They did not close the gates behind them.
7
“Now come on, child, hurry up and put on your hejab.” Maman yelled at Sahar from across the room while dressing the wiggly twins for school. Sahar was sitting by the window letting the Saturday sun wash over her face.
“I don’t want to. I hate this uniform. I don’t understand why I have to wear it, Maman.” The school uniforms were even more conservative than ordinary hejab. Sahar particularly despised the cape-like veil, maghna-eh, that fitted over her head and neck like a ski mask, binding itself to her with its elastic trim and making her forehead itch incessantly. The maghna-eh hung down to just above her waist, not only hiding her neck and shoulders, but catching every curly girly hair on her head.
“You have to wear it because that’s what the mullahs say you have to do, so you have to do it.”
“But the school uniform is even worse than normal hejab. I despise it! Look at this! It’s like a ski mask!” Sahar pulled her maghna-eh over her head.
“You’re it!” Reza tapped Raumbod over the shoulder and made a dash for the other room. Raumbod ran after him.
“I don’t want to have this debate with you again, Sahar. This isn’t up to me. Raumbod, you still have your left shoe to put on!”
“The elastic trim makes my forehead itch. And it grabs my neck too tight so I can’t even breathe.”
“You’re it!” Raumbod had captured Reza, a rare event, and was running back into the living room.
“You can breathe fine. Let’s go. Raumbod, why did you take your shoe off? Put it back on!”
“Can you keep it down in there?” Baba yelled out from the kitchen. “I’m on the phone here!”
“Noorbani Khanum said that if you put meat out, the cat will eat the meat,” Sahar said.
“Did she now?”
“Yes.”
“Vay Khoda. Reza jan, stop that. That wire is not a toy.”
“You can’t blame the cat for eating the meat, because cats like meat and it’s natural for them to eat it.”
“She said this?”
“And girls are like the meat. Their hair and their curves are like the meat. To keep the cat from eating the meat, you have to keep it indoors and cover it up.”
“How educational. Raumbod I swear if you take your shoes off—”
“Yes. And the reason we have to wear the hejab if we’re older than nine years old is that nine years old is when girls start to bleed and can have children.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then this girl in my class who’s really young 'cause she skipped a grade thought that bleeding was like when cutting your finger, and she didn’t understand what that had to do with hejab!”
“Understandable. Coats please. Everyone get your coats on.”
“I tried to ask Noorbani Khanum why I couldn’t wait until I got my period before I wore the hejab, but she got so upset and said that poorly behaved children ask too many stupid questions. But anyway, in real life, I don’t know a single person who’s had children at nine! Right, Maman?”
“That’s right, darling.”
“So does anyone ever even get married that young?”
“Maman, I never wanna get married!” Reza proclaimed.
“No one we know.”
“Me either!” said Raumbod.
“How about people we don’t know?”
“Yeah. Girls are so bossy!” Reza said, then tagged Raumbod again and the two ran off into their bedroom. Sahar rolled her eyes at their silliness.
“Well, I suppose that sometimes, very rarely, village girls and boys can be promised to each other early . . . but they’re kept in her parents’ house until they’re much older.”
“I don’t think Noorbani Khanum really knows what she’s talking about.”
“Listen, darling, what have I told you about what your teachers tell you?” Maman looked into her eyes. Sahar fell silent—afraid to give the wrong answer.
“What have I told you?” she asked more sternly.
“You said I should always nod and listen and do what I’m told?”
“That’s right. Good girl. Now listen to me very carefully, okay? Your teachers are often wrong. Especially about Islam. Memorize everything they say for the exams, then push everything else out of your mind immediately.”
“Chashm, Maman.”
“And darling, you know that women aren’t meat, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“They’re women.”
“Yeah.”
“And men aren’t cats. They’re human beings with minds and the ability to control themselves.”
“I know that.”
“Vay, even cats can be trained. My old cat Riri was the greatest cat in the whole village and I trained him to come and stay on command. But like I said, men aren’t cats. It isn’t right that women should take responsibility for men’s actions. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.” Sahar was unsure of herself but she really wanted to understand. She could hear the twins in the other room, still playing their games. She wished she was eight. And a boy. “Maman, there was no revolution when you were my age, right?”
“That’s right, dear.”
“So did you ever wear the veil?”
“I did when I was young.”
“Even though you didn’t have to?”
“Yes. But it meant something different then than it does now.” Sahar did not understand. “I didn’t wear it because I’m meat and men are cats,” Samira tried to explain.
“You wore it because the Qur’an says you had to?”
“Sahar jan, don’t listen to what they tell you the Qur’an says and doesn’t say. Read it on your own.”
“I have been.”
“I know, I mean you should continue. These mullahs have taken our Holy Book and misused it as their regime’s primary propaganda tool.”
Sahar trusted Maman’s teachings of the Qur’an more than anyone else’s, and even though she was not at all sure what ‘ProPaGanda’ meant, she knew it had something to do with changing people’s minds.
