It was mid-1977. I was sensing political unrest in the country. The way people talked and behaved had palpably changed. In offices, on the streets and especially at the university, people spoke more daringly. The conditions at the prison had improved and Hamid and the other prisoners were to receive more amenities. There were also fewer restrictions for delivering clothes and food to them. But in my broken heart I found no glimmer of hope and I could not imagine the magnitude of the events that were taking shape.
It was a few days before the new year, and the air smelled of spring. Lost in my thoughts, I returned home and came face to face with a strange scene. In the middle of the hall there were a few sacks of rice, large tins of cooking lard, bags of tea and legumes, and several other foodstuffs. I was surprised. Hamid’s father occasionally brought rice for us, but not all these other things. Ever since the printing house was shut down, they too were under financial pressure.
When Siamak saw the surprised look on my face, he laughed and said, ‘Wait until you see the best part.’ And he held out an envelope towards me. It was open and I could see a stack of one-hundred tuman bills in it.
‘What is all this?’ I asked. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘Guess!’
‘Yes, Mum, it’s a contest,’ Massoud added cheerfully. ‘You have to guess.’
‘Did your grandfather go to all this trouble?’
‘No!’ Siamak said.
And they both started to laugh.
‘Did Parvaneh bring them?’
‘No.’
More laughter.
‘Mrs Parvin? Faati?’
‘No way!’ Siamak said. ‘You will never guess… Shall I tell you?’
‘Yes! Who brought these things?’
‘Uncle Ali! But he said I should tell you they came from Uncle Mahmoud.’
I was stunned.
‘Why? What for?’ I asked. ‘Did he see a prophecy in a dream?’
I picked up the telephone and called Mother’s house. She didn’t know anything.
‘Then let me talk to Ali,’ I said. ‘I want to know what is going on.’
When Ali came to the phone, I said, ‘What is going on, Ali Agha? Are you feeding the poor?’
‘Please, sister. It was my duty.’
‘What duty? I have never asked for anything.’
‘Well, that’s because you are gracious and noble, but I have to live up to my obligations.’
‘Thank you, dear Ali,’ I said. ‘But my children and I don’t need anything. Please come right now and take all these things away.’
‘Take them and do what with them?’ Ali asked.
‘I don’t know. Do whatever you want. Give them to the needy.’
‘You know, sister, this has nothing to do with me. Brother Mahmoud sent them. Talk to him. And it wasn’t just you; he did the same for a lot of people. I just delivered everything.’
‘Really!’ I said. ‘So it is alms from the gentleman? Of all the unimaginable…! Don’t tell me he has gone mad!’
‘What sort of talk is this, sister? And here we were, thinking we were doing a good deed!’
‘You have done enough good deeds for me. Thank you. Just come and take this stuff away as soon as possible.’
‘I will, but only if brother Mahmoud asks me to. You should talk to him yourself.’
‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘I will do just that!’
I called Mahmoud’s house. The number of times I had called that house were fewer than the fingers on one hand. Gholam-Ali answered and after a warm hello he handed the telephone to his father.
‘Hello, sister! What a surprise. What made you finally think of us?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ I said dryly, ‘that is exactly what I wanted to ask you. What made you finally think of us? You have sent alms!’
‘Please, sister. It’s not alms, it’s your right. Your husband is in prison because he fought for freedom and against these godless people. We who don’t have the strength to fight and to endure prison and torture are obliged to at least watch over the families of the brave.’
‘But my dear brother, Hamid has been in prison for four years. Just as I have so far managed without needing anyone, with the grace of God, I shall continue to do the same in the future.’
‘You are right, sister,’ he said. ‘Shame on us, we were fast asleep and clueless, we were oblivious. You must forgive us.’
‘Please, brother. All I mean is that I can manage my own life. I don’t want my children to grow up on charity. Please send someone to take these things…’
‘Sister, it is my duty. You are our beloved and Hamid is our pride.’
‘But, brother, Hamid is that same insurgent who deserved to be executed.’
‘Don’t make snide remarks, sister. You really hold a grudge, don’t you?… I have already confessed that I was ignorant. To me, any man who fights this system of tyranny is praiseworthy, be he a Muslim or an infidel.’
