CHAPTER SEVEN

The children were very sad about the move and unsettled by the chaos and confusion. And they expressed their unhappiness by stubbornly refusing to help and cooperate. With his arm over his eyes, Siamak was sprawled out on a bed with its mattress askew and Massoud was outside, squatting next to the wall with his chin on his knees, drawing lines on the brick paving with pieces of plaster left over from the construction. Fortunately, Shirin was with Mrs Parvin and I didn’t have to worry about her, too.

I didn’t have the strength to do everything by myself, but I couldn’t force the boys to help me. I knew from their silence that the slightest provocation would ignite tantrums and start a fight. I went to one of the rooms, took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to calm myself down and find the energy to deal with them. Then I brewed some tea and went to the corner bakery that had just started baking for the afternoon. I bought two Persian flatbreads and quietly went back to the house. I spread a carpet outside in the garden, laid out tea, bread, butter, cheese and a bowl of fruit, and called the boys over to eat. I knew they were hungry. All they had eaten that day was a sandwich at eleven o’clock before we left our old home. They kept me waiting for a while, but the smell of fresh bread and the scent of the cucumbers I was peeling whetted their appetite and like a pair of wary cats they inched their way over to the spread and started to eat.

When I was certain that their ill humour had given way to the satisfaction of having eaten a tasty meal, I said, ‘Look, boys, leaving that house where I had spent my youth and the best days of my life was more difficult for me than it was for you. But what could we do? We’ve left that house, but life goes on. You are both young and just starting out. One day you will build homes for yourselves that will be much bigger and far more beautiful than that house.’

‘They didn’t have the right to take our home away from us,’ Siamak said angrily. ‘They didn’t have the right!’

‘Yes, they did,’ I said calmly. ‘They had agreed to keep the house as long as their mother was alive. But after she died, they had to divide their inheritance.’

‘But they never even came to see Bibi! We were the ones who took care of her.’

‘Well, that was because we were living in that house and using it. It was our duty to help her.’

‘And we don’t have a share of Grandfather’s house either,’ Siamak added crossly. ‘Everyone inherited a share except us.’

‘Well, that is the law. When a son dies before his father, his family does not inherit anything.’

‘Why is the law always against us?’ Massoud asked.

‘Why do you care so much about the inheritance?’ I asked. ‘And who told you all this?’

‘Do you think we are stupid?’ Siamak said. ‘We have heard it a thousand times, starting at Dad’s funeral.’

‘We don’t need any of it,’ I said. ‘For now, we are living in your grandfather’s house and they have spent all this money renovating these rooms for us. What difference does it make if it is in our name or not? We are not paying rent and that itself is very good. You two will grow up and build your own houses. I don’t like my children to think about money and inheritances like vultures.’

‘They took what was rightfully ours,’ Siamak said.

‘You mean you want to live in that old house?’ I said pointing across the garden. ‘I have much bigger dreams for you. Soon you will both go to university and start working. You will become doctors or engineers. And what a house you will build! New, modern, with the best furniture. You won’t even take a second look at that ancient ruin. And like old-fashioned women, I will go from house to house searching for wonderful wives for you. Oh, what beautiful girls I will find for you. I will go everywhere and boast that my sons are doctors or engineers, that they are tall and handsome, have beautiful cars and houses that look like palaces. Girls will faint left and right.’

The boys were grinning from ear to ear and wanted to laugh at me and my exaggerated affectations.

‘Well, Siamak Agha, do you prefer blondes or brunettes?’ I continued.

‘Brunettes.’

‘How about you, Massoud, do you prefer girls who are fair or olive-skinned?’

‘I want her to have blue eyes, the rest doesn’t matter.’

‘Blue like Firouzeh’s eyes?’ I asked.

Siamak laughed and said, ‘You rascal, you just showed your hand!’

‘Why? What did I say? Mum’s eyes are sometimes blue, too.’

‘Rubbish! Mum’s eyes are green.’

‘Besides, Firouzeh is like my sister,’ Massoud said coyly.

‘He is right,’ I quipped. ‘She’s like his sister now, but may be like his wife when she grows up.’

‘Mum! Don’t say these things! And you, Siamak, stop laughing over nothing.’

I hugged him and said, ‘Oh, what a wedding I will have for you!’

All that talk put me in better spirits, too.

‘Well, boys, how do you think we should arrange the house?’

‘House?’ Siamak quipped. ‘The way you say it one would think it really is a house.’

‘Of course it is. It’s not important how big a house is, what’s important is how you decorate it. Some people move into a shack or a dank basement and fix it up so well that it looks more beautiful and comfortable than a hundred palaces. Everyone’s home reflects their style, taste and personality.’

‘But this place is so small.’

‘No, it’s not. We have two bedrooms and a living room and this beautiful, sprawling garden that half the year adds to our living space. Let’s fill the garden with flowers and plants and paint the reflecting pool and put goldfish in it. Every afternoon, we will turn on the fountain and sit here and enjoy it. How about that?’