“The Qur’an doesn’t make any references at all to covering a woman’s hair. Women are only asked to dress modestly, a common mandate in all of the major religions. References to the veil are only in the hadith.”
“That’s the spoken word of the prophet.”
“Correct, azizam.”
“But then it’s still what the prophet said, isn’t it?”
“Well, someone was told that someone told him that someone once said that the prophet Muhammad said the hejab was required. Eventually, this tradition worked its way into certain translations of the Qur’an, which were then seized by politicians and clerics to use as it suited them.”
“So then why did you wear the veil when you were young?”
“It’s impossible to explain in your context right now, darling. All you know about the veil is that it is black, dark, and forced. That if it slips back someone will push a rifle in your face to fix it. That you have to wear it whether you’re Jewish or Muslim or Christian or Bahaii. This is your world, unfortunately.”
“What was it like back then?”
“Back then, our headscarves were full of color and life and faith. Do you understand?”
Sahar burst into tears.
“Oh, sweetie!” Maman held her and kissed her forehead. “It’s okay if you don’t understand all of it. Just understand that you need to do what you’re told or bad things will happen. Okay? Do you understand that part?”
“Yeah,” Sahar said through her tears.
“Now, please go and fetch your brothers. We are officially late. Again.”
“Okay, Maman jan.”
“Good girl.”
“Maman jan?”
“Yes, love?”
“How did Riri die?”
Samira paused for a long time. “I don’t know. I had to leave him behind when I moved into the city for my studies. Your granny told me he died, but he
lived a plentiful life on the farm.”
“But, didn’t you ever visit him?”
No answer.
“Not even once?”
“I’ll tell you about it another time.” Maman kissed Sahar then gently pushed her toward her room. “Now stop your dilly-dallying, child, and go fetch your brothers.”
Before she could, Baba burst out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I just got off the phone with my boss. I took the day off today—told them I was terribly ill.”
Maman smiled knowingly. “So we have the whole day to start making our plans!”
“Yes! And . . . pick up our plane tickets to Chicago!”
“We’re taking an airplane to America?” Sahar asked in disbelief.
“Yes, of course! How else would we get there?” Baba said.
“And you’d better start thinking about what you’re going to bring with you,” Maman added.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Maman explained, “we only get two suitcases per person, so that’s ten suitcases total.”
“That’s a lot of space!” Reza waddled into the room holding hands with Raumbod.
“It may seem that way, darling, but it’s actually not that much space at all. We have to bring a lot of household belongings, so that doesn’t leave much room for personal things. Each of you kids will get to fill half a suitcase. And you can’t fill it with toys. You have to fill it with your clothes and shoes.”
“We can’t bring any toys?” Raumbod asked.
“Maybe one or two small ones. You’ll have to go through everything and choose very, very carefully. There’ll be lots of toys in America!”
“What about our rugs?” Reza asked, “Our couches?”
“Are we bringing the record albums?” Raumbod asked.
“Well, we’ll have to leave—”
“Maman, what about your paintings?” Sahar interrupted.
Her parents exchanged a look that Sahar did not understand. Baba said, “We’ll figure that out later. Now, if you don’t hurry you’ll all get punished for being so tardy and Mrs. Abrisham’s eyebrows will move around with so much anger that it’ll cause an earthquake!”
Sahar giggled.
“Come on,” Maman said. “Get your things together and let’s go!”
8
“Now, tell me girls, why do we wear the hejab?” Noorbani Khanum asked as she paced the rows of veiled girls. “Hmm? Who can tell me why Iranian women wear the hejab?”
“Yes, Shirin?”
“Because the Qur’an tells us to?”
“Yes! The Qur’an tells us to. But why does the Qur’an tell us so?”
“Because that’s what good Muslim women do,” Shirin said.
“Yes, but why? Children, we went over this last week. It’s very important that you understand the reasons behind the requirement of the veil so that you can gain a better appreciation for all that your government does for you. Why does the Qur’an require us to wear this uncomfortable thing? It’s hot and whips our faces whenever it’s windy!”
Light laughter came from the classroom at the mere thought that Noorbani Khanum was attempting a joke of sorts.
“We wear the veil to protect our modesty,” a short girl shouted out from the back of the classroom.
“Yes, Azadeh, that’s right! We do.”
Azadeh Abbas was the same girl whose veil never puffed out and who Sahar had decided must not have any bangs because they were too difficult to contain under a veil. Sahar had never liked Azadeh, but disliked her even more now because of the pleased smirk on her face. Noorbani Khanum went on.
“We talked about this last week. One reason we wear the veil is that men are like cats.”
This caused an all-out roar of laughter from nine-year-old girls who hated the cooties of boys. Aware her bangs had again escaped the hejab, Sahar adjusted the cloth, thinking of Riri being punished for attacking a bowl of raw meat.