‘Thank you very much, brother,’ I said sternly. ‘Still, I have no need for the food. Please send someone to take it away.’
‘Give it to your neighbours,’ he snapped indignantly. ‘I don’t have anyone to send over there.’
And he hung up the telephone.
During the months that followed, the changes became more palpable. No one at the office was supposed to know that my husband was a political prisoner, but almost everyone knew and until then they had all treated me guardedly and took care not to frequent my office too often. But now all those cautions and constraints had disappeared. People did not seem to be afraid of associating with me and my circle of acquaintances was rapidly growing. And my co-workers no longer complained about my excessive absences and the hours I spent studying.
Soon, the transformation became even more pronounced. My family members, my friends at the university, and my colleagues at work started talking openly about my life and my circumstances. They enquired about Hamid’s well-being, expressed sympathy and concern, and praised him. At social gatherings, I was often invited to sit at the head of the room and found myself the centre of attention. As uncomfortable as I was with all this, for Siamak it was a source of pride. Elated, he talked openly and proudly about his father and answered people’s questions about how Hamid had been arrested and the night our home was raided. Needless to say, given his young, imaginative mind, he often embellished his recollections.
Barely two weeks after the start of the school year, I was summoned to Siamak’s school. I was worried, thinking he had again started a fight and beaten up a classmate. But when I walked into the school administration office, I realised I was there for a different reason. A group of teachers and supervisors greeted me and closed the door to make sure the principal and other administrators wouldn’t become aware of my presence. Obviously, they didn’t trust them. And then they started to ask me about Hamid, about the political situation in the country, the changes that were under way, and the revolution. I was stunned. They acted as if I was the source of secret plans for an insurrection. I answered their questions about Hamid and his arrest, but in response to all other questions, I kept repeating, ‘I don’t know. I am not involved in any way.’ In the end, it became clear that Siamak had talked about his father, the movement for a revolution, and our involvement in it, with such exaggeration that enthusiasts and supporters had thought to not only verify his claims, but to establish direct contact with key players.
‘Of course, from a father like that, we should expect a son like Siamak,’ a teary-eyed teacher proclaimed. ‘You can’t imagine how beautifully and passionately he talks.’
‘What has he told you?’ I asked, curious to know what Siamak told strangers about his father.
‘Like an adult, like an orator, he fearlessly stood in front of all of us and said, “My father is fighting for the freedom of the oppressed. Many of his friends have died for the cause and he has been in prison for years. He has persevered under torture and not uttered a single word.”’
On my way back home, conflicting emotions simmered in me. I was happy that Siamak was asserting himself, gaining attention and feeling proud. But I was troubled by his hero-building and hero-worshipping personality. He had been a difficult child all his life and now he was in the confusing and delicate stages of early youth. I worried how after being subjected to all those insults and humiliations he was now going to digest the praise and approval. Would his undeveloped personality be able to withstand such highs and lows? And I wondered why he needed so much attention, approval and love. I had tried as far as possible to give him all that.
The respect and admiration of those around us was intensifying from one day to the next. It all seemed exaggerated and far-fetched and I wondered if it was rooted in mere curiosity. Regardless, it was gradually becoming difficult and annoying for me. At times, I felt insincere, hypocritical and guilty. I would ask myself, What if I am taking advantage of my circumstances and deceiving people? I constantly explained to everyone that I didn’t know much about my husband’s beliefs and ideals and that I had never collaborated with him. But people didn’t want to hear the reality. At work and at the university, during every political discussion people pointed to me and in every election chose me to represent them. Each time I said that I didn’t know much and that I had no connections, they interpreted it as my being inherently modest. The only person who did not change his behaviour towards me was Mr Zargar who carefully monitored the changes taking place around me.
The day the employees decided to elect a Revolution Committee and announced their support for the roaring swell of the masses, one of the staff members, who until recently had only warily said hello and goodbye to me, made an eloquent speech in praise of my revolutionary, humanitarian and freedom-loving character and nominated me as a candidate. I stood up and, with a confidence that I had gained from a difficult social life, I thanked the speaker but objected to his claims, saying earnestly, ‘I have never been a revolutionary. Life put me in the path of a man who had a particular view of politics and I fainted the first time I had to face a small part of the foundation and framework of his beliefs.’