The children’s attitude had changed. Instead of the sadness and disappointment of an hour ago, there was excitement in their eyes. I had to take advantage of the opportunity.

‘Well, gentlemen, get up. The larger bedroom is yours. Go and arrange it and decorate it for yourselves. The new paint looks nice, doesn’t it? The smaller bedroom will be mine and Shirin’s. You move the heavy furniture and I’ll take care of the rest. The round table and chairs belong in the garden. Massoud, the garden is in your hands. Once we have settled in, survey it and see what you need and which plants and flowers we should buy. And Siamak Khan, you need to instal the aerial on the roof and run a telephone wire over from Grandmother’s house. Also, you and Massoud should put up the curtain rods. By the way, let’s not forget to clean the wooden bed in Bibi’s home and bring it here. It’s good to have it out in the garden. We’ll throw a carpet over it and if we want we can sleep outside. It will be fun, won’t it?’

The children were excited and started making suggestions. Massoud said, ‘We should have different curtains for our bedroom. The ones from the other house were too dark and thick.’

‘You are right. We will go together and pick a fabric with a floral pattern and I will make matching bedcovers. I promise you will have a bright and elegant room.’

And so the children grew to accept that house and we adapted to our new life. A week later we were almost settled in and after a month we had a thriving garden full of flowers, a beautiful and glistening reflecting pool, and rooms with cheerful curtains and decoration.

Mrs Parvin was pleased that we had moved. She said our new home was easier to get to. The children’s grandmother was also happy that we were there and, according to her, she was less scared. Every time the air-raid sirens went off and the power was cut we would rush over to her house so that she wouldn’t be alone. The children had somehow adapted to the wartime conditions and considered it part of their daily lives. During the bombings and missile attacks when we had to live in the dark, Shirin sang for us and we accompanied her. It took everyone’s mind off the bombardment, except for Grandmother who always sat and stared at the ceiling with horror.

Mr Zargar regularly came to see us and brought work for me. We had become good friends. We often confided in each other and I sought his advice about the boys. He, too, was now alone. At the start of the war, his wife and daughter had moved back to France.

One day he said, ‘By the way, I received a letter from Mr Shirzadi.’

‘What has he written?’ I asked. ‘Is he well?’

‘Actually, I don’t think so. He seems very lonely and depressed. I’m afraid being away from his homeland is going to break him. Lately his poems are more like letters from exile that tug at your heart. I simply wrote: “You are lucky to be there and living a comfortable life.” You won’t believe what he wrote back.’

‘What did he write?’

‘Unlike you, I can never remember poetry. He wrote a very long and painful poem that reflects his feelings about living in a foreign land.’

‘You are right,’ I said. ‘He is not going to survive the loneliness and depression.’

My prediction came true too soon and our heartbroken friend found eternal peace; a peace that he had perhaps never experienced in his life on earth. I attended the memorial service his family held for him. He was praised and honoured, but the silence about his poetry, which had reigned while he was alive, still continued.

Mr Zargar introduced me to a few publishing companies and I started working for them from home. Eventually, he found a regular job for me at a magazine that offered a steady and secure salary. It wasn’t much, but I made up for the shortfall with the freelance projects I continued to do.

I enrolled the children in the school near our home. At first, they went there moping and unhappy, sad to be separated from their friends. But a month later, they hardly ever mentioned their old school. Siamak made a lot of new friends and Massoud who was kind and pleasant soon gained everyone’s affection. Shirin who had turned three was cheerful and charming. She danced, talked incessantly and played with her brothers. I wanted to send her to a nearby daycare centre, but Mrs Parvin wouldn’t hear of it.

‘Do you have too much money on your hands?’ she chided. ‘You are either at the magazine offices or sitting at home typing, reading, writing, or sewing. And then you want to pour that hard-earned money in these people’s pockets? No, I won’t let you. It’s not as if I’m dead.’

I was getting used to the new rhythm of life. Although the war was still raging and the news was horrifying, I was so engrossed in life that the only time I truly felt the war was when the air-raid sirens went off. And even then, if we were all together, I wasn’t too apprehensive. I always thought the best death would be for us to die together, in one place.

Fortunately, the boys had still not reached the age when they would have to serve in the military and I was certain that by then the conflict would be over. After all, how many years could we continue fighting? And luckily my boys weren’t among those who dreamed of going to the front.

I was starting to believe that my hardships were behind me and that I could live a normal life, raising my children in relative calm.

Several months passed. The government continued to lash back at dissenters and opposition groups. Murders and assassinations were rampant. Political activists went underground, the leaders of various organisations escaped, the war continued and I again started to worry about my sons and their future, keeping a close eye on them.

