After Tehran Page 18

  The Baha’i remain “non-recognized” in Iran and do not have legal status. The authorities have classified them as “unprotected infidels.” They are subject to systematic discrimination because of their religious beliefs and have been, and are still, prosecuted in Iran. They have suffered more than any other religious minority in the country. In 2008, seven leaders of the Baha’i community were arrested in Iran and taken to Evin prison. As I am writing these lines, they remain behind bars. This latest sweep recalls the wholesale arrest or abduction of the members of two national Iranian Baha’i governing councils in the early 1980s—which led to the disappearance or execution of seventeen individuals.*

  BAHBOO DIED when I was seven, and with her death, Christmas changed for me. There were no more Christmas trees and star-shaped cookies. However, Alik saved the day a couple of times by giving me a gift. One year, it was a doll with black curly hair and blue eyes; another time, it was a toy train set. I had never received gifts for Christmas because Bahboo believed that toys spoiled children, so Alik’s kindness delighted me, but I still missed the Christmas tree and the cookies. When I turned four, Alik moved to the city of Shiraz in central Iran to attend university, and I rarely saw him. His short visits were always exciting. I loved the smell of his cologne hanging in the air. To me as a young child, he was like a hero from a book who would materialize every once in a while, then disappear in an air of mystery and intrigue.

  Christmas has never been a holiday in Muslim Iran, so I had to go to school on Christmas Day. But this didn’t bother me, because I was used to it. After the Islamic Revolution of 1979, when I turned fourteen, I felt a strong need to resurrect Christmas and have it back in my life. Christians were an accepted minority in Iran, and even after the revolution, going to church and celebrating Christmas wouldn’t get us in trouble as long as we abided by the Islamic rules that governed the country, didn’t try to convert Muslims to Christianity, and didn’t criticize the government.

  In the summer of 1980 I began saving my money to buy a Christmas tree, and when the time came, I told my mother that I needed her to go with me to help me carry it home. She didn’t mind. Buying a Christmas tree in Tehran wasn’t easy, since only a handful of vendors sold them across the city, but luckily, there was one within walking distance of our apartment. Once the tree was in its stand, I pulled the old dust-covered boxes of ornaments out of our basement, but was disappointed to see that they had faded and looked rather ugly. I decorated them with ribbons from the store until they appeared almost brand new.

  Christmas changed again for me in prison. When Ali forced me to convert to Islam, I felt like a traitor. In solitary confinement, one has a lot of time to think, and I talked to God for hours at a time. I apologized to Him over and over, explaining that I didn’t have a choice, that if I didn’t do what Ali wanted me to do, he would arrest my mother, father, and Andre, and I just couldn’t live with that. If they arrested my family, I would not have a home to go back to one day. I expected God to say something to me, but He never said a word, and many times, I wondered if He had abandoned me. But there were moments in the night, somewhere between sleep and consciousness, when I could feel the darkness of the cell wrap itself around me like a grave—and then I would feel a presence. It wasn’t a voice or something I could see or touch, but it was warm and kind, and it refused to let me go.

  On Christmas Day in 1983, it snowed. I had been moved out of solitary and was again in a cell with many other girls. Early in the morning, through the barred window, I watched feathery flakes glide back and forth on the wind. Soon, the clotheslines in the courtyard and all the clothes hanging on them were frosted with white. When our time to use the yard arrived, most of the girls came back in immediately after collecting their laundry, because the air was too cold. Our rubber slippers didn’t offer much protection against the elements. I volunteered to bring in the clothes of two of my friends. It was chillier out than I had thought, but I liked the touch of snowflakes on my face. There was no one outside. I took off my socks and slippers and stood as motionless as possible. The white curves of winter took me in, covering me, filling the small spaces between my toes. Christmas Day. The day Christ was born. A day of joy and celebration, of singing carols, eating big meals, and opening gifts. How could the world go on as if nothing had happened, as if so many lost lives had never existed?

  After a while my feet began to hurt, and then they went numb. Evin had taken me away from home, from the person I had been; it had taken me to a realm beyond fear; it had shown me more pain than any human being should ever witness. I had experienced loss before; I had grieved. But in Evin the never-ending grief kept its victims in a perpetual state of suffocation. How was one supposed to live after such an experience?

  When we came to Canada in 1991, I was thrilled to see that Christmas was actually a holiday here. To go to the mall, look at the decorations, and watch the shoppers delighted me. The last Christmas before my arrest, I had knitted scarves for friends and loved ones, but here in Canada, even though we didn’t have much money, I could go to the store and buy them something much nicer. All the scarves I had knitted were black, because wearing bright colours could get one in trouble. The Revolutionary Guard issued warnings to anyone not wearing only black, brown, grey, or navy.