Everyone laughed and a few people applauded.
‘Believe me,’ I said. ‘I am telling the truth. This is why my husband never involved me in his activities. With all my being, I pray for his release, but when it comes to political ideologies and political clout, I am of no use to anyone.’
The man who had nominated me shouted in protest, ‘But you have suffered, your husband has spent years in prison, and you have single-handedly managed your life and raised your children. Is all this not a reflection of your sharing his ideologies and beliefs?’
‘No! I would have done the same if my husband had been thrown in prison for theft. This is a reflection of the fact that as a woman and a mother, I have a duty to manage my life and my children’s lives.’
There was uproar, but from the approving look on Mr Zargar’s face I knew I had done the right thing. But this time, the employees made a heroine of me because of my humility and sincerity, and elected me.
The excitement of the revolution was growing and with its scope broadening, every day there was a new blossom of hope in my heart. Was it possible that what Shahrzad and the others had given their lives for, and Hamid had suffered years of prison and torture for, could become a reality?
For the first time, my brothers and I were on the same side, we wanted the same thing, we understood each other and we felt close. They behaved like brothers and were supportive of me and my sons. Mahmoud’s kindness had extended to the point that whatever he bought for his children, he bought for my sons, too.
With tears in her eyes, Mother would thank God and say, ‘What a shame that your father isn’t here to see all this love. He always worried and said, “If I die, these children won’t see each other from one year to the next, and more alone than all of them will be this daughter of mine whom her brothers will not lend a helping hand to.” I wish he were here to see how these same brothers would now give their lives for their sister.’
Mahmoud’s connections allowed him access to the latest news and communiqués. He brought flyers and tape recordings, Ali reproduced them, and I distributed them at work and at the university. Meanwhile, Siamak and his friends were on the streets shouting slogans and Massoud was drawing pictures of the demonstrations and writing ‘Freedom’ across them. Since summer, we had been participating in meetings, lectures and protests against the Shah’s regime. Not once did I consider which group or party was organising the events. What difference did it make? We were together and we all wanted the same thing.
With every day that passed, I felt one step closer to Hamid. I was starting to believe that having a complete family and a father for my children was no longer an unattainable dream. With all my being I was happy that Hamid was alive. Seeing his tormented face no longer made me wonder whether it would have been better if he had died with his friends instead of enduring years of torture. I was starting to believe that all he had suffered had not been futile and that soon he would reap the rewards of his struggles. This was their dream that was becoming reality; the people had risen and were shouting in the streets, ‘I will not live under the burden of tyranny.’ When Hamid and his friends talked about such days, it had all seemed too far-fetched, idealistic and unreal.
With the revolution gaining strength, I found that I had less and less control over my children. They had grown very close to their uncle. With a devotion that was truly strange and new to me, Mahmoud would come and take the boys to speeches and debates. Siamak delighted in these events and happily followed his uncle. But soon Massoud started to distance himself and used different excuses to not join them. When I asked him why, he simply said, ‘I don’t like it.’ I pressed for a more convincing answer and he replied, ‘I get embarrassed.’ I couldn’t understand what he was embarrassed about, but I decided to not push him any further.
Siamak, on the other hand, was becoming more enthusiastic every day. He was in high spirits and had stopped causing trouble at home. It seemed as if he was letting out all his anger and frustration by shouting slogans. Gradually, he developed a particular discipline in observing religious practices. He had always had a difficult time waking up in the morning, but now he was making sure he did not miss his early morning prayers. I didn’t know whether I should be happy or concerned about the changes in him. Some of the things he did, such as turning off the radio when music was being played or refusing to watch television, took me back many years and reminded me of Mahmoud’s fanatical behaviour.
Towards the middle of September, Mahmoud announced that he wanted to hold an elaborate memorial for Father. Although it was already a month after the one-year anniversary of his passing, no one objected. Honouring the memory of that dear man and offering alms in commemoration of his pure soul were always welcome. Given that martial law and strict curfews were in force, we decided it was best to hold the ceremony at noon on a Friday and we all got busy, eagerly cooking and preparing for the event. The number of guests was increasing every minute and I was privately praising Mahmoud for his courage in arranging the ceremony during those volatile times.