It seemed that my talks, together with recent events, had been effective and Siamak didn’t have much contact with his Mujahedin friends, or at least so I thought. As spring approached, my worries lessened. The boys were busy studying for their final exams and I started hinting that they needed to start preparing for the university entrance exams as well. I wanted them to be so immersed in school and studying that they wouldn’t have time to think about anything else.

One spring night, I was busy typing a document I had edited, Shirin was sleeping and the light in the boys’ room was still on, when the sound of the doorbell, followed by someone pounding on the door, made me freeze. Siamak hurried out of his room and we stared at each other in shock. Massoud walked out looking sleepy. The sound of the doorbell wouldn’t stop. The three of us went towards the door. I pushed the boys back and carefully opened the door a crack. Someone shoved the door open, held a piece of paper up in front of my face, then pushed me aside and several Revolutionary Guards stormed in. Siamak tore out of the house and started running towards his grandmother’s house. Two guards chased after him, grabbed him and threw him down on the ground in the middle of the garden.

‘Leave him alone!’ I screamed.

I started to run to him but a hand pulled me back into the house. I kept screaming, ‘What is going on? What has he done?’

One of the Revolutionary Guards who looked older than the others turned to Massoud and said, ‘Put your mother’s chador over her.’

I couldn’t stay calm. I could see Siamak’s shadow as he sat in the garden. Dear God, what were they going to do to my dear heart? I imagined Siamak being tortured and I screamed and fainted. When I came to, Massoud was splashing water on my face and the men were taking Siamak away.

‘I won’t let you take my child!’ I screamed.

I ran after them.

‘Where are you taking him? Tell me!’

The older Revolutionary Guard looked at me sympathetically and when the others were out of earshot he whispered, ‘We are taking him to Evin Prison. Don’t worry, they won’t hurt him. Come next week and ask for Ezatollah Haj-Hosseini. I will give you his news myself.’

‘Take my life, but please don’t harm my child,’ I pleaded. ‘For the love of God, for the love of your children!’

He shook his head compassionately and left. Massoud and I ran after them to the end of the street. The neighbours were watching from the corner of their drawn curtains. When the Revolutionary Guards’ car turned the corner, I collapsed in the middle of the street. Massoud dragged me back to the house. All I could see was Siamak’s pale face and terrified eyes, and I could hear his trembling voice as he shouted, ‘Mum! Mum, for the love of God, do something!’ I had convulsions all night. This was something I could not survive. He was only seventeen years old. His greatest crime was perhaps selling the Mujahedin’s newspaper at some street corner. He had not been in regular contact with them for some time. Why had they come after him?

The next morning I somehow managed to drag myself out of bed. There was no one I could turn to for help but I couldn’t sit idly by and watch my child be destroyed. My life was like reruns on television, except that each time the events were slightly different and each time I could bear it less. I got dressed. Massoud had fallen asleep on the sofa fully dressed. I gently woke him up and said, ‘I don’t want you to go to school today. Wait here until Mrs Parvin comes and give Shirin to her. And call your Aunt Faati and tell her what has happened.’

Still groggy, he said, ‘Where are you going this early? What time is it?’

‘It’s five o’clock. I’m going to Mahmoud’s house to see him before he leaves for work.’

‘No, Mum! Don’t go there.’

‘I have no choice. My child’s life is in danger and Mahmoud knows a lot of people. No matter how, I have to make him take me to Ehteram-Sadat’s uncle.’

‘No, Mum. For the love of God, don’t go there. He won’t help you. Have you forgotten?’

‘No, my dear, I haven’t forgotten. But this time it’s different. Hamid was a stranger to him, but Siamak is his blood, his nephew.’

‘Mum, you don’t know.’

‘Know what? What don’t I know?’

‘I didn’t want to tell you, but yesterday afternoon I saw one of those Revolutionary Guards at the corner.’

‘So?’

‘He wasn’t alone. He was talking with Uncle Mahmoud and they were looking at our house.’

I felt the world spinning around me. Had Mahmoud betrayed Siamak? His own nephew? It was impossible. I ran out of the house. I don’t know how I drove to Mahmoud’s house. I pounded on the door like a madwoman. Gholam-Hossein and Mahmoud opened the door in a panic. Gholam-Ali had enlisted in the army and had been at the front for some time. Mahmoud was still wearing house clothes.

‘You, you scoundrel, brought the Revolutionary Guards to my home?’ I screamed. ‘You brought agents to arrest my son?’

He looked at me coldly. I was waiting for him to deny it, to get angry, to be insulted by my accusation. But with that same coldness he said, ‘Well, your son is a Mujahed, isn’t he?’

‘No! My son is too young to pick sides. He has never been a member of any organisation.’

‘That’s what you think, sister… you’ve stuck your head in the snow. I myself saw him selling newspapers on the street.’

‘That’s it? You sent him to prison for that?’

