In that theater of war, I still witnessed people who were full of life and culture, people who wanted to hold on to their traditions, beliefs, and personal values. About seventy million people live in Iran, all with diverse lifestyles and outlooks. But I grew up in a modern society with few boundaries.
My parents hosted lavish parties almost every Thursday night. The guest list usually included friends, family, business partners, and ambassadors. The ambassadors made it much easier to get away with hosting parties. Police stood guard outside, so the Komiteh wouldn’t interfere.
Maman would spend the whole week preparing. There was always some delicacy in the oven or on the stove that filled the house with rich aromas of herbs and spices, from zaferan (saffron) to fluffy, white Persian rice. She cooked an abundant variety of food, ranging from delicious appetizers, such as mast-o-khiar (cucumber and mint yogurt), kashk-e-bademjan (eggplant and walnut dip), and salad olivieh (potato salad), to traditional Iranian dishes like fesenjoon (chicken stew with pomegranate syrup and walnuts), ghormeh sabzi (herb stew), and gheymeh (beef and split-pea stew). Every intricate dish was full of zesty flavor. It was unthinkable for her to have a party without cooking the countless dishes in her repertoire. She would spend hours preparing and decorating them, to the point that you would feel guilty for even touching the food—they belonged on display in a cookbook.
My parents didn’t need to hire a band. Throughout the festivities, many of their friends played instruments and sang a mix of Iranian and Western music. My favorite was the santoor, a stringed instrument played with a pair of wood-curved mallets, whose whimsical, hypnotic melodies always gave me joy. The beats of the tabl (drum) livened the party. Guests moved to the rhythms of each pulse of the hand hitting it. Iranians know how to move their bodies in ways that can be very sensual yet elegant. Think Shakira. The style is influenced by a blend of Persian traditions and belly dancing. Sometimes you can even see dashes of Western influence in the way they move.
Because music played and women took off their hijabs in the presence of men, to stay hidden from government officials, the parties were hosted in our large drawing room. Every curtain in the room was drawn, so no one had to worry about outsiders looking in. The room was furnished with antique furniture that my parents had collected over the years. Decadent Persian rugs and beautiful, unique artwork decorated the space. Each table was filled with perfectly ripe, in-season fruit that usually came from the Rose Garden, along with nuts and sweets from my grandfather’s factory. “A guest should always have something to nibble on,” Maman would say.
The drawing room was the one room in the house that was reserved for our guests, and off limits to Aria and me. My parents’ friends were loud and entertaining, and there was never any shortage of jokes—many of which I wish I hadn’t heard because they weren’t appropriate for my young ears. They laughed for hours upon hours. I couldn’t wait until the day I could join them. I would sit cross-legged on the floor and peek into the room to catch the men discussing politics and business and to watch the women dancing and gossiping. Every time I felt someone was about to look in my direction, I quickly dodged them. Often Baba would catch me and embarrass me in front of everyone. He said I was nosy, but that didn’t stop me from peeping into that new, luxurious adult world.
Baba intimidated everyone who met him, but if you gave him an hour he could win over anyone with his charm and wit. Every woman fell for him. He was very manly, stylish, and charismatic. His wealth didn’t hurt either. His sense of humor was dry, but in two sentences, he could make an entire room buckle with laughter. His comebacks were like nothing you had ever heard before.
I always found my father rather mysterious and felt like I couldn’t truly understand him. Nothing was ever a big deal to him except his reputation. He had a straightforward attitude toward life, which included not taking people’s feelings into account. Even if he knew he was in the wrong, he didn’t know how to apologize, and his way of showing love and affection was to insult. Instead of saying how beautiful I was, he would jokingly tell me how ugly I looked. Don’t try to understand it—it was his term of endearment. He would hug me, bite me, and pinch my cheeks until I wanted to cry from the pain. So watch out! If you tell me I’m ugly, I’ll probably think you find me attractive.
People often say I have his presence. I don’t see it. Or maybe I don’t want to see it. Apparently, we speak the same way, we have the same mannerisms, and we are both straight shooters and natural-born leaders (or we both pretend that we are). We also walk the same way—backs straight with our feet pointing outward. Maman always told us to remember to look down, or else we would trip. This is probably the reason I’m always tripping over things.
My parents had an interesting relationship. They shared a certain love that is rare and hard to explain. It wasn’t the kind of love where they held hands all the time or said “I love you” all day. It was the kind of love that spoke through action. You could tell just how much Baba admired Maman, but it was hard for him to put it in words. For her part, Maman was always surprising Baba with something. Every year for his birthday she would throw him a crazy surprise party, which would piss my father off every single time, and he wouldn’t hide the fact that he hated it. She would always dress up and put on lipstick before Baba came home, dim the lights, and make sure the house was spotless. She would do things without ever speaking of them. I grew up perceiving that, and I wondered if my father ever noticed.