  Since I began writing in 2002 I have been thinking more and more about my Christmases in Iran, and I have decided that I want Christmas to be as simple as it can be. The tree is essential for me, but I don’t want new ornaments. I want to sing carols, even though I know I can’t sing. I want to remember the loneliness I felt in the prison and the presence that kept me alive when all light had faded from my world. I want to remember my friends who suffered in Evin and those who lost their lives. And I want to remember the baby who was born more than two thousand years ago and told people to love one another.

  If it were up to me I would ban Christmas gifts at my house, but I know that if I did I would have a rebellion on my hands. I do not give useless knickknacks to the letter carrier, co-workers, or teachers, among others. Instead, I give money to charities. What I want for Christmas are star-shaped cookies, a Christmas tree, and my family to surround me—because I know how unpredictable life is, and that we might not have another Christmas together.

  *Sanasarian, Religious Minorities in Iran, 40.

  *Sanasarian, Religious Minorities in Iran, 77.

  *From a letter released in May 2008 by Ms. Diane Ala’I, Representative, Baha’i International Community, United Nations Office, Geneva.

  A Jar of

  Folic-Acid Supplements

  For years, I avoided folic-acid supplements, even though my family physician had instructed me to take them because of a genetic blood disorder that I have. I always had a jar full of them, but I kept it out of sight at the back of my medicine cabinet. For the longest time, I didn’t think about why I avoided them—I did not want to revisit the memory. But during a trip to Greece, that memory came back to life in an unexpected way. Once I returned from that trip I put the folic-acid jar on my kitchen table, where I could always see it. As with my grandmother Bahboo, who kept her jewellery box on her kitchen table, the ghosts of my past have moved into my kitchen.

  On May 30, 2008, in Thessaloniki, Greece, I dragged myself out of bed at 8:00 a.m. I had arrived there the previous evening and was exhausted. After drinking three cups of strong black coffee I walked to the Thessaloniki Book Fair, where I would speak. My event was not until 1:00 p.m., but I wanted to go to the Canadian booth first. The Canadian Embassy in Greece and my Greek publisher had together arranged my trip.

  I walked around the fair grounds and looked at books for a few minutes. As I made my way to my fellow Canadians, I spotted the Islamic Republic of Iran booth. I decided not to speak to the two Iranian men behind the counter—I knew quite well that the people the government of Iran sent to international events were individuals they could trust. There was a good chance those two had connections to the Ministry of Information and were n
ot exactly the kind of people with whom I would want to chat.

  The Canadian booth was only steps away from the Iranian one. Many copies of the Greek translation of my book sat on display, and a copy of the fair’s newspaper featuring an earlier online interview with me was taped to the wall. As I shook hands with Denys Tessier, the Canadian political and public affairs counsellor, I noticed one of the men from the Iranian booth striding toward us. He marched right past me, went to the bookshelf, picked up a copy of my book, and flipped through it. Then, as I was still chatting with Mr. Tessier, he interrupted us and asked, “Are you the author of this book?”

  “Yes,” I answered, smiling my biggest smile, my heart beating as fast as if I were halfway through a hundred-metre dash.

  The man stared at me.

  I was not going to let him think that he had intimidated me, so I said, “Please, would you like to sit down with us?” and I pulled two chairs forward as Mr. Tessier pulled one out for himself.

  “I’m sorry—I missed your name,” I said.

  “Ali,” he responded.

  He was playing a game with me. Maybe his name was Ali, but Iranians never introduce themselves by their first name. They always say only their last name—for example, I would say that I am Nemat—or they say their first and last names. My heart was beating even faster now.

  The silence was getting uncomfortable. I had to say something. Anything.

  “So … how is the traffic in Tehran?” I asked. “Is it still as bad as I remember it?” Tehran residents complain about traffic the way Canadians complain about the weather.

  “Terrible,” the man said. “When were you there last?”

  “1990.”

  “It’s much worse now. We have a terrible mayor, and he hasn’t done anything to improve it. The streets downtown are like parking lots.”

  Silence again. We all just looked at one another.

  “By the way, I have an event here today at 1:00 p.m.,” I blurted, “and if you’d like to learn more about my book—”

  “I know,” he interrupted, getting up. “We know all about you. We’ve been watching you,” he added, and was gone before I could say another word.

  Mr. Tessier turned to me and asked, “What the hell was that?”

  “I have no idea,” I responded.

  Zoe Delibasis, the cultural, media relations, and public affairs officer at the Canadian Embassy, came up to us. “That guy was circling our booth for a couple of days,” she said to me. “I think he was waiting for you. I should have told you. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. They just want to intimidate me.”

  I was shaken, but I was still in control. The way the Iranian had gazed at me was horribly familiar. He reminded me of Evin’s interrogators. He had tried to demonstrate that he was in a position of power. He would have been able to upset me much more when I was sixteen and a prisoner, but I had grown up and learned a few lessons. I was now a free woman.