‘It was my religious responsibility,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know what treason and murders they are committing? I am not going to trade my faith and the afterlife for your son. I would have done the same if he was my own son.’

‘But Siamak is innocent. He isn’t a member of the Mujahedin!’

‘That is none of my business. It was my duty to inform the authorities. The rest is up to the Islamic Court of Justice. If he is innocent, they will release him.’

‘Just like that? What if they make a mistake? What if my child perishes for a mistake? Could you live with that on your conscience?’

‘Why would that be any of my concern? If they make a mistake, they are to blame. Even then, it won’t be too bad. He will be considered a martyr, he will go to heaven and his spirit will forever be grateful to me for having saved him from a fate like his father’s. These people are traitors to our country and religion.’

The only thing keeping me on my feet was rage.

‘No one is as big a traitor to his religion and country as you are,’ I screamed. ‘The likes of you are destroying Islam. When did the Ayatollah ever give such fatwas? You would do any dirty deed for your own gain and chalk it up to faith and religion.’

I spat on his face and walked out. I had a splitting headache. Twice I pulled over to the kerb and vomited bitter bile. I went to Mother’s house. Ali was about to leave for work. I grabbed his arms and begged him to help me, to find an acquaintance who had some influence, to ask his father-in-law for help. He shook his head and said, ‘Sister, I swear I am devastated. Siamak grew up in my arms. I loved him…’

‘Loved?’ I shouted. ‘You talk as if he is already dead!’

‘No, that’s not what I meant. All I want to say is that no one will do anything, no one can do anything. Now that he has been labelled as a Mujahed, everyone will turn aside. It’s because those miscreants have killed so many people. Do you understand?’

I went to Mother’s room, dropped down on the floor and beat my head against the wall, moaning, ‘Here you are, these are your beloved sons, ready to kill their nephew, a seventeen-year-old boy. And you tell me not to take things to heart, that we are all of the same blood.’

Just then Faati arrived with Sadegh Agha and their baby. They picked me up off the floor and helped me go back home. Faati couldn’t stop crying and Sadegh Agha was gnawing at his moustache.

‘To be honest, I am worried for Sadegh,’ Faati whispered. ‘What if they accuse him of being a Mujahed, too? He has got into a few political arguments with Mahmoud and Ali.’

Tears were streaming down my face.

‘Sadegh Agha, let’s go to Evin,’ I begged. ‘Perhaps they will give us some information.’

We went to Evin Prison, but it was a wasted effort. I asked for Ezatollah Haj-Hosseini, but I was told he would not be in that day. Dazed and confused, we returned home. Faati and Mrs Parvin tried to force me to eat something, but I couldn’t. I kept thinking, What will Siamak have to eat? I wept and wondered what I should do and whom I should turn to.

Faati suddenly said, ‘Mahboubeh!’

‘Mahboubeh?!’

‘Yes! Our cousin Mahboubeh. Her father-in-law is a cleric. They say he is an important man and Auntie used to say he is very decent and kind.’

‘Yes, you are right!’

I was like a drowning woman grabbing driftwood, a glimmer of hope in my heart. I got up.

‘Where are you going?’ Faati asked.

‘I have to go to Qum.’

‘Wait. Sadegh and I will go with you. We will go together, tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow will be too late! I will go by myself.’

‘You can’t!’ she exclaimed.

‘Why can’t I? I know where my aunt’s house is. Her address hasn’t changed, has it?’

‘No, but you can’t go alone.’

Massoud started getting dressed and said, ‘She won’t be alone. I will go with her.’

‘But you have school… and you didn’t go today.’

‘Who cares about school under these circumstances? I won’t let you go alone and that’s that. Now I am the man of the house.’

Leaving Shirin with Mrs Parvin, we left. Massoud took care of me as he would a child. On the bus, he tried to sit up straight so that I could rest my head on his shoulder and sleep. He made me eat a few biscuits and forced me to drink water. When we arrived, he pulled me along and found a taxi. It was dark by the time we reached my aunt’s house.

Stunned to see us there and at that hour, my aunt stared at my face and said, ‘May God have mercy! What has happened?’

I burst into tears and said, ‘Aunt, help me. I am about to lose my son, too.’

Half an hour later, my cousin Mahboubeh and her husband Mohsen arrived. Mahboubeh was still a cheerful woman, just a little plumper and more mature looking. Her husband was a handsome man and seemed to be intelligent and caring. Their love and affection for each other was apparent. I wept uncontrollably and explained everything that had happened. Mahboubeh’s husband comforted me and spoke reassuringly.

‘It is impossible that they would arrest him based on such weak evidence,’ he said. And he promised to take me to see his father the next day and to help in any way he could. Eventually, I calmed down a little. My aunt forced me to eat a light dinner, Mahboubeh gave me a sedative, and after twenty-four hours I went into a deep and bitter sleep.