Maman always tried to be the perfect hostess, and I admired how welcome she made her guests feel. She was always so glamorous too. Every Thursday morning before her big soiree Maman went to the beauty salon, and as a little girl I accompanied her to watch the women, in awe of their beauty and elegance. Occasionally Maman would let me get dolled up too, but more often she gave me short mushroom haircuts that I hated. Looking like Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for.
Private women-only beauty salons were social scenes. The women shed their hijabs, exposing their most fashionable outfits underneath. Their makeup and hair was done to perfection, as though they were already heading to the party. They arrived hours before their appointments and stayed much longer after their hair, nails, makeup, and eyebrows were done to gossip, chain-smoke, and sip Turkish coffee.
One of the main reasons I loved going to the salon was to lose myself in their most recent international magazines about hair and fashion. The ones at my house were no longer exciting. I had already memorized all the images. I daydreamed about living in a society where women wore Saint Laurent, Chanel, Dior, and other high-end designers openly in public—right where they belonged.
These designers made their grand entrances behind closed doors in Iran. Maman’s friends only revealed head-to-toe designer clothing and their most luxurious gold and diamond jewelry at house parties and hair salons. The bigger the hair and the heavier the makeup, the more compliments they received. Maman doesn’t get dressed up like that anymore. I always wonder what happened to her passion for entertaining.
One woman in particular from Maman’s group of friends always stood out to me because of her sex appeal. Her name was Homaira. She was a divorcée who split her time between Iran and Germany. She was different from my mother and her other friends. I found Maman beautiful, elegant, and very classy. But Homaira was sexy, energetic, and super flirty. It was like she had a certain power that she used from her appearance. She was tall and had fire-red hair, and she entered every soiree flamboyantly with a very short, formfitting dress, exposing her long legs and curvy body. She was always outgoing and very pleasant to Maman and me—and even had us over for tea a few times.
When I was twelve years old, Maman left for two months to attend her sister’s wedding in the United States. Aria and I stayed behind with Baba and Ehteram Khanoom, the maid we grew up with. We had never been without Maman for that long before!
One night, while she was still in the States, I woke up to Baba walking into my room. He delicately pulled my blanket over me to tuck me in. On his way out toward the kitchen, I heard him talking quietly on the phone. He was almost whispering. The clock struck 1:00 a.m. I assumed he was talking to Maman since there was a big time difference.
The next day, on my daily call with Maman, I asked what she and Baba had been talking about so late at night, and she said, “I wasn’t talking to Baba last night, honey.” Women have an inexplicable intuition. We know instantly when something doesn’t feel right. Maybe Maman suppressed hers, because the discussion ended without any further questioning.
Even at a young age, I knew something didn’t add up. I was curious to find out who my father was speaking to at night. The following day, I called Maman and told her, “I think you should stay in the States and never return.” It was a shocking request, but I was so worried about her well-being that I didn’t want her to come back and face the person on the other end of the line. I decided to play detective and find out the identity of the 1:00 a.m. caller.
Back then, neither caller ID nor address books in phones existed. But a feature on this particular white Panasonic phone allowed you to redial the last number. So the next night, when I overheard Baba on the phone again, I devised a plan. Before leaving for school the following morning, I would redial the last number that appeared on the small screen and write it down. I guess this way of thinking was why my parents believed I would make a great lawyer. I consulted Aria, who seemed disinterested in my detective work, but agreed to look through the phone book with me nonetheless.
When I anxiously returned home from school, I sprinted to the large brown leather phone book in the hallway, which rested on the antique wooden phone table. I sat on the bloodred velvet chair with the book in my lap, waiting impatiently for Aria to come home. I have no idea why I felt the need to go through every single phone number in the book, but my gut told me that I had to. I quickly flipped through page after page without blinking. As, Bs…Fs…and bam!
Found the match! Thank God for technology; these days, it’s much easier to hunt people down. The phone number belonged to Homaira, the flirty, sexy, redheaded woman from my parents’ parties. Why was Baba talking to her so late at night? When I found out he was talking to someone I knew, I felt at ease. I wanted to believe their friendship was purely by association, so I didn’t ask my father any questions.
Maman finally came back home bearing many gifts. Opening marvelous gifts that came from overseas was one of the best things that ever happened in my childhood. The gifts were special because I couldn’t find them in Iran back then. I sat in her bedroom and collected each present one by one, like a little kid on Christmas day. She brought back the trendiest clothing, along with other goodies from toys to candy. The collection of Barbies and their clothing, as well as all the M&M’s and bubble gum I ever wanted—it was like heaven to me. As I stuffed my face with the unnecessarily large piece of bubble gum, I casually told Maman about Homaira, not knowing that I was about to destroy her entire world. Her reaction to the news was something I will never forget. The sweet taste of bubble gum quickly turned sour.
