Moon Daughter

by Zohreh Ghahremani

  She looks at me and I don’t know what makes her say, “Don’t worry, Yalda joon. It should be a peaceful journey.”

  I don’t know how to respond. I’m not going to Iran in search of peace; in fact, peace is the furthest from my mind. This journey is all about justice.

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  THE FLIGHT BETWEEN PARIS AND TEHRAN has been solemn. Most passengers are taking a nap. As we begin our descent, I wonder if the Air France hostesses could be any more dramatic in their silence. One by one, they return from the back of the plane with new attire, long-sleeved shirts and silk head-scarves, in preparation for landing. I also notice none of them will return my smiles.

  “I don’t know what to expect,” Mom says, facing the window for a glimpse of a land she hasn’t seen for over two decades. I suddenly realize this will be her first time in Tehran without her parents greeting her and wonder who will meet us. I have only briefly spoken to Aunt Mandana and even that has been a few words in greeting. The other aunts are just pictures hidden in a shoebox. I wonder how we will communicate. And what about their families? Do any cousins speak English? I run my few Persian words in my head: Salam – hello. Merci – thank you. Noosh-e-jan – bon appetit!

  Mom turns away with a sigh, opens her carry–on, and hands me a cotton robe in navy blue. “Put this on, honey, and button up.” The command in her action brings back the Chicago winters and that rough wool scarf she used to push on me. But now Mom looks so sad that I show no resistance. “The idiots cover you head to toe just before doing their ridiculous body search.” She sounds angry, and I am surprised to find out this bothers her more than it does me.

  I take the robe, slip it on and manage to mask my resentment. Next, I reach for my black scarf and put it on, pulling it down on my forehead as if to hide baldness. The knot in my stomach tells me this may well be the trip to give me a big fat ulcer, but as I look around, the sudden change in everyone else gives me a chuckle. In an instant, all the women have acquired some degree of Islamic look. Their colorful outfits are hidden under plain dark outerwear, giving them a more somber appearance. Even the little girl waiting in line for a last minute use of the bathroom is wearing a black shirt, thick black knee-highs and a white scarf is wrapped around her head and neck. The French hostess who is collecting the last empty cups has wrapped a big scarf around her head and this reminds me of the American woman in Mom’s building, who became a devout Muslim after marrying an a rab. I could never stop feeling sorry for her even though Mom insisted she did this of her own free will. Strangely, the Islamic change seems to be exclusive to women— though I do see a man across the isle removing his necktie, which must be another no-no in the new Iran.

  “There it is!” Mom exclaims, pointing to a mountain range below and she sounds as if she’s expecting me to know it.

  I wrap an arm around her and lean over for a closer look, aware that I could never see what she sees. I know from her descriptions that the mountains around Tehran to her mean ski trips of long ago, young fun, and a family that dispersed over the years.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say and am conscious of the inadequacy of my response.

  Mom takes a paper out of her purse and crumples it into a ball before stuffing it into the pocket behind the seat in front of her.

  That must be the letter I saw her writing last night. At the time, I thought it was for a friend back in the States, but the expression on her face is so sad that I am now more than curious.

  A group of passengers chant what must be a prayer.

  We finally land and despite the illuminated seatbelt signs, people are already reaching for the overhead bins. It takes a while before we deplane. I follow a lady whose suit I had previously admired; but now she looks haggard in her long black overcoat.

  “Oops! I forgot something,” I say to Mom and try to push my way back to our seat. There, in the magazine pocket, I find Mom’s crumpled note. I put it in my purse and go back to her. There will be plenty of time to read it.

  “What was it?” Mom asks.

  “I thought I left my wallet, but it was in my bag all along.” Lying gives me shame, but what else can I do? I know I’ve just stolen something that belongs to my mother, but there’s no way I can stop it.

  None of Mom’s descriptions have prepared me for such a modern airport. As we stand in the passport line, I can sense Mom’s anxiety from her silence, the way she watches what is going on ahead and how she keeps on pulling her scarf over her forehead.