Mahboubeh’s father-in-law was an endearing and compassionate man. He was touched by my grief and tried to comfort me. He made a few calls, wrote down several names and a few notes, which he gave to Mohsen, and asked him to accompany me back to Tehran. On the way, I ceaselessly prayed and pleaded with God. As soon as we arrived home, Mohsen started contacting different people until he finally managed to arrange a meeting at Evin Prison for the following day.

At Evin, the warden exchanged pleasantries with Mohsen and then said, ‘It is certain that he is a Mujahedin sympathiser, but to date they have found no reliable and binding evidence against him. We will release him as soon as the usual legal procedures are complete.’ And he asked Mohsen to extend his greetings to his father.

The warden’s words kept me on my feet for ten months. Ten dark and painful months. Every night I dreamed that they had tied Siamak’s legs and were flogging the soles of his feet. His flesh was sticking to the whip and shredding off. And every night I woke up screaming.

I think it was a week after Siamak’s arrest when one day I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked old, wretched, thin and sallow. Strangest of all was the cluster of white hair that had suddenly appeared on the right side of my head. After Hamid’s execution, I had started to see a few strands of white in my hair, but this was new.

I was constantly in touch with Mahboubeh and, through her, with her husband and father-in-law. I went to a meeting at Evin Prison that had been arranged for the parents of inmates. I asked about Siamak. The prison official knew him well and said, ‘There is no need to worry, he will be released.’

I was overjoyed, but then I remembered what one of the mothers at the meeting had said. ‘When they say, “He will be released,” they mean released from life.’

Horror and hope were killing me. I tried to work as much as I could just to have less time to think.

 

Reports of universities reopening became reality. I went to register for the few credits I still had to complete so that I could finally reach the goal for which I had worked so hard. With a frown on his face and with the utmost cool, the administrator said, ‘You are not eligible to register.’

‘But I have been attending the university!’ I said. ‘I just need these few credits to get my degree. Actually, I have already taken the courses; I just have to take the final exams.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You have been subject to eradication and dismissal.’

‘Why?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’ he said with a sneer. ‘You are the widow of a communist who was executed and the mother of a traitor and dissenter.’

‘And I am proud of both of them,’ I retorted angrily.

‘You can be as proud as you want, but you cannot attend classes and receive a degree from this Islamic university.’

‘Do you know how hard I have worked for this degree? If the universities hadn’t been closed I would have received my degree several years ago.’

He shrugged.

I spoke with several other administrators, but it was useless. Defeated, I walked out of the university. All my efforts lay in waste.

 

The gentle sun of late February was shining. The winter’s biting cold had gone and the cool scent of spring was wafting in the air. Sadegh Khan had taken my car to the garage to be repaired. I walked to work. I was terribly depressed and tried to keep myself busy. Around two in the afternoon, Faati called and said, ‘Come here after work. Sadegh has picked up the car from the garage and will fetch the kids…’

‘I’m not in the mood,’ I said. ‘I’ll just go home.’

‘No, you have to come,’ Faati insisted. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘No. Mahboubeh called; they are in Tehran. I asked them to come here. They may have some news.’

When I hung up, I wondered. Faati had sounded different. I started to worry. A last-minute project landed on my desk and I went back to work, but I couldn’t concentrate. I called home and told Mrs Parvin, ‘Get Shirin ready. Sadegh Agha will come to pick her up.’

She laughed and said, ‘He is already here. He was waiting for Massoud who just walked in. They are going to Faati’s house. When are you going?’

‘As soon as I finish work,’ I said. And then I added, ‘Tell me the truth, has something happened?’

‘I don’t know! If something had happened, Sadegh Agha would have told me. My dear, don’t worry so much over nothing. You are wasting away.’

As soon as I handed in my assignment, I left the office and took a taxi to Faati’s house. She opened the door. I looked at her probingly.

‘Hello, sister,’ she said. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Tell me the truth, Faati. What has happened?’

‘What? Does something have to happen for you to visit us?’

Firouzeh half ran, half danced over and leaped into my arms. Shirin came running, too. I looked at Massoud. He was standing there looking calm and pensive. I walked in and quietly asked him, ‘What is going on?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We just got here. They are acting strange; constantly whispering to each other.’

‘Faati!’ I screamed. ‘What has happened? Tell me. I am losing my mind!’

‘For the love of God, stay calm,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is, it is good news.’

‘Is it about Siamak?’

‘Yes, I have heard they are going to release him before the new year.’

‘Perhaps even sooner,’ Sadegh Agha added.

‘Who said this? Where did you hear it?’

‘Calm down,’ Faati said. ‘Sit and I will bring some tea.’

Massoud grabbed hold of my hand. Sadegh Agha was laughing and playing with the children.

‘Sadegh Agha, for the love of God, tell me exactly what you know.’

‘To be honest, I don’t know much. Faati knows more than I do.’

‘Who did she hear it from? From Mahboubeh?’