On the day of the memorial, we were all busy working at Mahmoud’s house from early in the morning. Ehteram-Sadat who was getting fatter every day was panting and rushing back and forth. I was peeling potatoes when she finally dropped down next to me. ‘You have gone to a lot of trouble,’ I said. ‘Thank you. We are all grateful to you.’
‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ she said. ‘After all, it was about time for us to hold a proper prayer service for Father, God rest his soul. Besides, given the circumstances, it is a good excuse to gather people together.’
‘By the way, dear Ehteram, how is brother these days? Knock on wood; it seems you two no longer have problems with each other.’
‘Please! We are beyond all that. I hardly ever see Mahmoud to want to fight with him. By the time he comes home he is so tired and preoccupied that he leaves me and the children alone and doesn’t complain about anything.’
‘Is he still as obsessive?’ I asked. ‘When he performs his ablutions, does he still say, “That wasn’t good enough, that wasn’t good enough, I have to do it again”?’
‘May the devil’s ear be deaf; he is a lot better. He is so busy that he doesn’t have time to keep washing his hands and feet and repeating his ablutions. You know, this revolution has completely changed him. It is as if this was the cure to his pains. He says, “According to the Ayatollah, I am in the forefront of the revolution, which is no different than a jihad in the name of God, and I will merit God’s greatest blessings.” In fact, much of his obsession is now over the revolution.’
The speeches started after lunch. We were in the back room and couldn’t hear very well. Fearing that voices could be heard out on the street, no one was using a loudspeaker. The living room and dining room were packed with people and there were others in the front yard standing outside the windows. After a couple of speeches about the revolution, the tyranny of the government and our duty to overthrow the current regime, Ehteram-Sadat’s uncle spoke. By then he was a well-known mullah who because of his outspokenness had spent a few months in prison and was considered a hero. He first spoke a little about Father’s virtues and then he said, ‘This honourable family has for years fought for faith and country and they have suffered the wounds. In 1963, after the events of 5 June and the arrest of Ayatollah Khomeini, they were forced to leave their home and they migrated from Qum because their lives were in danger. They suffered fatalities, their son was killed, their son-in-law is still in prison and only God knows what tortures he has had to endure…’
For a few seconds, I was confused. I couldn’t understand who he was talking about. I nudged Ehteram-Sadat and asked, ‘Who is he talking about?’
‘About your husband, of course!’
‘I mean the young man who was killed…’
‘Well, he’s talking about Ahmad.’
‘Our Ahmad?’ I exclaimed.
‘Of course! Haven’t you ever wondered that he died under mysterious circumstances? In the middle of the street… and they informed us three days after the fact. And when Ali went to the coroner’s office to identify his body he saw signs of assault and battery on his corpse.’
‘He probably got into a fight over drugs with another addict.’
‘Don’t say such things about the dead!’
‘And who told your uncle all that rubbish about our move from Qum?’
‘Don’t you know? It was after the events of 5 June that your family left Qum. Father and Mahmoud were in terrible danger. You were probably too young to remember.’
‘As a matter of fact, I remember very well,’ I said irately. ‘We moved to Tehran in 1961. How could Mahmoud allow himself to say such lies to your uncle and to take advantage of people’s passion and excitement?’
Now the speech was about Mahmoud, saying that from a father like that a son like him was expected: a son who had dedicated his life and wealth to the revolution and who had not turned aside from any toil or sacrifice… He financially supported the families of tens of political prisoners and watched over them like a father, the most important among them being his own sister and her family for whom he had shouldered the burden of life and had never let them feel needy or alone.
At this point, Ehteram-Sadat’s uncle motioned to Siamak who suddenly stood up from among the crowd and walked over to him. It seemed as if Siamak had been trained and knew exactly when to get up and play his part. The mullah stroked Siamak’s head and said, ‘This innocent child is the son of one of Islam’s crusaders who has been in prison for years. The criminal hand of the regime has orphaned this boy and hundreds of others like him. Thank God that this boy has a kind and self-sacrificing uncle, Mr Mahmoud Sadeghi, who has filled the empty place of his father. Otherwise, God only knows what would have become of this beleaguered family…’
I felt nauseous. I felt as if my shirt collar was choking me. I reflexively clawed at it and the top button tore off and flew to the floor. I stood up with such fury on my face that Mother and Ehteram-Sadat became alarmed. Ehteram tugged at my chador and said, ‘Massoum, sit down. For the love of your father’s spirit, sit down. It’s improper.’