  At first glance what strikes me the most is the dark colors. I hadn’t paid attention to how colorful clothes cheer up a crowded room, but the sea of people looks like a rowdy funeral home. People talk too loud, babies cry, and two little girls are giggling and chasing each other around us. The older one, who must be seven or eight, is wearing a white veil, but the other, about five, is the only female whose lovely brown hair is flying about. In her bright pink dress, she moves among the crowd like a bright dot on a black-and-white screen.

  Mom presents our passports and when she points to me and says something with the word Farsi in it, I gather she’s explaining that I don’t speak it. We are motioned to go through and I notice the man giving me a head to toe. Mom gives me my passport and whispers, “I guess we’ll have to go through the body search separately.”

  “Again?”

  “Just do it,” she says and sounds impatient. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  I enter a small cubical that reeks of body odor. A woman in black mumbles something and I clench my teeth as her hands run over every inch of my body. I am sure this is taking less time than it feels and just when I think I can’t take it any more, she motions me out where there’s air to breathe.

  Mom rushes toward an approaching group and before I know it, people surround us. I stand back and watch her as she embraces all the women. This is Mom’s moment and I enjoy watching her while she reunites with her past amid tears and laughter. It takes her a while to remember me. “Meet your aunts, honey,” she says with a pride I have never seen before. I am hugged, kissed, and spoken to in Persian, of which I’m happy to understand the Yalda–joon.

  We jam into four cars. Mom and I are with Aunt Soraya and her husband. Much to my delight, they all speak a few words of broken English.

  The drive to town is long and astonishing. After I graduated from high school, Mom took me on a trip to Paris and Rome. But this is the Middle East, the Islamic Iran, and nothing I have seen in the news has prepared me for such a modern city. I know from the dry heat that the desert is still somewhere out there. The mountains that surround the city provide a magnificent backdrop to the ordinary high-rise buildings.

  “Tehran something something,” Mom says in Persian as she looks around with equal bewilderment, then quickly switches to English, “I don’t remember seeing it so green.”

  I follow the direction of her gaze down the road. Green, it is not. True that there are trees lining the side streets, and there’s an abundance of roses in the center division of the road, but a thin layer of dust makes the trees almost the same color as the walls surrounding each and every house. I wonder if it’s those high walls that give the place a dry look because I can see more trees peeking from behind them. The air is hazy and smells of gasoline. Traffic is unbelievable and most cars are in need of a good wash. I see no sign of any police as drivers create their own lanes and honk for no apparent reason.

  Aunt Soraya plays tour guide and names a few of the structures. She points to a banner with the picture of a turbaned man and says, “You have movie stars, ve have dis!”

  After a few more such efforts, I say, “It’s okay, Auntie. You don’t have to explain. Go ahead and talk to Mom in Persian.” Unsure if she understands, I ask Mom to tell her there will be plenty of time to take me sightseeing, that I want them to enjoy their reunion.

  “Vhy you no espeak Farsi?” my aunt asks me and I’m grateful as Mom intervenes. The question has bothered me even back in the S
tates, making me feel inadequate, a failure. Sometimes I wish I knew Persian, but when people ask me in an accusing tone, it’s so offensive that I am no longer sorry for not knowing it.

  They break into a loud conversation using exaggerated hand gestures. We must be in downtown Tehran because the traffic is suddenly out of control. Here, streets are lined with shops and the place turns into a mishmash of a variety of buildings and round-abouts with lawn or statues of somebody or other in the middle.

  I look out the window and think about Vida, Dayeh, my aunts, and all the other people who up till now have just been names. I do my best to push away the name ‘Moradi’ for now. The reality of being here and that the names I have memorized will soon have faces, voices and personalities is more than I can grasp. I take in a deep breath and tell myself, “All in good time, Yalda. All in good time.”

