral.

  On the opposite wall hung a large photograph of Ali with a black ribbon tied to its frame. He stared at me, haunting me with eyes that bore strong resemblance to Shireen's. His peaceful expression defied every nasty comment I had heard in the news. Somehow, I could not connect the words "criminal" and "evil" with the innocence in that picture. Those were my friend's eyes, questioning my loyalty, and seeking solace. Shireen and I were never as close as I had presumed. All along, she must have known I leaned on her for strength and at some point she had given up on me.

  I recalled the one time I had seen Ali. "Hello," he had said. To me, that would remain the only word he had ever uttered before his voice was hushed.

  The sounds of my mother's funeral from my childhood memory contrasted this silence of the Payans' home. I remembered a room filled with women in black, the strong smell of coffee making it hard to breathe. Oh how my grandmother had screamed, slapped her cheek and pulled at her hair! Small enough to hide between the pleats of a velvet curtain, I looked on until someone spotted me and led me away. Later, my nanny took me to my room where I sat on her lap, ate ice cream, and watched her shed silent tears.