Mahmoud, who was sitting behind the mullah and facing the crowd, looked at me with apprehension. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t make a sound. Looking scared and surprised, Siamak who had been standing next to the mullah made his way towards me. I grabbed his arm and snapped, ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’
Mother was smacking herself on the cheek and saying, ‘May God take my life! Girl, don’t shame us.’
I looked at Mahmoud with loathing. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but suddenly the reciting of elegies started and everyone stood up and began beating their chests. I made my way through the crowd and, still clutching Siamak’s arm, I walked out of the house. Massoud was holding on to the hem of my chador and running behind us. I wanted to beat Siamak until he was black and blue. I opened the car door and shoved him inside. He kept asking, ‘What is the matter with you? What happened?’
‘Just shut up!’
I sounded so harsh and angry that the boys did not utter a single word all the way home. Their silence gave me time to think. I asked myself, What has this poor boy done? What is he guilty of in all this?
When we arrived home, I cursed the earth and the sky, and Mahmoud, Ali and Ehteram, and then sat down and burst into tears. Siamak was sitting in front of me, looking ashamed. Massoud brought a glass of water for me and with tears in his eyes asked me to drink it so that I would perhaps feel better. Slowly, I quietened down.
‘I don’t know why you are so upset,’ Siamak said. ‘Whatever it is, I am sorry.’
‘You mean you don’t know? How could you not know? Tell me, is this what you do at all the events Mahmoud takes you to? Do they parade you in front of people?’
‘Yes!’ he said, proudly. ‘And everyone praises Dad a lot.’
I heaved a sigh of anguish. I didn’t know what to say to my son. I tried to remain calm and not frighten him.
‘Look, Siamak, we have lived without your father for four years and we have never needed anyone, especially not your uncle Mahmoud. I have struggled so that you could grow up with integrity and not with people’s pity and charity, so that no one will ever look on you as needy orphans. And so far, we have always stood on our own two feet. We may have suffered some hardship, but we kept our pride and honour and your father’s pride and honour. But now this freak, Mahmoud, has for his own benefit put you on display like a puppet and he is taking advantage of you. He wants people to feel sorry for you and to say, Bravo, what an excellent uncle he is. Have you ever asked yourself why in the past seven or eight months Mahmoud has suddenly taken an interest in us when in all these years he never once asked how we were faring? Look, my son, you have to be much wiser than this and not let anyone take advantage of you and your emotions. If your father finds out that Mahmoud is using you and him in this manner, he will be very upset. He doesn’t agree with Mahmoud on even one single issue and he would never want himself and his family to become tools in the hands of Mahmoud and others like him.’
At the time, I didn’t know what Mahmoud’s real motives were, but I no longer allowed the boys to accompany him anywhere and I stopped returning his telephone calls.
It was mid-October. Schools and universities were often closed. I had only one term left to finish my seemingly unending studies for a bachelor’s degree, but there was always a strike or a demonstration at the university and classes were not being held.
I went to different political gatherings and listened to everything that was being said, weighing it all to see whether there was any hope of saving Hamid or not. At times, I was optimistic and everything seemed bright and beautiful, and at other times, I was so disheartened that I felt as if I was plunging down a well.
Wherever a voice was being raised in defence of political prisoners I was there on the front lines, with the boys’ fists waving like two small flags on either side of me. With all the pain, anger and misery I had suffered, I would shout, ‘Political prisoners must be freed.’ Tears would well up in my eyes, but my heart felt lighter. Seeing the crowds alongside me, I was overwhelmed with excitement. I wanted to hold every person in my arms and kiss them. It was perhaps the first and the last time I experienced such emotions for my fellow countrymen. I felt they were all my children, my father, my mother, my brothers and my sisters.