‘Yes, I think she spoke with Mahboubeh.’

Faati walked in with the tea tray and Firouzeh skipped over with a plate of pastries.

‘Faati, for the love of your children, sit down and tell me exactly what Mahboubeh said.’

‘She said, it’s all done, Siamak will be released very soon.’

‘Like when?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps this week.’

‘Oh my God!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is it really possible?’

I leaned back on the sofa. Faati was well prepared. She quickly handed me a bottle of nitroglycerine drops and a glass of water. I took the medication and waited until I felt calmer. Then I stood up to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ Faati asked.

‘I have to go tidy up his room. If my son is coming home tomorrow, everything has to be neat and ready. There are a thousand things I have to do.’

‘Sit down,’ she said quietly. ‘Why can’t you ever sit still? To be honest, Mahboubeh said he might be coming home tonight.’

I fell back on the sofa. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Mahboubeh and Mohsen have gone to Evin, just in case they release him today. You have to control your nerves. They may show up any minute. You must stay calm.’

Restless and impatient, every few minutes I asked, ‘What happened? When are they going to get here?’

And then I heard Massoud shout, ‘Siamak!’ And I saw my son walk in.

My heart couldn’t take all that joy and excitement. I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. I clutched Siamak in my arms. He was thinner and taller than before. I was short of breath. Someone splashed water on my face. Again, I held my son. I touched his face, his eyes, his hands. Was it really my darling Siamak?

Massoud hugged Siamak and cried for an hour. How had this kind and gentle boy, who had bravely shouldered the responsibilities of life and given me hope, kept all those tears inside him for so long?

Laughing and excited by the commotion, Shirin, who was at first a bit reticent, leaped into Siamak’s arms.

The night passed with indescribable joy, exhilaration and delirium.

‘I have to see your feet,’ I said.

‘Come on, Mum.’ Siamak laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

The first person I called was Mahboubeh’s father-in-law. I cried and thanked him and showered him with every term of endearment.

‘I didn’t do much,’ he said.

‘Yes, you did. You gave me back my son.’

Two days passed in a frenzy of family visits. Mansoureh and Manijeh kept a close eye on their mother who was becoming more fragile, forgetful and confused. She believed Siamak was Hamid.

I had made so many pledges and promises to God that I didn’t know where to begin. I dropped everything I had to do and the four of us went on a pilgrimage to Imam Reza’s shrine in Mashad. From there we went to Qum to thank my aunt, Mahboubeh, her husband and my saviour angel her father-in-law.

What sweet, happy days. I felt alive again. With my children at my side, nothing could bring me sorrow.

 

Siamak would soon turn eighteen. He had missed one year of school, but because I had entered him in school a year sooner than usual, he was not behind agewise. He had to enrol in school, but given his prison record, they would not accept him. I had always hoped my children would reach the highest levels of education, but now I had to accept the fact that my son would be deprived of even a school diploma.

Not being allowed to finish school was a heavy blow to Siamak. He was agitated and restless. Being idle, staying at home and living an unstructured life was not prudent. Especially since a few of his old friends had started coming around again. Although Siamak didn’t seem too interested in them, their presence made me nervous.

Siamak decided to find a job. He saw how hard I worked and how frugally I managed our lives and he wanted to help. But what sort of work could he do? He had no capital to start a small business and no education. At the same time, the war with Iraq was still raging and moving closer to us. I was grappling with these thoughts and worries when one day Mansoureh came to see me and I shared my concerns with her.

‘As a matter of fact, that is exactly why I came to see you,’ she said. ‘Siamak has to continue his education. Among the new generation of our family, everyone has gone to university. It is unacceptable for Siamak to not even have a school diploma.’

‘I have looked into it,’ I said. ‘He can go to night school and take the general education exams. But he says he wants to work. He says if he can’t go to university, a school diploma serves no purpose. With or without it he will have to work and he might as well start now.’

‘Well, Massoum,’ she said, ‘I have another plan in mind. I don’t know how you will react to it, but please keep it between us.’

‘Of course!’ I said, surprised. ‘What is it?’

‘You know that my Ardeshir finished secondary school last year. He has to go for his military service and this war doesn’t seem to be ending. Under no circumstances will I let them send my son to the front. Besides, as you know, he has always been somewhat cowardly. He is so terrified that if a bullet doesn’t kill him, his fear will. We have decided to send him out of the country.’

‘Send him out? How? Everyone who has to serve in the military is banned from leaving the country.’

‘That’s the problem,’ Mansoureh said. ‘He has to cross the border illegally. We have found someone who charges a quarter of a million tumans and takes kids across the border. I was thinking of sending the two of them together. They can look after each other. What do you think?’

‘Well, it sounds like a good idea,’ I said. ‘But I have to come up with the money.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘If you are short of some, we will help. But it is very important that they go together. Siamak can take care of himself, but Ardeshir will need help. If he knows he will not be alone, he will agree to go more easily. And we will be less worried.’