She started shaking and asked me a million questions with a quivering voice—“When did the calls take place?” and “How long did they speak for?” and “Did Homaira ever come to visit the house?” Oh God! I thought, what have I done? I was so scared that something was wrong, and my parents weren’t going to be okay.
After answering all her questions doubtfully, she grabbed the same Panasonic phone Baba had used to call Homaira and hurried out to the balcony. I knew something was really wrong when my uncle, grandfather, and grandmother all came over to the house. I was told to stay in my room and not come out.
Later that evening, from inside my room, I heard my parents and family members screaming at the top of their lungs for hours. I sat on the edge of my bed, with my feet dangling down, and just stared at the white door. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, and I didn’t want to. I was afraid I would hear information that would tear me apart. I thought I was responsible for Maman’s pain.
When Maman finally came to my room, I could tell she had been crying. She told me to pack because we were going to stay at my grandfather’s house for a while. I packed up all the new gems that Maman had brought back, along with my school stuff. On the way out, my mother didn’t even glance at Baba as she exited the house with her father in tow. Baba looked at me, and I said, “Love you, Baba, see you tomorrow.” I could tell he was devastated, but I wasn’t fazed by it. I was on Team Maman.
I tried to block out my parents’ troubles and focus my energy on how excited I was to visit my grandfather. I loved his house, and he spoiled the hell out of me since I was his only granddaughter left in Iran. His house was located in Darband, a much quieter suburb of Tehran. The word darband literally translates to “the door of a mountain,” which makes sense since the village is built into the mountain. Its natural beauty is undeniable, and it was very popular among people seeking a change of scenery from hectic city life. It always gave me tranquility, despite what was happening around me.
I still didn’t understand what was going on between my parents, but Baba visited us almost every night. He wasn’t allowed inside the house because Maman didn’t want to see or talk to him, so Aria and I would hang out with him in the yard or outside the house.
Yes, Baba cheated on Maman with Homaira—what a bitch! Maman didn’t let my father off the hook easily, and it took many apologetic pleas to get us to return home. Although Maman eventually forgave him for the sake of their reputation, family, and children, I know she never forgot his betrayal. It aged her and completely changed her. Their relationship was also never the same. All the trust was lost. I don’t know for sure whether my father stopped cheating on my mother, but I’m pretty damn sure my grandfather put an end to his affair with Homaira.
“A woman must always look her best, always please her man, always dress nicely for him no matter how long they have been together, always surprise him, and always make him wonder what’s next.” These were the wise words of the most inspiring woman in my life, Maman. Despite their incessant arguing, Maman made sure the house was filled with love. She was always pretending to be unbreakable. She was like a superhero to me.
What did my mother do to deserve a broken heart? She is an absolutely stunning woman, from a great family, and had so much love for her husband and children. I have come to realize that people cheat and that anyone could cheat under the right, or perhaps the wrong, circumstances.
Everyone deals with emotional pain differently, but it is part of my family’s culture not to talk about it. My way of dealing with the pain was to project it onto Baba. He was an easy target, and the energy between him and me only got worse when we returned home and I fully understood what had happened. I never looked at him the same way again. I resented him and couldn’t forget the pain that he caused Maman—the center of my world. I didn’t even dare share the news with my friends because of my family’s reputation.
My father and I never spoke about the affair. I think he had too much pride to explain himself. Maman didn’t share her thoughts with me until I told her I was writing about it, but I’m still not sure she divulged everything. She still wants to protect Baba from me—a daughter who keeps piling on anger for what he did. Although I hope to never experience a cheating partner, I want to be the kind of woman my mother is.
My father’s mistake cast a long, dark shadow across my life. When I got old enough to stop idolizing love stories, I analyzed the closest fairy tale in my life, which was my parents’ love story. I was convinced that cartoons were lies and fairy tales didn’t work in real life. Even though Baba cheated on Maman, he had also cheated us, his children, of trust, love, and commitment. Even now, as a strong and outgoing woman, it’s been an ongoing struggle for me to trust men, and I always assume they will cheat on me.
As humans, we are challenged to trust each other. Trust pervades nearly every aspect of our daily lives from personal to business relationships. It is fundamentally important in the healthy functioning of all of our relationships with others, and our life experiences may affect the way we trust in the future. One of the people I had trusted the most in my life took that power of trust away from me, and it has been haunting me for the past twenty years.