Soon there were rumours that the political prisoners were going to be released. People said some of them would be freed on 26 October to coincide with the Shah’s birthday. Hope was again taking root in my heart, but I tried not to believe any of the reports. I could not bear another disappointment. Hamid’s father increased his efforts to secure Hamid’s release. He gathered more and more letters of recommendation and sent them to the authorities. We worked hand in hand and kept each other informed of the progress we were making. I shouldered the responsibilities he assigned to me with passion and devotion.
Through our contacts we eventually learned that one thousand political prisoners were to be pardoned. Now we had to make sure that Hamid’s name would be included on the list.
‘Isn’t this another political game to appease the masses?’ I hesitantly asked Hamid’s father.
‘No!’ he said. ‘Given the volatile situation, the government can’t afford to do that. They have to at least release a group of the well-known prisoners so that the people see them with their own eyes and perhaps quieten down. Otherwise, the situation will get worse. Be hopeful, my girl. Be hopeful.’
But I was terrified of feeling hopeful. If Hamid was not among those released, I would be devastated. I was even more worried about the children. I was afraid that after all this hope and anticipation, they might not be able to bear the shock of defeat and disappointment. I tried hard to keep information from them, but out on the streets rumours flooded every corner like a surging torrent. Flushed with excitement, Siamak would come home with the latest news and I would coolly respond, ‘No, my son, this is all propaganda meant to pacify the people. For now, they are not likely to do any of this. God willing, when the revolution succeeds, we will open the prison gates ourselves and bring your father home.’
Hamid’s father approved of my approach and adopted the same tactic with Hamid’s mother.
The closer we got to 26 October, the stronger my anticipation. I impulsively kept buying things for Hamid. I could no longer curb my fantasies and thought about the plans we could make after his release. But a few days before 26 October, after a lot of running around and many meetings, Hamid’s father came to the house looking dejected and exhausted. He waited until a suitable time when the boys were busy and then said, ‘The list is almost complete. Apparently they have not added Hamid’s name to it. Of course, I have been assured that if the situation continues like this, he will be released, too. But chances are slim that it would be this time around; the list is mostly made up of religionists.’
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I said, ‘I knew it. If I were that lucky, my life wouldn’t have turned out like this.’
In the blink of an eye, all my hopes turned into despair and with tears in my eyes I again closed the windows that had opened up in my heart. Hamid’s father left. Hiding my deep sorrow and disappointment from the children was difficult.
Massoud kept hovering over me and asking, ‘What is the matter? Do you have a headache?’
And Siamak asked, ‘Has something new happened?’
I told myself, Be strong, you have to wait a little longer. But I felt as if the walls of that house were closing in on me and crushing me. I couldn’t stand being in that sad and lonely home. I took the children by the hand and walked out of the house. There was a large crowd shouting slogans in front of the mosque. I was drawn towards them. The mosque’s yard was swarming with people. We made our way into their midst. I didn’t know what had happened and I couldn’t understand what they were shouting. It made no difference; I had my own slogan. Raging and close to tears, I screamed, ‘Political prisoners must be freed.’ I don’t know what there was in my voice, but a few moments later, my slogan was everyone’s slogan.
A few days later there was an official holiday. Dawn had not yet broken and I was tired of tossing and turning in bed. I knew security measures would be tight and I should not leave the house. I didn’t know how to calm my restless nerves. I had to keep busy. As always, I took refuge in work. I wanted to purge all my energy and anxiety through hard, mindless labour. I stripped the sheets off the beds, took down the curtains and put them in the washing machine. I washed the windows and swept the rooms. I had no patience with the children and told them to go and play in the yard. But I quickly realised that Siamak was brewing a scheme to leave the house. I yelled at them, called them back in and sent them to take a bath. I cleaned the kitchen. I didn’t feel like cooking. The leftovers from the day before were enough for us, and Bibi had become so weak and ate so little that no matter what I cooked, she still ate only a bowl of yogurt and a piece of bread. In ill humour, I fed the children and washed the dishes. There was nothing left to do. I wanted to sweep and clean the yard, but I was about to collapse with exhaustion. It was exactly what I had wanted. I dragged myself into the shower, turned on the water and started to weep. This was the only place where I could comfortably cry.
