The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  But the oppression we had lived under had not allowed us to learn how to properly profit from freedom. We didn’t know how to debate, we were not accustomed to hearing opposing points of view, we were not trained to accept different thoughts and opinions. Consequently, the revolution’s honeymoon did not last even a month and ended far sooner than we thought.

  Differences of opinion and personal inclinations, which until then had been veiled by the solidarity of having a common enemy, revealed themselves more harshly and forcefully as time passed. Battles over beliefs quickly resulted in people taking sides, each accusing the other of being an enemy of the people, the nation and religion. Every day a new political group came into existence and challenged the others. That year, all the customary new year’s social visits and gatherings passed with heated political arguments and even fights.

  My own fateful encounter took place at Mahmoud’s house when we went to visit his family for the new year. An argument between Hamid and Mahmoud escalated into a row.

  ‘The only thing people want and which they started this revolution for is Islam,’ Mahmoud said. ‘Therefore, the government should be an Islamic government.’

  ‘I see!’ Hamid retorted. ‘Would you please explain to me what an Islamic government actually means?’

  ‘It means the implementation of all the tenets of Islam.’

  ‘Meaning a return to fourteen hundred years ago!?’ Hamid exclaimed.

  ‘The rules of Islam are the rules of God,’ Mahmoud countered. ‘They do not get old and are always relevant.’

  ‘Then would you please explain what the laws of Islam are with respect to the country’s economy? And what about the laws pertaining to civil rights?’ Hamid asked. ‘I guess you want to bring back harems, travelling on camels and cutting off hands and feet!’

  ‘This, too, is God’s rule,’ Mahmoud snapped. ‘If they had punished thieves by cutting off their hands, there wouldn’t be so many of them, and there wouldn’t be so many traitors and swindlers. What would a faithless man like you know about God’s rules? There is wisdom to it all.’

  The argument led to Hamid and Mahmoud exchanging insults. Neither could tolerate the other. Hamid talked about human rights, freedom, the repossession of property, the division of wealth, and government by committee, and Mahmoud called him faithless, godless and an infidel whose death was requisite. He even accused Hamid of being a traitor and a foreign spy. And in return, Hamid labelled Mahmoud dogmatic, dry-minded and a traditionalist.

  Ehteram-Sadat, her children, and Ali and his wife sided with Mahmoud. And I, saddened by Hamid’s isolation, felt obliged to support him and rushed to his aid. Faati and her husband were indecisive and didn’t know which side to take. All the while, Mother looked desperate, understood nothing of what was being said and simply wanted peace to be restored.

  Worst of all, Siamak was stuck in the middle, dazed and confused, not knowing who was right. He still had fresh in his mind Mahmoud’s religious teachings of several months earlier and yet he was living in his father’s intellectual and political environment. Until that day, Siamak had not truly grasped the profound conflict between the two. During the time his uncle and his father were cooperating with each other, their opposite standpoints had melded together in his mind. But now the two men were at odds, leaving him lost and disillusioned.

  Siamak was no longer committed or partial to either man; he again became tense and quarrelsome. And finally one day, after a long argument he put his head on my chest and wept as he used to do when he was a child. I comforted him and asked him what was troubling him. ‘Everything!’ he said, still sobbing. ‘Is it true that Dad doesn’t believe in God? That he is Mr Khomeini’s enemy? Does Uncle Mahmoud really believe Dad and his friends should be executed?’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Our daily life returned to the way it had been years ago. Again, Hamid forgot his home and family. He was constantly travelling around the country and spent the rest of his time writing articles and speeches, and publishing newspapers, magazines and newsletters. Although he saw no reason why Siamak shouldn’t be at his side, Siamak was no longer eager to be with him.

  The schools, universities and businesses had reopened and people were busy with their lives. But there were scenes of arguments and fights over ideas and beliefs everywhere. At the university, any group that got to a room first occupied it, hung their name on the door and started distributing newsletters and leaflets. This behaviour wasn’t exclusive to the students; even the professors were divided into factions and fought with each other. The walls and doors were covered with conflicting slogans and leaks and disclosures such as photographs of students or professors receiving awards from the Shah or Queen Farah.

  I don’t remember how we studied that year and how we managed to take our final exams. Everything was overshadowed by ideological wars. Yesterday’s friends now beat each other almost to death and when the opponent was defeated, or even lost his life, they would celebrate and consider it a great victory for their group.

  I was happy it was my last term at the university.

  Hamid laughed and said, ‘What an ardent student! You love studying so much that it seems you have no intention of finishing.’

  ‘You are shameless!’ I said. ‘I could have finished in three and a half years, but because of you, I had to drop out of university and when I went back I took only a few credits each term so that I could work and take care of the kids, too. And despite all this, I have a very high expected grade. You can be sure I will be accepted in the post-graduate programme as well.’

