23. The Iran-Iraq War

WHAT DELICIOUS FREEDOM! We could walk along the Champs-Élysées, speaking openly about the Islamic Republic’s oppression, without fear of being arrested by the Revolutionary Guards. We were all hoping the Islamic Republic of Iran would soon collapse. The walls along the streets in our beloved Tehran might have been covered with the slogan “Death to America,” but all of us young people in Paris had one goal: to get visas for the United States.

I was nervous about how to break the news to Baba and Maman that I was leaving Paris to go to Frankfurt to join Sia, but soon fate provided a delay. One morning, the phone rang, and Sima, Sholeh, and I learned the shocking news that Iran had officially declared war on Iraq. Then Iraq invaded Iran. Iran had been bombed, and all telephone connections had gone dead. I did not have to share the news of my leaving Paris to go to Frankfurt. I couldn’t call home at all.

Hundreds of concerned Iranians gathered by the office of Iran Air, desperate to get news from home. All flights were cancelled. In the romantic city of Paris, we were filled with heartache and fear over our loved ones in Iran. We got the news that people in Tehran were safe. Bombs were targeting an area close to the border of Iran and Iraq. Iran and Iraq had a long history of border disputes, but, once we heard that the U.S. was supporting Iraq in this war, we became very concerned. The U.S. was not concerned about the border disputes; the U.S. was interested in invading Iran with the help of Iraq for the purpose of removing the Islamic Republic of Iran. We hoped for the removal of the regime of the Islamic Republic, but not if the cost was the destruction of Iran and the loss of civilians’ lives.

After a couple of weeks in Paris, I flew to Frankfort. Sia found me a cozy one-bedroom apartment in a heritage building in the beautiful town of Bad Homburg, close to Frankfurt. We began living together there without our parents knowing.

“Sia, where’s the shower?” I asked when I moved in.

“That’s one thing this place doesn’t have. The owner said it is only one bus ride to a sports club. There are clean showers there.”

The bus didn’t come very often, so I only went to shower at the club once. I found a public bath in the town centre, but it was only open on Saturdays and Sundays. I disliked taking sponge baths, but it was my only option. I loved living with Sia. He also kept an apartment for himself so his parents wouldn’t find out that we were living together. In Iran, we had never spent a night together, and it was lovely waking up in the morning in each other’s arms.

We took German language courses, while still hoping to find a way to get to America. But soon our hopes faded. The American Embassy had stopped accepting Iranian applications for student visas, so it was very difficult to get them. News of the Iranian hostage crisis—still ongoing in 1980—was all over the German press, and we began to feel the fear and anger pointing at us.

When I had been in America and England prior to the revolution, we were recognized as rich oil people, respected, even admired. The staff in the shops paid extra attention to us, knowing we were there to spend money, and they enjoyed talking to us about the Shah’s affluent lifestyle. But now, with the hostage crisis, a radical religious regime in power, and the economic sanctions that were being levied by the United Nations, the Iranian currency had lost its value and so had we, its people.

Younger Germans were the exception. They accepted us, while their elders began to regard us as terrorists. The owner of my apartment was complaining about Sia staying overnight. We went away for the weekend and when we came back we found an eviction notice on our door. Sia and I had not understood the lease agreement, and it turned out that my lease was only for three months. My apartment was shown to others without my permission and rented out to another tenant. Sia and I started looking for another place to live.

We had been asked several times if we were Spanish, so we decided to tell people we were from Spain, even though neither of us spoke a word of Spanish. We were having such a hard time finding housing. Sia’s bachelor apartment was in the basement and it was in bad condition—dirty and damp. The unit next door was used as a chicken coop. Sia had an Iranian roommate, so I couldn’t live with him there. I was so homesick for Iran.

We kept hearing horrible news about the war in Iran. Beautiful Tehran—a city of life and light, the Paris of the Middle East—was shrouded in complete darkness. Every window was covered with thick paper or curtains. For light, people were only allowed to have candles. Driving at night was forbidden for fear of Iraq dropping more bombs.

I wanted desperately to go where my heart was: with my family in Iran. Sia and I were in love with our country. We wanted to grow old in Iran with our people. We missed our lives with our families so much that we didn’t care about the terror of the regime. Sia’s father didn’t encourage his son’s return. The government was targeting the Baha’i, and Sia’s father had been fired from his job at the hospital. He was seeing patients and operating at his own private clinic, but there were many threats against him.

“Mehrnaz, stay. Don’t come back there is nothing here for you. All universities are still closed. It is not safe here, stay.” Maman wanted me to stay as long as it was necessary. But I only lasted six months. I left Germany and returned to Iran and the welcoming arms of my family and friends at the airport. I felt completely surrounded by my loved ones, knowing that Sia would be following shortly.

Baba and Maman held a big lunch party at our house. The day I arrived was the anniversary of the Iranian Revolution, and the government had announced that the blackout was over. Tehran did not have to exist in the dark any longer.

It was a beautiful, sunny winter’s day. I took a moment to take a walk along my street with Roshi and Sholeh, where I had lived since childhood, where I was not seen as a foreigner, and where I was not considered a terrorist. I let the sun caress my skin and my hair, and I promised myself that I would never ever leave the land of Persia again. My brother Jamal and my sister Soraya, and Aunt Masi and her family, were all back in Iran. This was the centre of my universe: Homa and her husband Mansour and their two daughters lived on the fourth floor; after returning from the U.S., my brother Jamal and his wife Gita lived on the third floor; my parents and I lived on the second floor; and my sister Soraya and her husband Iraj lived in the basement. My siblings had stayed in the U.S. for only three years—long enough for Jamal and Iraj to graduate with their MBAs. Our first floor was still rented to Aly’s sister’s family; Aunt Roohi, her husband, and their children lived next door; and Vafa and Shamsi lived in the basement of Aunt Roohi’s house.

This was the ground that had centred and nourished me; I was surrounded by love. I would not let the government keep me away from my land, my family, and my friends.