By the time I left the bathroom it was close to four in the afternoon. My hair was still wet, but I didn’t care. I put a pillow on the floor in front of the television and lay down. The boys were playing next to me. I was about to fall asleep when I saw the door open and Hamid walk in. I closed my eyes tight for that sweet dream to continue, but there were voices around me. Carefully, I opened my eyes a little. The boys were gaping at a thin man with white hair and moustache. I froze. Was I dreaming? My father-in-law’s jubilant, yet cracked voice brought all three of us out of our daze.
‘Here you are!’ he said. ‘I present to you your husband. Boys, what is the matter with you? Come here. Your dad is home.’
When I took Hamid in my arms, I realised he was not much bigger than Siamak. Of course, I had seen him many times in recent years, but he had never seemed as emaciated and gaunt. Perhaps it was the clothes that sagged on his thin frame that made him seem so frail. He looked like a boy dressed in his father’s clothes; everything was at least two sizes too big for him. His trousers were pleated around his waist and held up by a belt. The shoulders of his jacket were drooping so much that the sleeves came down to his fingertips. He kneeled down and took the boys in his arms. Trying to embrace all three of my loved ones, I draped myself over them. We were all crying and sharing the pain we had each suffered.
Wiping away his tears, Hamid’s father said, ‘Enough! Get up. Hamid is very tired and very sick. I picked him up at the prison infirmary. He needs to rest. And I will go bring his mother.’
I walked over to him, hugged and kissed him and laid my head on his shoulder. I wept and said over and over again, ‘Thank you, thank you…’
How kind, wise and considerate that old man was to have single-handedly borne the struggles and anxieties of those few days.
Hamid had a fever.
‘Let me help you take your clothes off and go to bed,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Let me first take a bath.’
‘Yes, you are right. You should wash off all the filth and misery of prison and then sleep peacefully. Fortunately, we had oil today and the water heater has been on since this morning.’
I helped him undress. He was very weak and could barely stand. With each piece of clothing that I took off of him, he looked smaller and smaller. In the end, I was horrified at the sight of the scrawny figure that was no more than skin sagging on bones, covered with scars. I sat him down on a chair and took off his socks. Seeing the thin, raw skin and the abnormal condition of his feet pushed me over the edge. I wrapped my arms around his legs, laid my head on his knees and wept. What had they done to him? Would he ever again be a healthy, normal human being?
I gave him a bath and helped him put on the new undershirt, shorts and pyjamas that I had bought at the peak of my hopefulness. Although they were too big for him, still they didn’t sag on him as much as his suit did.
Slowly, he lay down on the bed. It was as if he wanted to savour every second. I pulled the sheet and blanket over him; he put his head on the pillow, closed his eyes and said with a deep sigh, ‘Am I really sleeping in my own bed? All these years, I have spent every day and every second wishing for this bed, this house and this moment. I can’t believe it has come true. What utter pleasure!’
The boys were watching him and taking in his every move with love, admiration and a little reluctance and reserve. He called them over. They sat down next to the bed and the three of them started talking. I brewed tea and sent Siamak to the pastry shop at the corner to buy some pastries and toasted bread. I prepared some fresh orange juice and warmed up the leftover soup. I kept taking him something to eat. Finally he laughed and said, ‘My dear, wait. I can’t eat too much. I am not used to it. I have to eat a little at a time.’
An hour later, Hamid’s mother and sisters arrived. His mother was half crazed with joy. She was fluttering around him like a butterfly and speaking to him tenderly while constantly crying. Hamid didn’t even have the energy to wipe away his tears and kept saying, ‘Mother, stop. For the love of God, calm down.’ But she continued kissing him from head to toe until her incoherent words turned into sobs. Then she leaned against the wall and sank down to the floor. Her eyes were dazed and her hair was tousled. She looked terribly pale and was having difficulty breathing.
Manijeh suddenly threw her arms around her mother and screamed, ‘Bring some hot water and sugar. Quickly!’ I ran to the kitchen and fetched a glass of hot water and candied sugar and spooned it into her mouth, and Mansoureh splashed some cold water on her face. Hamid’s mother shuddered and burst into tears. I looked around for the boys. They were standing behind the door, their tearful eyes moving back and forth between their father and grandmother.