  Unfortunately, the turmoil at the university, the dismissal of many professors and the regular cancellation of classes meant that again I could not finish and a few credits were outstanding for the following term.

  At work, it was the same situation. Every day a few people were labelled as former SAVAK agents, and shocking accusations and rumours were rampant. The purging of anti-revolution elements had become part of every political group’s mandate and each faction accused the other of being anti-revolutionary.

  The scene was different at our house. Siamak was bringing the Mujahedin’s newspaper home from school.

  In mid-September 1979, I gave birth to my daughter. This time, Hamid was there. After the delivery, when I was transferred to the maternity ward, he laughed and said, ‘This one resembles you more than the others!’

  ‘Really? Why? I thought she was a little olive-skinned.’

  ‘For now she is more red than olive-skinned, but she has dimples in her cheeks. She is very cute. We are going to name her Shahrzad, aren’t we?’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘We decided that unlike Shahrzad she should have a long and happy life and that we would give her a name that suits her.’

  ‘What would you say suits this tiny little girl?’

  ‘Shirin.’

  Given that Shirin was going to be my last child, I wanted to enjoy every minute of her infancy, which I knew would pass all too quickly. Siamak didn’t pay much attention to our newcomer, but Massoud, who showed no signs of jealousy, would gaze at that little miracle and say, ‘She is so tiny, but she has everything! Look at the size of her fingers! Her nostrils look like two tiny zeros.’ And he would laugh at Shirin’s ears and the little tuft of hair on the crown of her head. Every day after school, Massoud would sit and talk to her or play with her. Shirin seemed to love him, too. The moment she saw him she would start giggling and flailing her arms and legs. When she was older, apart from my own, she would leap only into Massoud’s arms.

  Shirin was a healthy girl. Emotionally, she was a combination of Siamak and Massoud. She was pleasant and cheerful like Massoud, and mischievous and restless like Siamak. Her lips and cheeks resembled mine, but she had inherited Hamid’s wheat-coloured skin and large black eyes. I was so busy with her that I wasn’t bothered by Hamid’s long absences and I didn’t want to take part in his work and activities. I was even neglecting Siamak. As always, he was doing well
in school and his grades were good, but I didn’t know what else he was involved in.

  After my three-month maternity leave from work, I decided to take another year off without pay. I wanted to raise my daughter in peace and pleasure, earn my bachelor’s degree and possibly prepare for the graduate school entrance exams.

  Other than family members, Shirin had another ardent fan in Mrs Parvin who by then was not working and very alone. It seemed people no longer ordered custom-made clothes and she had hardly any clients left. She rented out the two rooms at the far end of the yard and started earning a small income, which stopped her from worrying about the lack of customers. Mrs Parvin was spending much of her free time with me and when I registered for the winter term at the university, she happily agreed to take care of Shirin on the days I had classes.

  The university was still in turmoil. I was distraught the day a group of students threw a time-honoured and highly respected professor out of the university gates with a kick in the pants because his book had received a royal award from the Shah. What made it worse was that a few other professors stood by and watched with a smile on their lips, nodding in approval. When I told Hamid about it, he shook his head and said, ‘In a revolution, there is no room for futile sympathies. Eradication is one of the pillars of any revolt, but unfortunately these people don’t know how to conduct it properly and are behaving irresponsibly. After every revolution, rivers of blood have flowed and the masses have avenged hundreds of years of tyranny. But here, nothing is happening.’

  ‘What do you mean nothing is happening?’ I exclaimed. ‘Only recently the newspapers published the photographs of former government officials who have been executed.’

  ‘That handful of people? If the powers that be hadn’t executed even those few, they themselves would have come under suspicion.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Hamid. You frighten me. I think even this is too much.’

  ‘You are too emotional,’ he said. ‘The problem is that our people don’t have a culture of revolution.’

  Over time, the unrest and the political and social conflicts escalated to the point that the university was officially closed. The country was far from peace and stability. There were rumours circulating about a civil war and the secession of several provinces, particularly Kurdistan.

  Hamid was often travelling. This time, he had been away for more than a month and we had no news of him. Again, my worries and anxieties started, but I no longer had the patience and tolerance I used to have. I decided to have a serious conversation with him when he returned.

  After six weeks, he came home exhausted and unkempt. He went straight to bed and slept for twelve hours. The next day the noise the children were making finally woke him up. He took a bath, ate a proper meal and, healthy and well rested, sat at the kitchen table and started joking around with the boys. I was washing the dishes when, sounding surprised, he asked, ‘Have you gained weight?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no. I have actually lost a lot of weight in the past few months.’

  ‘Then you had gained weight before?’

  I wanted to throw something at him. He had forgotten that seven months earlier I had given birth; that was why he hadn’t asked about our daughter. Just then, Shirin started to cry. I turned to Hamid and angrily said, ‘Do you remember now? You, sir, have another child!’