  We are at Aunt Soraya’s home and I’m amazed at the resemblance of her taste in decoration to Mom’s. Her mahogany china cabinet is adorned with similar objects in pink glass and her sofa is the same Italian style as the one Mom found at a house sale. On the mantle, there’s a color photograph of Grandpa and Grandma, of which I’ve seen a smaller print in Mom’s bedroom. There is also a photograph of Aunt Soraya and Uncle Ardeshir’s wedding. A charming bride in her knee length dress, she wears her hair up with a tiara in front. W ho knew the years could change her so much?

  I hear Mom’s voice, “Come here, Yalda. Somebody wants to see you!”

  My heart drops. There has been too much excitement already. Vida won’t be here for another week and I’m not ready for more surprises.

  A thought creeps into my mind. Oh, please, not Moradi!

  Mom holds the door open and in walks a frail old woman, leaning on a walking cane, her floral chador wrapped around her waist. She needs no introduction.

  “Dayeh!” And I am down on my knees, embracing her bent back.

  The summer heat is here, but regardless of that Dayeh is wearing a sweater. The white cotton scarf pinned under her chin forms a halo around her angelic face. She is the only person I meet on this trip whom I know well. Her name was sprinkled all over my childhood and her living ghost followed us. It was her recipes that put the best delicacies on our table and even the fairytales Mom told me were attributed to the old nanny. So now that I meet her, that loving expression is familiar.

  She holds my face in both hands and peers into my eyes. I wonder how clearly she sees through her clouded eyes, but she gives me a satisfied, toothless smile. I welcome the coarse fingertips against my skin and don’t mind the wet marks as she gives my cheeks hearty kisses. I tighten my arms around her and she hugs my head. Her clothes smell of tobacco and mint. We stay that way for some time before Mom gently separates us.

  “That’s enough, you two. You don’t want to make everyone else jealous.”

  I wipe my tears with the back of one hand and hold on to Dayeh with the other. She follows me to the couch, but chooses to sit on the rug at my feet. I want her to sit next to me, but know she’s comfortable there. All of a sudden language barriers don’t matter and words aren’t needed. We are so deeply connected that each knows exactly how the other feels.

  I’m not surprised when Mom explains that she has just come from her village to see us. It is no surprise because at the moment it feels as if I, too, have traveled this long way only to see her.

  Dayeh ’s trembling hand clutches mine. Unable to tell her how I feel, I let her calloused fingers stroke the back of my hand and know the motion is to the rhythm of her moon daughter chant. In silence, we both hear it. This is the only line that connects me to a loving babyhood.

  It’s late at night and my aunt and her husband have gone to bed. I take out Mom’s note and read:

  Most passengers are asleep, even Yalda. I have thought of you lately more than ever and as we make our way back to reunite with everyone, it is you I need to talk to. This is much harder than I thought and so I’ve been sitting with the pen in my hand and the words in my head. They just don’t come out, they like staying in the dark.

  I have a lot to talk about, but in a world already filled with trouble, no one deserves to share more pain. So I write to you instead. You would know how to transcribe my thoughts, decipher the words. This is my chance to finally tell you how it was on those first days after you left, on long nights when I refused to accept that your bed would forever remain empty, that your ragdoll would never be hugged again. Do you miss her? You named her Emily after an American classmate. Together we sewed many dresses for your Emily and I helped you to braid her long hair. I have taken good care of Emily for you and now I’m bringing her back because we both know it ’s time to finally bury her, don’t you think?

  I didn’t want to see them take you away. If I denied there was a grave, I would never have to visit it, I wouldn’t be forced to imagine your rose-petal skin buried under mounds of dirt. I can finally succumb to seeing your stone, the one with your name, the one with two dates that are only eight years apart. I remember stopping by such stones and wondering how the mother felt seeing it. I still don’t know how that feels. Is the cruel God who took you from me now kind enough to give me the strength?