Slowly, the excitement subsided. Hamid’s mother refused to leave the bedroom, but she promised to stop crying. She put a chair at the foot of the bed and sat with her eyes glued to Hamid. All she did was occasionally wipe away a tear that quietly rolled down her cheek.
Hamid’s father went out into the hall and sat with Bibi who was saying prayers under her breath. He stretched out his legs and leaned his tired head against a floor cushion. I was certain he had spent the entire day frantically rushing around. I took him some tea, put my hand on his hand and said, ‘Thank you. You have done a lot today; you must be exhausted.’
‘If only all effort and exhaustion reaped such results,’ he said.
I could hear Mansoureh comforting her mother. ‘For the love of God, Mother, stop it. You should be happy. Why are you sitting there grief-stricken and weeping?’
‘I am happy, my girl. You cannot imagine how happy I am. I never thought I would live long enough to see my only son at home again.’
‘Then why are you sitting there crying and breaking his heart?’
‘Just look at what those villains have done to my child,’ Hamid’s mother moaned. ‘Look how weak and frail he is. Look how old he has become.’ And then she said to Hamid, ‘May God allow me to give my life for you. Did they hurt you a lot? Did they beat you?’
‘No, Mother,’ Hamid said sounding uneasy. ‘I just didn’t like the food. And then I caught a cold and got sick. That’s all.’
Amid the chaos, Mother who had not heard from me in a few days called to see how we were. She was shocked when I told her Hamid was home. Barely half an hour later, everyone showed up bearing flowers and pastries. Mother and Faati broke into tears when they saw Hamid. And Mahmoud, ignoring everything that had happened between us, kissed Hamid on the cheeks, hugged the boys, cheerfully congratulated everyone and took control.
‘Ehteram-Sadat, get the tea tray ready and brew a good amount of tea,’ he said. ‘They are going to have a lot of guests. Ali, open the door to the living room and arrange the chairs and side tables around the room. And someone should prepare the fruit and pastry platters.’
‘But we are not expecting anyone,’ I said with surprise. ‘We haven’t told anyone yet.’
‘No need for you to tell anyone,’ Mahmoud said. ‘The list of the prisoners who have been released has been published. People will know and they will come.’
I immediately realised he was planning something and I angrily said, ‘Listen, brother, Hamid is not well and he needs to rest. You can see for yourself that he has a high fever and has difficulty breathing. Don’t you dare ask anyone to come here.’
‘I won’t, but they will come.’
‘I will not let anyone in this house,’ I snapped. ‘I am telling you now so no one gets upset later.’
Mahmoud suddenly looked like the air had been let out of him. He just stood there gaping at me. And then as if he had remembered something he said, ‘You mean you don’t even want to call a doctor to come see this poor man?’
‘Yes, I do. But it is a holiday. Where am I going to find a doctor?’
‘I know a doctor,’ he said. ‘I will call him and ask him to come.’
He started making telephone calls and an hour later a doctor, accompanied by two men, one of whom was carrying a large camera, arrived at the house. I cast a scolding look at Mahmoud. The doctor asked everyone to leave the bedroom and started examining Hamid, while the photographer took pictures of his scars.
In the end, the doctor diagnosed Hamid’s illness as chronic pneumonia. He wrote numerous prescriptions and told Hamid to make sure he took his medications and got his injections on time. About Hamid’s diet, the doctor told me I should very gradually increase the amount of food he ate. Before he left, he gave Hamid two injections and some pills to take that night until we could buy everything we needed the next day. Mahmoud gave the prescriptions to Ali and told him to buy everything first thing in the morning and to bring them over.
It was only then that everyone suddenly remembered that martial law was in force and there was a curfew. They all quickly gathered their things and left. Hamid’s mother didn’t want to go, but his father took her away by force with the promise that he would bring her back early the next morning.
After everyone left, with much begging and pleading I convinced Hamid to drink a glass of milk and gave the boys a light supper. I was so exhausted that I didn’t have the energy to gather up the dishes scattered around the house. I just dragged myself to bed and lay down next to Hamid. The doctor had given him a sedative and he was already fast asleep. I looked at his thin face for a while and cherished his being there. Then I turned and looked at the sky outside the window, thanking God with my entire being and vowing to return Hamid to his former self. I fell asleep before I could finish my prayer.