  He would not admit that he had forgotten Shirin existed. He took her in his arms and said, ‘Wow, she has grown so much! She is so chubby and cute!’

  Massoud started listing his sister’s talents and traits: how she smiled at him, grabbed his finger tightly, recognised everyone in the family, had two teeth and had begun crawling.

  ‘I haven’t been away that long,’ Hamid said. ‘Did she change so much in this short a time?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, ‘she had already teethed before you left and she could do a lot of things, but you weren’t around to see any of it.’

  Hamid didn’t go out that night. Around ten o’clock the doorbell rang. He leaped up, grabbed his jacket and ran towards the rooftop. And I was suddenly transported back to years earlier. Nothing had changed. I felt sick.

  I don’t remember who was at the door. Whoever it was, they did not pose any danger, but Hamid and I were both badly shaken. I looked at him with bitterness. Shirin was sleeping. The boys were excited to see their father at home and didn’t want to go to bed, but I ordered them to go to their room. Hamid took a small book from his pocket and went to the bedroom.

  ‘Hamid, sit down,’ I said sternly. ‘I have to talk to you.’

  ‘Ugh!’ he said impatiently. ‘Does it have to be tonight?’

  ‘Yes, it has to be tonight. I am afraid there may be no tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, how grave and poetic!’

  ‘You can say whatever you want and make fun as much as you want, but I will say what I have to say. Look, Hamid, all these years I have put up with all sorts of misery and I have never demanded anything from you. I have respected your ideas and ideals even though I do not believe in them. I have tolerated loneliness, fear, anxiety and your absences. I have always put your needs first. I have suffered middle-of-the-night raids, my life being turned upside down, and years of insults and humiliation behind the prison gates. I have single-handedly shouldered the burden of our life and raised the children.’

  ‘So, what’s your point? You have kept me awake so that I can say thank you? Fine, thank you. Madam, you are remarkable.’

  ‘Don’t act like a spoiled child,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want your thanks. I want to say that I am no longer a seventeen-year-old girl to worship your heroisms and be content with them. And you are no longer a strong and healthy thirty-year-old man who can fight and struggle the way you used to. You said if the Shah’s regime falls, if the revolution triumphs, and if the people get what they want, you will go back to a normal life and we will quietly and happily raise our children together. Think about them. They need you. Stop all this. I don’t have the patience and the strength for it any more. Your main goal has been achieved and you have performed your duty towards your ideals and your country; leave the rest for those who are younger.

  ‘For once in your life, put your children first. The boys need a father. I can’t fill your place in their lives any more. Do you remember the month we spent on the Caspian coast? Do you remember how happy and lively they were? Do you remember how they talked and shared everything with you? Now, I have no idea what Siamak is up to and who his friends are. He is in his adolescent years; it is a dangerous and difficult age. You have to spend time with him and keep an eye on him. Besides, we have to plan for their future. Their expenses are increasing every day and with this inflation I cannot shoulder the responsibility alone. Do you even know how we have managed to live this past year with me on leave without pay? Believe me, even the pittance I had saved for a rainy day is gone. How long does your old father have to support us?’

  ‘The money he gives to you every month is my salary,’ Hamid retorted.

  ‘What salary? Why are you fooling yourself? How much do you think the printing house makes for it to want to pay an idle guy who never shows up at work?’

  ‘So what is your problem?’ he asked. ‘You need more money? I will tell them to increase my salary. Then will you be satisfied?’

  ‘Why can’t you understand what I’m saying? Of everything I’ve said, you heard only the bit about money?’

  ‘The rest was all nonsense,’ he said. ‘Your problem is that you don’t have any ideals in life. Doesn’t serving the people have any place in your materialistic mind?’

  ‘Don’t start with your slogans,’ I said. ‘If you are really concerned for the nation and the needy people, then let’s go to the far-flung corners of the country and become teachers, work for the people and teach them something; let’s buy a piece of land and become farmers and grow food, or do anything else that you consider to be service to the people. Even if we have no income, I will never complain. I just
want us to be together. I want my children to have a father. I swear I will live wherever you want. I just want us to get away from this battle of nerves, this constant fear and anxiety. Please, for once in your life make a decision for the sake of your family and your children.’

  ‘Are you done?’ he said angrily. ‘Are you really that simple-minded and fanciful? Do you really think that after all the training, all the suffering, all the years in prison, just now that we are so close to our goal I will hand everything over to these people and move to some godforsaken corner of the country and plant beans with four and half peasants? My mission is to institute a democratic government. Who said the revolution has triumphed? We still have a long way to go. My duty is for all nations to be free. When are you going to understand this?’

  ‘Tell me, what is a democratic government?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t it a government elected by the people? Well, the people have done just that; except that you, sir, will not accept the fact that the people, the ones you have been beating your chest for, have voted for an Islamic government. Now, who exactly do you want to go to war with?’