‘But where would they go?’ I asked.

‘There are many places they can go to. Every country accepts refugees. They will receive a stipend for a while and they can continue their education,’ she said. ‘But tell me, what are you really concerned about? The money?’

‘No. If it is to my child’s benefit, I will sell everything I have and I will borrow. But I have to be sure it is to his advantage. Give me a week to think about it and to discuss it with him.’

I spent two days deliberating about what I should do. Was it wise to leave a boy Siamak’s age in the care of a smuggler? How dangerous was it to cross the border illegally? He would have to live all alone somewhere on the other side of the world. If he ever needed help, whom could he turn to? I had to seek advice. Privately, I explained the situation to Sadegh Agha.

‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Everything has its own risks and this is going to be dangerous. I have no notion of life in the West, but I know of many people who have recently sought asylum in different countries; a few of them were actually returned.’

The next day, Mr Zargar was delivering some work assignments to me. He had gone to university in the West and could offer me reliable advice.

‘Of course, I have no experience of crossing the border illegally and I don’t know how dangerous it is,’ he said. ‘But more and more people are taking the risk. If Siamak is accepted as a refugee, which as a former political prisoner he certainly will be, he won’t have any financial difficulties and, if he has the will, he can get the best education. The only problem is loneliness and life in exile. Many youths his age become depressed and develop serious emotional problems and not only do they fail to study, but they can’t lead a normal life. I don’t want to frighten you, but the rate of suicide is high among them. Send him only if you know a truly caring person over there who can to a certain extent fill your place and keep an eye on him.’

The only person I knew and trusted overseas was Parvaneh. I went to Mansoureh’s house and called her from there. I was afraid our telephone at home was tapped. After I explained the situation, Parvaneh said, ‘Definitely do it. You cannot imagine how worried I have been for him. Send him by any means you can and I promise you I will take care of him as if he were my own son.’

Her sincerity and eagerness lessened my worries and I decided it was time to talk to Siamak. I had no idea how he would react.

Shirin was sleeping. I quietly opened the door to the boys’ bedroom and walked in. Siamak was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Massoud was sitting at his desk, studying. I sat down on Massoud’s bed and said, ‘I want to talk to you two.’

Siamak jolted up and Massoud swung towards me and said, ‘What has happened?’

‘Nothing! I have been thinking about Siamak’s future and we need to make a decision.’

‘What decision?’ Siamak said sarcastically. ‘Do we have the right to make decisions? All we can do is say yes to whatever they tell us.’

‘No, my dear, it’s not always like that. All this week, I have been thinking about sending you to Europe.’

‘Huh! You are dreaming!’ he said. ‘Where would we get the money from? Do you know how much it will cost? At least two hundred thousand tumans for the smuggler and just as much to live on until the request for asylum is processed.’

‘Bravo! And how accurate!’ I said. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Oh, I’ve looked into it extensively. Do you have any idea how many of my friends have already left the country?’

‘No! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Tell you what? I knew you couldn’t afford it and it would just make you sad.’

‘The money isn’t important,’ I said. ‘If it is for your good, I will find it. Just tell me if you want to go or not.’

‘Of course I want to go!’

‘And what do you want to do over there?’

‘I want to study. Here, they will not let me go to university. I have no future in this country.’

‘Don’t you think you will miss us?’ I asked.

‘I will, a lot, but how long can I sit here and watch you type and sew?’

‘You will have to leave the country illegally,’ I said. ‘It is very dangerous. Are you willing to accept the risk?’

‘The risk is no greater than military service and being sent to the front, is it?’

He was right. In another year, Siamak would be drafted and the war didn’t seem to be ending.

‘But there are a few conditions and you have to promise you will do them and you cannot ever break your promise.’

‘All right. But what are the conditions?’ he asked.

‘First, you have to promise me that you will not go anywhere near the Iranian political groups and organisations. You cannot get involved with them. Second, you will study as far as the highest degree possible and you will become a well-educated and respectable man. Third, you will not forget us and, whenever you can, you will help your brother and sister.’

‘You don’t need to ask me to make these promises,’ Siamak said. ‘They are exactly what I intend to do.’

‘Everyone says that, but then they forget,’ I said.

‘How could I possibly forget you three? You are my entire life. I hope that one day I can make up for all your love and hard work. You can be sure I will study well and I will stay away from politics. To be honest, I am sick of every single political group and faction.’

We spent hours talking about how Siamak would leave the country and how we could come up with the money. He was alive again; excited and hopeful and at the same time worried and nervous. I sold two of our carpets and the few pieces of gold jewellery I had left. I even sold my wedding ring and Shirin’s small gold bangle, and I borrowed some money from Mrs Parvin. But I still didn’t have enough. Mr Zargar, who always kept an eye on me and understood my problems even before I spoke of them, showed up one day with fifty thousand tumans and said it was my back pay.