  In Athens the next morning, my Greek publisher, Athanassios Psichogios, showed me many of the city’s famous sites. Athens reminded me of Tehran. Its streets, with their four- or five-storey concrete or brick apartment buildings, were similar to those of Tehran. Even the air smelled like the air in Tehran, polluted and saturated with exhaust fumes. Athens was the closest I had been to Iran since I had left it so many years ago. In the afternoon, I wandered the city for hours, and when I got blisters on my feet, I went to a pharmacy to buy ointment to relieve the pain and prevent the blisters from worsening. The pharmacy’s cluttered shelves, poor lighting, and friendly staff also reminded me of pharmacies in Tehran, especially the one Ali had taken me to. Until that moment the convenient distance of Canada had helped me ignore my longing for my homeland, but now it was as if I could reach out and touch my memories of Iran.

  IN LATE AUGUST of 1983, fourteen months after my marriage to Ali, I started to feel terribly sick and began vomiting. After a few days, Ali drove me to see his mother’s physician, a woman in her early fifties. She ordered some tests, and later told me I was eight weeks pregnant. That I might be expecting had not occurred to me. When I agreed to marry Ali, I only considered the effects of my decision on my own life, my parents’ lives, and Andre’s. I had never thought about children. Now another life would be affected: an innocent child’s. A child would need me, rely on me, and, whether I liked it or not, would need its father. This baby was the absolute end of the person I had been before Evin.

  When the doctor gave me the news, she also told me that according to the tests, something was wrong with my blood.

  “The results are definitely not normal,” she said. “But I don’t know the cause. You must see a specialist.”

  She wrote the specialist’s name and number on a piece of paper and handed the paper to me, making me promise I would phone for an appointment. Ali was waiting for me in the car. When I told him about my pregnancy, he was overjoyed. Then I gave him the paper from the doctor and told him she thought something was wrong. He looked very worried and said he would make the appointment.

  A few days later, Ali drove me to the specialist’s office, located off Kakh Avenue.

  “You’ll be fine,” Ali said after he turned off the engine and took my hand in his. “Whatever it is, it’s not important. You’ll be fine. The baby will be fine, too.”

  I nodded. I didn’t want that baby. I was ashamed of my feelings, but I couldn’t help it. Deep inside, I wished I had leukemia and that both I and the baby would die soon.

  The doctor ordered more tests, and after the results came in, she called Ali to say that she needed to see us. Apparently, I had thalassemia minor, a genetic anemia. She said the condition was like a very mild form of blood cancer, and it would get neither better nor worse nor would kill me. I had always had thalassemia without knowing it, and I could keep on living as I always had. Even though there was no cure for it, folic-acid supplements could help a little. She said that my condition could cause complications only when having children.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said.

  “We’ll have to test your husband,” she said thoughtfully, looking at Ali. “If he has the same illness, which is relatively common in Iran, your children may die from anemia very early in life.”

  Ali went for the test, and it showed that he didn’t have thalassemia. He was relieved, but I felt as if I were watching the blade of a guillotine drop closer and closer to my neck. With a baby, I would never have a way out. Even though I had been able to avoid telling my family about my marriage, I couldn’t hide it now. I had to face them and disclose the truth. Would they disown me and hate me forever?

  Ali drove me to the pharmacy, and we picked up all the folic-acid supplements that I needed. When we got back in the car, Ali didn’t move, just stared ahead.

  “You look so sad and miserable,” he finally said.

  I gazed down.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked

  I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “That you ask me what’s wrong,” I said. “Everything is wrong! Everything! You! Me! This marriage! Evin!”

  I was crying.

  “Marina, you’re pregnant. Pregnant women get like this. Life is tough. I know. But I’m really trying, and I need you to try, too. Please.”

  I was cornered and there was no escape. Despite everything, I had kept up hope. It was time for me to accept reality. The Marina I had been was dead, and this other woman I had become had a husband and soon a baby who would need her.

  “It must be the pregnancy,” I said, sobbing. “I don’t mean to be this way.”

  “I have to cheer you up,” Ali said. “Look over there. Next to the pharmacy. See that little shop? It’s very popular with women. Akram [Ali’s sister] sometimes shops there. I have driven her here a few times and waited forever for her to do her shopping. Here … let me give you some money. Just go in and buy yourself something nice.”

  He passed me a handful of bills. I stepped out of the car and wa
lked to the store. There were a few nice towels and an embroidered pink bathrobe in the store window. They appeared so delicate. I walked inside. The female clerk, who was wearing a lot of makeup, greeted me. I wondered how she could dare walk in the street like that, but maybe she washed off her makeup before heading out. I avoided eye contact with everyone in the store. A few robes and nightgowns hung from a rack, all of them lacy and beautiful. I chose a pink nightgown and a matching robe and asked the clerk if I could try them on. She directed me to the change room. I put them on and glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t look pregnant at all. My stomach was as flat as ever. I imagined myself sitting in a solitary cell, wearing my new things.

  Someone knocked on the change-room door. I jumped.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you need a different size?” the clerk asked.

  “No. This is fine,” I said.