“But girls, the reasons for the veil go even deeper than that. Listen very carefully to what I’m about to teach you. The veil, although it may seem inconvenient, is the key to our freedom. Iranian women are free because they wear the veil. We hide our hair and we hide our curves so the world can judge us not by our appearance or sexuality, but by our minds. It’s the only path toward equality. The only way to achieve complete freedom and prevent molested thoughts.”
That caught Sahar’s interest.
“In the West, women think freedom is being able to wear whatever you want. But that’s exactly what ends up oppressing them. They’re free to sexualize themselves, and do so in a culture that makes it seem glamorous. They cut up their bodies to reshape them into what they believe they should look like so that men, like cats, will hunger at their sight. Naturally, they’re not treated by the men as equals, but as objects to be desired.
“Iranian women are not objects to be desired. We’re not meals for men. Iranian women are thinking, feeling, equal creatures to men. Only through Islam and the modesty imposed by the coverings that our Qur’an and our clerics require can we find that freedom.
“So, you see, we wear the veil to be equal to men. This is the most profound gift to ever be bestowed upon us and we should be grateful for it, despite its inconveniences.”
While this intrigued Sahar, she was also confused: Why force women to wear the veil? How can being forced to do something you do not want to do make you free? And maybe the veil was a way to be equal, but did not her aunts and cousins, like most Iranian women, have nose jobs? And how about the black-nailed woman she saw with her maman the other day? Was her veil protecting her? Maman had said that men did things to her that hurt her, so she was not protected, right?
Sahar could not come up with any answers to these questions. Instead, they just swam in her head. Maybe she would ask Maman about it when she got home that night. The recess bell rang loudly through the classrooms, and she was again on the black tar of the schoolyard, in winter’s fresh air.
The skipping games and play of her friends did nothing to still her thoughts. In fact, surrounded by companions, she felt alone. Hungry, she chewed on plum tamer paste from a bag in her pocket. Maybe in the end none of what her teachers said mattered. She was going to America. Maybe men were different there. Maybe she would not wear the veil. Maybe she would have more control over her world. Maybe. And it was then she wondered if she would be as lonely there as she was at the moment in this schoolyard, surrounded by friends.
She looked up from the tarmac to the clouds as they moved across Tehran’s sky. Darker, smokier clouds invaded. She would miss them, too. Tehran’s sometimes puffy, sometimes smoky clouds. Perhaps the American clouds would be even more beautiful.
Don’t worry, Tehrani clouds, she thought, I won’t forget you no matter how pretty American clouds are.
Thank you, Sahar, the clouds answered back with a bow and a curtsey, you’ve always been our favorite.
Back in the classroom in the middle of a math lesson the Red Alert sounded. Sahar’s response to the all too familiar siren was automatic. She quickly threw her books in her book bag, put on her coat and left the classroom with the other children in an orderly manner. Once outside, she found her bend in the wall, sat down with her knees tucked into her chest, plugged her ears with her fingers and waited for her maman. But, after a minute or two of waiting, she remembered what Zahra jan said the night of the party: It’s safer for you to simply walk home by yourself, okay, child?
Basheh! Oh, Narges would be so jealous at Sahar’s bravery! She took a big swallow of the saliva that had gathered in her mouth. Gulp. The noise reminded her of the dubbed-in-Persian Bugs Bunny cartoons. This made her smile. She blinked her eyes a few times, slowly pressed her back further into the cove and straightened her knees.
The house was close. Very close. Really, only a few blocks away. She knew how to get there. Just go down Farda Street until the first light, Morde Avenue. Turn r
ight, then turn right again at the third stop sign. Shahid Beheshti Street. Her street. She would be home in just ten minutes or so. One foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Left. Ri—
“Where are you going, Sahar?” Mrs. Abrisham yelled. Sahar looked up from her feet, startled and more scared than she was before.
“I’m going home.”
She shivered.
“Your lips are purple! Are you ill, child?”
“Er . . . from the plum tamer paste, maybe. I’m fine. I’m just going home.”
Scowl. “What do you mean you’re going home?”
“I don’t understand the question . . . I’m sorry, I’m just—I’m just trying to go home.”
“But doesn’t your mother always pick you up? I’ve seen her, with her bangs always falling out of her headscarf and your brothers in the backseat of the car. She comes all the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you walk home, especially during Red Alert. I think you’d better wait for her.”
“Well, last Thursday night at a party—”
Mrs. Abrisham raised an eyebrow at the word party.
“I mean . . . when my cousin was at our house, my mom and my cousin told me I was old enough to walk home during Red Alert and so it’s okay for me to walk home.”
“I don’t think so, child. It’s far too dangerous. I’m sure you’re mistaken. Now go and wait for your mother.”
Sahar was frightened, but proud to have been thought responsible and old enough to walk home. Besides, if Maman was expecting her to walk home, that meant she would never come to pick her up and staying outside in the cold, watching the smoky clouds blanket the skyline, listening to the rockets punch and kick the city all by herself was not something she was willing to endure. Mrs. Abrisham’s tone of command, on the other hand, was too stern to be ignored.
Butterfly Stitching Page 10