‘But I didn’t have this much money due to me!’ I said.

‘I added a little to it.’

‘How much? I need to know how much I owe you.’

‘It’s not much,’ he said. ‘And I will keep account of it and take it out of your future pay.’

In exactly one week, I gave Mansoureh two hundred and fifty thousand tumans and confidently announced that we were ready. She looked at me with surprise and said, ‘Where did you get all this money? I had put aside a hundred thousand tumans for you.’

‘Many thanks, but I managed it myself.’

‘What about the money they will need for the few months they will be in Pakistan? Can you cover that, too?’

‘No, but I will come up with it.’

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘This money is here and it’s ready.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But I will pay you back over time.’

‘You don’t need to,’ Mansoureh said. ‘This is your money, it is your children’s share. If Hamid had died a week later, half this house and everything else would have been yours.’

‘If Hamid hadn’t died,’ I said, ‘your father would still be alive.’

Contacting the smuggler, a young, skinny, dark-skinned man dressed in the traditional clothes of his province, was another story in itself. His secret name was Mrs Mahin and he would talk on the telephone only if the caller asked for her. He said the boys should be ready to leave for Zahedan, a city in south-eastern Iran, at a moment’s notice. He promised that with the help of a few friends he would safely take them across the border into Pakistan and deliver them to the United Nations’ offices in Islamabad. He said he would dress them in sheepskin and they would move across the border among a herd of sheep.

I was terrified, but I tried to hide it from Siamak. He was a fearless adventurer and found all this more exciting than frightening.

 

The night we received the order from the smuggler, the boys left for Zahedan with Bahman, Mansoureh’s husband. Saying goodbye to Siamak, I felt as though one of my limbs was being severed from my body. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing or not. I vacillated between sadness over our separation and horror over the danger he faced. That night, I did not leave my prayer rug. I prayed and cried and put my son in God’s hands.

Three days passed with fear and anxiety until we received word that the boys had safely crossed the border. Ten days later, I spoke to Siamak. He had arrived in Islamabad. He sounded so sad and so far away.

And then for me there was the pain of separation. Massoud missed Siamak terribly and my crying every night upset him even more. Mansoureh was in far worse condition. She had never been separated from her son for even a day and was now inconsolable. I kept telling her, and myself, ‘We must be strong! In these times, to save our children and for the sake of their future, we mothers must bear the sorrow of their absence. This is the price we have to pay; otherwise we will not be good mothers.’

Four months later, Parvaneh called from Germany and handed the telephone to Siamak. I screamed with joy. He had arrived. Parvaneh assured me that she would take care of him, but he had to spend a few months in a refugee camp. Unlike others who idled away the days, Siamak spent the time learning German and was quickly accepted in school and eventually to the university. He studied mechanical engineering and never forgot his promises.

Parvaneh had arranged for him to spend his holidays with her family and she diligently kept me informed of his progress. I was happy and proud. I felt I had accomplished one-third of my responsibility. I worked with great energy and gradually repaid my debts. Massoud took meticulous care of me and our lives. While studying, he also played the role of the family’s father and with his unfailing love engulfed me in happiness and hope. And Shirin, with her playfulness, her antics and her sweet-talk brought spirit and joy to our home. I had found peace, albeit a temporary one. There were still problems and worries circling us and the ruinous war with Iraq seemed eternal.

In the days when I had again learned to laugh, Mr Zargar, gravely and with his eyes glued to the coffee table, proposed to me. Although I knew his daughter and his French wife had left Iran several years earlier, I didn’t know he was divorced. He was a wise and learned man and suitable in every way. Life with him could solve many of my emotional as well as material needs. And I was not indifferent to him. I had always liked and admired him as a man and a dear friend and companion, and I could easily open my heart to him. Perhaps he could give me the love and affection that Hamid had never completely given me.

After Hamid’s death, Mr Zargar was the third man to propose to me. In the case of the first two, I had said no without a moment’s hesitation. But in Mr Zargar’s case, I wasn’t sure what to do. From both a logical and an emotional point of view, marrying him seemed the right thing to do, but for some time I had noticed how Massoud was carefully observing me, seeming restless and on edge. One day, without any overture, he said, ‘Mum, we don’t need anyone, do we? Whatever you need, just tell me and I will provide it. And tell Mr Zargar not to come around so often. I can’t stand him any more.’

And so I realised I should not disrupt the newly gained peace in our lives nor divert my attention away from my children. I believed it was my duty to be at their service with my entire being and that I should be the one filling their father’s empty place, not a stranger. Mr Zargar’s presence might have been welcome in my life, but it was very clear that it would make my children, especially my sons, uncomfortable and unhappy.

A few days later, with profound apologies I said no to Mr Zargar, but asked him to never deprive me of his friendship.