  After all these years I have finally admitted that my Marjan is gone. I keep telling others that your sister Yalda is the reason I never went back. But that ’s not entirely true. If I went back, I would have to visit your grave, to accept your loss and face reality. When I went abroad, I didn’t just leave my homeland. I left an entire other life, a life that had my Marjan, my Vida, and a man who had once been mine. “Take it all,” I shouted at God. “You can have everything I once loved!” Staying away helped me to pretend you were still with Vida, growing up, becoming a woman. In my mind you grew old and remained the oldest sister. Oh, child, you are even older than your mother, and certainly wiser than her.

  Mom had not finished the note; then again, she never would. Such thoughts have tormented her for all these years and will remain with her for as long as she lives. I smooth the wrinkles on the paper, fold it neatly and place it in my book. I need to read it over and over. This pain, old as it may be to Rana, is all new to me.

  Vida! This is the Vida day. My sister’s name has echoed in my mind all morning. I woke up, showered, had breakfast and went to my room to change, but all along one thought kept coming back. Today I will know my big sister.

  It has been less than a week and I’m already content to be among my aunts and uncles, especially the uncles because they treat me as their own. It’s odd to realize that while I am just meeting my family, they have known me all my life. In all their houses there are pictures of Mom and me, and Aunt Mandy even has one from my Junior High graduation. When I ask why they didn’t contact the grownup me, they dodge the question or make inadequate excuses such as the language barrier. That’s no longer believable as I have no trouble communicating even with Uncle Ardeshir. Maybe they were just being cautious and trying to avoid a slip that might make me suspicious. My father’s name is never mentioned and I have yet to see any sign of him. But today Vida is arriving from Shiraz.

  From a life where family meant Mom and me, I have taken a big leap and landed in the middle of a clan. It has been easy to put a face to familiar names, but now there are cousins and cousins of cousins whose names I’ll never get straight. Almost everyone speaks some English, even though theirs sometimes sounds very Persian and often has their own words mixed in. Even the people on the street know some English. Everybody tells me I should learn Persian, followed by some hint that if I do, they’ll have a good husband for me. I smile inwardly. Paul would love to hear this! I think of him often and the thought only makes me realize how far apart we are. I haven’t called him yet. I don’t want to impose and add to my aunt’s phone bill by calling States and any way, there’s no way to share what I’m experiencing. It’s as though I have flown to another planet.

  “We’re ready to go, Yalda joon,” my aunt calls from downstairs.

  I open the do
or a crack and shout, “Be down in a minute.”

  I am in Mandana’s guest room, where I’ll be staying for the duration of our trip. From day one I’ve called her Aunt Mandy and she seems to like my Americanization of her name. The aunties have divided us between them. Mom is staying with her oldest sister Soraya.

  Taraneh—Aunt Tara to me—lives somewhere in the northern suburbs with her husband, their son a rash, and Grandma. Mom tells me the family decided that would be best for Grandma because her house is bigger and the mountain air is free of the downtown’s smog. Mom went there for a visit the day after we arrived. Today the bride-to-be comes to Tehran and everyone will gather at Aunt Soraya’s, including Grandma. “Don’t expect her to remember you,” Aunt Mandy has cautioned.

  It’s a Friday, everyone’s day off. I think of my Fridays with Mom, when we looked forward to a peaceful dinner and a movie. Life here is different and this sure hasn’t been a typical vacation. Just a few days into it and I’m already exhausted. One party after another, and although it’s always the same people and the same food, each gathering has its own character. Aunt Soraya being the eldest of the sisters holds a more formal gathering.

  Mom and I haven’t had a chance to be alone, but I know she’s as anxious as I am. How will Vida receive us? The fact that we have not known each other lowers my expectation, but what about Mom? If Vida has indeed adopted that other woman as her mother, how will she feel toward Mom? I can’t even begin to guess what goes on in my mother’s mind. How will she feel now that she has a real Persian daughter and is about to have an Iranian son-in-law?